You're making a mistake,the voice whispers.You're pushing him away again.
It's for the best,the other counters.You'll only hurt him in the end.
But what if you're wrong? What if this time could be different?
By the time I get to class, my hands are still shaking. I slide into my usual seat, my mind a tangled mess of Jaxon's words, his voice, the weight of his gaze when he asked me if I felt safe with them the way I feel safe with him.
I don't. I never have. And that's exactly why this terrifies me even more.
I keep my head down as students trickle in, my fingers gripping my pen like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
The seat next to me stays empty.
I glance toward the door, my heart hammering.Please come. Please don't let me push you away again.
But Jaxon doesn't come in.
Minutes pass. The professor starts the lecture. Still no Jaxon.
Frowning, I pull out my phone and shoot him a quick text.
Where are you?
Three dots appear, then disappear.
Then, his response comes through.
Jaxon
Forgot something in my car.
I stare at the message, something uneasy curling in my gut.
Because I know him.
Jaxon doesn't forget things.
He never shows, and I can't shake the feeling that maybe this time, I've pushed him too far. That maybe this time, he won't come back. The thought sends a cold chill through me, settling deep in my bones.
This is what you wanted,one voice reminds me.Distance. Space. Safety.
Is it?the other challenges.Or are you just running scared again?
I don't know the answer, but as I stare at the empty seat beside me, at the space where Jaxon should be, I can't help but wonder if I've made the biggest mistake of all.
13
JAXON
Idon’t go to class.
Instead, I head straight to my car, grab my duffel from the backseat, and make my way to the athletics building.
All I really want to do is crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and shut out the world—shut outher—but I know that won’t do me any good. Running from problems isn’t my thing. That’s Madison’s move.
So, I do the only thing I know: I hit the gym. Hard.
My fists slam into the heavy bag, sweat rolling down my back, muscles burning from the nonstop punishment. Ineedthis—the exhaustion, the sting, the mind-numbing repetition—because the alternative is thinking about her.
