Three weeks of silence stretched over Elm Street like an unwelcome storm. Jay's room, usually filled with the pulse of his drums, now felt heavier, quieter, except for the occasional furious drumming that seemed to echo his frustration more than music. Racheal, meanwhile, spent her evenings staring at her phone, wishing she hadn't asked him for permission—or that he had reacted differently.
The night it all came to a head began like any other winter evening. Snow had just started to fall, dusting rooftops and cars with a delicate white layer. Jay was in his garage, hammering out a rhythm that felt more like anger than melody. Every strike of the drumsticks echoed the turmoil inside him: jealousy, hurt, confusion.
He shouldn't care, he told himself. She was just a friend. Just a friend.
But when he thought of Racheal laughing with Brian, the image lingered like a shadow he couldn't shake. The casual ease she'd had with him, the way she had looked at Brian—it all burned.
Jay threw his drumsticks across the garage. They clattered to the floor. His chest heaved, and for the first time, he didn't try to hide the storm raging within.
Across the street, Racheal paced her room, phone in hand, debating if she should call him. Her thumb hovered over the screen, hovering between courage and hesitation. Finally, she typed a message and deleted it. She wanted to tell him everything—that she had liked him for months, that she had only agreed to the date with Brian because she thought he didn't care—but the words wouldn't come out right.
So, she stayed silent, letting pride and fear take over.
---
It wasn't until Saturday that their paths collided again. Jay had gone to the corner store, his hoodie pulled tight against the cold, and spotted Racheal carrying groceries across the street. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, and something unsaid hung between them like icicles in the air.
"Jay," she said, forcing a small, nervous smile.
He nodded curtly, unable to find the words that would bridge the gap between them. They walked in silence, side by side, neither daring to speak the truth.
Finally, Racheal stopped near her house. "I—I didn't mean for this to happen," she said, voice trembling.
Jay's hands clenched into fists. "You didn't mean for what to happen? That you actually like him?"
Her eyes widened. "Jay—please, don't—"
"I trusted you," he interrupted, his voice rising. "I trusted you to tell me the truth. And instead, you went behind my back."
"I thought you gave me the go-ahead!" she cried. "You told me I could say yes!"
"I thought you were joking!" he shouted, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "Racheal, you always joke. How was I supposed to know you were serious?"
Her shoulders shook as tears slipped down her cheeks. "I didn't want to hurt you!"
"Too late for that!" Jay's voice cracked with emotion. "You didn't even think about how I'd feel!"
The snow fell gently around them, contrasting sharply with the storm inside. Neither could move. The silence that followed was louder than any argument.
Racheal finally whispered, "I just wanted you to see that I—"
"Don't," Jay cut her off, shaking his head. "I can't even—just go inside."
She hesitated, looking at him with eyes full of longing and regret, then nodded. Slowly, she turned and walked away, leaving Jay standing in the falling snow, alone with his anger and heartbreak.
---
The next three weeks passed like a blur. They avoided each other at all costs, even when the same streets and cafés brought them to the same spaces. Texts went unanswered. Calls went ignored. Jay's friends noticed a new edge to his drumming—harder, louder, sharper, as if he were striking the kit not for music but to release his own pain.
Racheal tried to focus on school, on friends, on anything that would keep her mind off him, but every moment, she longed for the familiar rhythm of their friendship. She missed his teasing, his sarcasm, the way he always knew when to make her laugh. More than that, she missed the way he made her feel seen, understood, and safe.
One night, sitting alone in her room, she broke down completely. She wrote a long message to Jay, poured out her feelings—the confusion, the heartbreak, the love she had been hiding for months—but she couldn't bring herself to send it. Fear of rejection, fear of making things worse, kept the message unsent.
Meanwhile, Jay paced his room, trying to convince himself that he didn't care. He told himself she was free to do what she wanted. He told himself it was just a date, that it didn't matter. But every time he thought about her with Brian, a cold knot twisted in his chest.
He couldn't sleep. His music no longer comforted him. Even the drums, his lifelong companions, felt hollow without her presence, without her laughter echoing in the garage alongside him.
---
It was a Tuesday evening when Racheal finally came to the realization that she couldn't continue this way. Her heart wouldn't allow it. Sitting on her bed, staring at the untouched message to Jay, she whispered to herself, "I can't do this. I can't be with anyone else. Not him. Not now. Not ever."
She knew what she had to do. She had to end things with Brian, no matter how difficult it would be. She had to face Jay, and she had to admit the truth she had buried under months of hesitation, fear, and pride.
And deep down, she hoped that somewhere inside him, Jay felt the same way—that he, too, had been holding back from admitting what he really felt.
But hope was fragile, and the gap between them had grown. The first step would be the hardest.
---
That night, Jay sat in the garage, staring at the silent drums. The snow had stopped falling, and the streets were quiet. He had a feeling—a terrible, exhilarating feeling—that something was about to change. Something big. Something that would either fix the cracks in their friendship or shatter it forever.
He didn't know it yet, but neither did Racheal.
Both hearts were waiting, silently, for the moment that would finally bring the music back into harmony.