The first thing I realized about college was that it wasn't freedom, not the way people made it out to be.
Sure, I wasn't living under the same roof as my mom and Mr. Morgan anymore. Sure, Tyler wasn't slamming doors down the hall or giving me that look that burned straight through my skin. But the weight didn't go away. The secrets, the shame, Brayan's ghost, I carried them all with me across state lines, tucked neatly into the same overstuffed suitcase I'd packed my clothes into.
Classes started like a whirlwind, and I let myself get sucked in. Maybe that was my survival strategy, burying myself in textbooks, lecture notes, and late-night study sessions so deep I wouldn't have time to feel anything else. If I wasn't sitting in the library, I was in my dorm room scribbling half-legible outlines until my wrist cramped.
Dan called sometimes, checking in. He and Micah were still going strong, their voices bright with that new-relationship glow even though they'd been together for a while now. Sometimes I envied them so much it made me sick. But I always forced a smile into the receiver, telling him I was fine. He didn't need to know how my dinners usually consisted of instant noodles or how often I fell asleep with my face pressed against a textbook because I couldn't bear to turn off the light and sit in the dark alone.
Loneliness was louder than silence, it screamed at you in spaces where laughter should've been.
And Tyler's absence was everywhere.
I hated myself for thinking about him as much as I did. For the way my eyes flicked toward my phone whenever a notification buzzed, just in case it was him. It never was. For the way my mind replayed that last night before we left, our final argument, the venom in his voice when he said maybe it was better if he lost me.
Sometimes I wondered if he even remembered saying that. Or if it had just been another one of his defenses, a wall he built so high I couldn't climb it no matter how hard I tried.
News about him still reached me, whether I wanted it to or not. Katie, apparently, had chosen the same school he did. Of course she had. And of course, she made sure her social media told the whole world about their college adventures. The parties. The clubs. The blurry pictures of Tyler with his arm slung around some stranger's shoulder, beer bottles clinking, his grin a little too wide, a little too practiced.
I hated those pictures. Not because of who he was with, but because I could see it, the hollowness in his eyes, the way his smile never quite reached. He was trying to outrun something, just like me. Only he chose to drown it in loud music and meaningless bodies, while I chose silence and solitude.
Two paths leading nowhere, both circling the same grief.
One night, I came across a post Katie had tagged him in. It wasn't even anything big, just some party where she'd written "We own the night" under the caption. But Tyler was in the background, pressed up against someone else, his lips on theirs, and my chest collapsed like the photo had sucked the air out of me.
I told myself I didn't care. That he could kiss whoever he wanted. That what we'd had was a mistake anyway, something that was doomed before it even started.
But the truth?
I slammed my laptop shut so hard it rattled the desk and sat there, shaking, my throat burning from the scream I never let out.
Because it wasn't supposed to be anyone else. It was supposed to be me.
By the middle of the semester, people had started to notice me—or rather, notice how much I didn't participate in anything. My RA tried to drag me to dorm events. A girl from my English class asked if I wanted to join a study group. Even my professors left little comments on my essays: "Excellent work, but don't be afraid to engage more in class discussions."
I brushed them all off. It was easier to be invisible. Easier to pretend I was nothing more than my grades. If I excelled on paper, maybe it would make up for how badly I was failing everywhere else.
Dan noticed, though. He always did.
"You're isolating again," he said during one of our late-night calls. His voice was muffled, like he was lying in bed. I imagined Micah beside him, maybe already asleep. "Ben, you can't keep doing this. It's not healthy."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You always say that." He sighed. "You're not Brayan."
The silence that followed was like ice water down my back.
"Don't," I whispered.
"I'm serious. You're not him, Ben. Stop punishing yourself like you are."
I wanted to believe him. God, I did. But how could I, when everything I did mirrored Brayan's footsteps? The hiding. The shame. The way I felt like I was suffocating every time I thought about what people would say if they knew about Tyler and me.
So I changed the subject, asked about Micah's art showcase, and forced him to laugh before we hung up. I was good at that—pretending I was okay so the people I loved wouldn't worry.
But when the call ended, the silence pressed in harder than ever.
Thanksgiving came, and with it, a trip home.
Walking back into that house was like stepping into a frozen memory. Nothing had changed ,same framed family photos on the walls, same faint smell of cinnamon from one of Mom's candles, same silence that always settled when the Morgans tried too hard to pretend everything was fine.
Tyler was there.
Of course he was.
He'd filled out a little, muscle stretching the fabric of his shirt, his hair longer, falling into his eyes in a way that made my throat tighten. But his smile was still that same crooked half-smirk, the one that felt like it was aimed only at me even when it wasn't.
Except now, it wasn't aimed at me at all.
We barely spoke the whole break. Just polite exchanges when our parents were around, as if we hadn't once held each other like lifelines in the dark. I caught him looking at me once, across the dinner table. His eyes lingered for just a moment before he looked away, and my chest ached with everything we weren't saying.
When I left to head back to campus, Mom hugged me a little too tight, whispering how proud she was. Mr. Morgan gave me one of his firm nods, like approval could be packed into a single gesture. And Tyler?
He just shoved his hands into his pockets and said, "See you."
Two words, and yet they followed me the whole ride back.
The second semester was worse.
The pressure of finals built like storm clouds, and I threw myself into studying with an obsession that scared even me. Sleep became optional. Meals, forgettable. I lost track of the days, living only by deadlines and exam schedules.
Sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, I'd stare at the ceiling and wonder if this was all I'd ever be, someone too scared to live, too broken to love, too haunted to let go.
And yet, even then, Tyler found a way to creep back into my life.
Rumors filtered through mutual friends, whispers I didn't want to hear but couldn't ignore. Tyler partying harder than ever. Tyler hooked up with some guy from his soccer team. Tyler getting drunk enough to land in the campus nurse's office.
Each story felt like another cut across my skin, sharp and raw.
I told myself it was his life, not mine. That he was free to make whatever choices he wanted. But at night, I lay awake wondering if he was trying to erase me from his system, the same way I was trying, and failing to erase him from mine.
The night before my last final, I sat in the library until it closed, books piled high around me like a fortress. My phone buzzed once in my pocket.
When I pulled it out, my breath caught.
A message.
Not from Dan. Not from Mom.
From Tyler.
Three words.
How are you?
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred. Three simple words, and yet they felt like the first real crack of light after months of darkness.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling. I wanted to tell him everything,that I wasn't okay, that I missed him, that every second without him felt like bleeding out slowly.
Instead, I typed back: Fine. You?
Seconds passed. Then his reply lit up the screen.
Same.
And somehow, that single word carried more weight than anything else could.
When the semester ended, I packed my bags with shaking hands.
One year down. A hundred ghosts still weighing me down.
But somewhere, buried beneath the exhaustion and the fear, was the tiniest flicker of hope.
Because Tyler hadn't forgotten me.
And maybe, just maybe,I hadn't lost him yet.