The light seems dimmer somehow, even though the sun just set. Maybe it’s the way my stomach clenches every time your phone buzzes. A silent question mark hanging in the air.



I know, I know. You’re perfect. Star athlete, kind smile, always there to lend a hand. You see the art hiding in my notebook, the colors I didn’t even know I had, and you draw them out. But lately, those colors feel muted, like someone turned down the saturation.



I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I hate the doubt, the way it twists my insides. But I can’t ignore it either. The memories I shove down of late nights at practice and hushed phone calls you swore were wrong numbers. Excuses I cling to as a lifeline in a storm of unease. Because trusting you is easier. It’s a delicate thing. And right now, it feels… cracked. It wasn’t even the message itself. It was the fear—this cold, slithering dread—that whispered, “What if there’s more?”



What if, all this time,...