I’m pacing my dorm, my boots scuffing the worn carpet, my phone clutched tight in my hand. Something’s off with Alex, I feel it, a cold twist in my gut that won’t quit. He’s been mine, wrapped up in me, trusting me over Jamie for weeks, but now he’s slipping. I text him this morning, “Coffee later?” short and sweet like always, and he doesn’t answer, not for hours. Usually he’s quick, a “Sure” or “Busy, maybe tomorrow,” but today, nothing until late, just a flat “Not today.” My chest tightens, my fingers tapping the phone hard. He’s pulling back, going quiet, and I don’t like it, not one bit.
I sit on my bed, the springs creaking under me, and scroll through our chats, my eyes burning. Last night he was fine, tired but normal, saying goodnight after I left the store. But now, this distance, it’s new, wrong. My room’s a mess, clothes piled on the chair, coffee cups stacked on the desk, and the journal, “ALEX” scratched on the cover, sits in its box, hidden under the bed where Jamie found it. My stomach flips, he got away, ran with my secrets, and I almost had him, knife in my hand, blood on his sleeve. He’s alive, out there, and Alex took him in, patched him up, I know it from the town whispers at the coffee shop today, “Jamie’s back at the bookstore, hurt bad.” My hands shake, my nails digging into my palms, if Jamie’s talking, showing him stuff, Alex could be turning.
I try calling him, my phone pressed to my ear, pacing again, the room small, closing in. It rings, four times, five, and goes to voicemail, his voice, calm and low, “It’s Alex, leave a message.” My throat’s tight, I hang up, no words, just anger bubbling up. He’s dodging me, not answering fast like he used to, and it’s hitting me, hard, he’s slipping away, out of my grip. I grab my hoodie, the gray one with the frayed cuffs, and pull it on, my hands sweaty. I’ve got to see him, check him, make sure he’s still mine. The bookstore’s not far, a quick walk, and I head out, the night cold, my breath puffing white, my boots splashing through puddles left from the rain.
The street’s quiet, shops closed, lights off, and I stick to the shadows, my hood up, my heart pounding fast. I pass the diner, its neon sign buzzing, and the park bench where I sit sometimes, watching him from a distance. He’s been different since Jamie showed up bloody, I heard it, saw it in his texts, short, clipped, not warm anymore. My chest burns, Jamie’s doing this, poisoning him, and I’ve worked too hard, planted too much, to lose him now. The bookstore comes into view, its sign swaying soft in the wind, and I slow down, my eyes squinting at the windows. The front’s dark, locked up, but a light glows upstairs, faint, and my gut twists, he’s there, awake, doing something.
I try the door, locked tight, and knock, loud, my knuckles stinging on the cold glass. No answer, just silence, and I knock again, harder, my breath fogging the window. “Alex!” I call, my voice sharp, cutting through the quiet, and I wait, my hands stuffed in my pockets, rocking on my heels. Footsteps finally come, slow, heavy, and the lock clicks, the door swinging open. It’s him, tired, his hair messy, his jacket still on like he’s been moving around. “Riley?” he says, low, his voice flat, and my stomach drops, he’s not happy to see me, not like before.
I step in, quick, the bell jingling soft, and look around, the store dim, shelves looming in the shadows. “Didn’t expect you,” he mutters, closing the door, and I force a smile, small, tight. “Just checking in, you’ve been quiet.” My eyes scan him, he’s tense, shoulders stiff, and he nods, short, walking past me to the counter. “Busy,” he says, not looking at me, and my chest tightens more, he’s hiding something, I feel it. I follow, my boots quiet on the wood, and notice the office door, shut, a thin line of light under it. “What’s going on?” I ask, casual, leaning on the counter, my fingers tapping the edge.
He shrugs, messing with some papers, his hands busy, and I step closer, watching his face. “Just work,” he says, low, but his eyes don’t meet mine, sliding away to the floor, the shelves, anywhere but me. My heart skips, cold, he’s never done that, always looked at me straight, warm, trusting. “Alex,” I say, soft, pushing a little, “what’re you doing in there?” I nod at the office, my voice steady, but inside I’m shaking, scared he’s digging, finding stuff Jamie showed him. He pauses, his hand stilling on the papers, and mutters, “Sorting old stuff, no big deal.” His voice is off, tight, and he turns away, walking to the office, opening the door just a crack.
I follow, fast, peering in, papers scattered on the desk, a laptop open, a box tipped over, spilling receipts. My stomach lurches, he’s looking, searching, and I know it, Jamie’s got to him. “You sure?” I ask, leaning on the frame, my hands cold, and he nods, quick, still not looking at me, his back to me now. My head spins, he’s slipping, pulling away, and I’m losing him, my control fraying fast. I step back, my boots loud, and he shuts the door, locking it with a soft click, shutting me out. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, flat, walking upstairs, leaving me standing there, my chest burning, my hands clenched.
I leave, the bell jingling behind me, and stop under a streetlight, my breath fast, my phone out. My fingers shake, typing quick to Morgan, “He’s pulling away. We need to do something now.” I hit send, the words glowing sharp, and wait, my heart pounding, knowing we’re running out of time.