The rain had been relentless all day, drumming a steady rhythm against the cottage windows. Inside, Eli felt a storm brewing deep in his chest, a tension he couldn't shake.
He hadn't planned on falling asleep, but sometime past midnight, with the notebook open on his lap and Jesse's name scrawled across the margins, fatigue had overtaken him.
Eli jolted awake as a mug was set down on the table with a soft thud.
"Didn't want to wake you," Noah said quietly. "You looked… peaceful. Like you finally stopped battling whatever's gnawing at you."
Eli rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "You're always this poetic at 2 a.m.?"
Noah offered a half-smile as he sank into the armchair across from him. He wore an old hoodie from senior year that stirred up a mix of nostalgia and longing.
A comfortable silence enveloped them; it was charged, teetering on the edge of something unsaid that was finally ready to break through.
"Have you ever thought about him?" Eli's voice was steady, low.
"All the time," Noah replied, avoiding Eli's gaze.
They lapsed into silence again, sipping their mugs, both lost in their thoughts.
Eli shattered the quiet. "I still dream about him. Sometimes, I see him running, trying to escape something. I call out, but he never hears me. Other times, he's beside me, reassuring me it's okay. That it wasn't my fault."
He paused, swallowing hard. "But I never really believe him."
Noah's grip tightened around his mug. "That night… I never shared the whole truth."
Eli froze, anticipation racing through him.
"I was driving," Noah began, eyes locked on the rain outside. "We were supposed to meet friends at the quarry, but Jesse called, sounding terrified, and told me not to come. So I went looking for him."
Eli's heart raced.
"I spotted his bike near the woods and saw him running like he was being chased. Then I saw the car. Black. Parked off the road with its lights off. Jesse looked ready to cross the street, and I—I slammed on the brakes."
Noah's voice trembled slightly. "But it was too late."
Eli's breath hitched. "You hit him?"
"No," he quickly shook his head. "I swerved, crashed into a tree. When I got out, Jesse was on the ground, bleeding and barely conscious. But the black car? It was gone."
Eli felt the pieces slotting into place.
"And you never told anyone?"
"No one would've believed me. And I thought maybe it was just an accident, that I imagined the car. But the guilt…" He met Eli's eyes, vulnerability spilling forth. "It's been eating me alive."
Eli exhaled consciously. "You should've told me."
"I didn't think I had the right."
In that shared silence, the fire crackled softly in the corner, as if it understood the weight of their confessions.
"I used to think," Eli said, his voice steady yet low, "that if Jesse hadn't died, you and I…"
He let the thought linger, unfinished yet palpable.
Noah reached across the space between them, fingertips grazing Eli's. "And I used to think," he said, "that maybe we lost two people that night."
Their hands stayed intertwined, caught in the emotional limbo of past grief and the fragile beginnings of something new.
For the first time in years, neither of them pulled away.The rain had been relentless all day, drumming a steady rhythm against the cottage windows. Inside, Eli felt a storm brewing deep in his chest, a tension he couldn't shake.
He hadn't planned on falling asleep, but sometime past midnight, with the notebook open on his lap and Jesse's name scrawled across the margins, fatigue had overtaken him.
Eli jolted awake as a mug was set down on the table with a soft thud.
"Didn't want to wake you," Noah said quietly. "You looked… peaceful. Like you finally stopped battling whatever's gnawing at you."
Eli rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "You're always this poetic at 2 a.m.?"
Noah offered a half-smile as he sank into the armchair across from him. He wore an old hoodie from senior year that stirred up a mix of nostalgia and longing.
A comfortable silence enveloped them; it was charged, teetering on the edge of something unsaid that was finally ready to break through.
"Have you ever thought about him?" Eli's voice was steady, low.
"All the time," Noah replied, avoiding Eli's gaze.
They lapsed into silence again, sipping their mugs, both lost in their thoughts.
Eli shattered the quiet. "I still dream about him. Sometimes, I see him running, trying to escape something. I call out, but he never hears me. Other times, he's beside me, reassuring me it's okay. That it wasn't my fault."
He paused, swallowing hard. "But I never really believe him."
Noah's grip tightened around his mug. "That night… I never shared the whole truth."
Eli froze, anticipation racing through him.
"I was driving," Noah began, eyes locked on the rain outside. "We were supposed to meet friends at the quarry, but Jesse called, sounding terrified, and told me not to come. So I went looking for him."
Eli's heart raced.
"I spotted his bike near the woods and saw him running like he was being chased. Then I saw the car. Black. Parked off the road with its lights off. Jesse looked ready to cross the street, and I—I slammed on the brakes."
Noah's voice trembled slightly. "But it was too late."
Eli's breath hitched. "You hit him?"
"No," he quickly shook his head. "I swerved, crashed into a tree. When I got out, Jesse was on the ground, bleeding and barely conscious. But the black car? It was gone."
Eli felt the pieces slotting into place.
"And you never told anyone?"
"No one would've believed me. And I thought maybe it was just an accident, that I imagined the car. But the guilt…" He met Eli's eyes, vulnerability spilling forth. "It's been eating me alive."
Eli exhaled consciously. "You should've told me."
"I didn't think I had the right."
In that shared silence, the fire crackled softly in the corner, as if it understood the weight of their confessions.
"I used to think," Eli said, his voice steady yet low, "that if Jesse hadn't died, you and I…"
He let the thought linger, unfinished yet palpable.
Noah reached across the space between them, fingertips grazing Eli's. "And I used to think," he said, "that maybe we lost two people that night."
Their hands stayed intertwined, caught in the emotional limbo of past grief and the fragile beginnings of something new.
For the first time in years, neither of them pulled away.