I don't immediately regret asking Camila to dig.But the second I'm alone in my room again, lying face-up on my bed like a ghost bride in a telenovela, the overthinking begins.
What if she finds something?Worse—what if she finds nothing?
I hate that part of me is hoping for both.
My phone buzzes.
Camila [9:02 PM]: "So… got a maybe. I asked my cousin Dani. She went to school with Alex. Gimme time."
I type back fast.
Me [9:02 PM]: "You are the wind beneath my wings."
Camila [9:03 PM]: "You're spiraling again, aren't you?"
Me [9:03 PM]: "Define spiraling."
Camila [9:04 PM]: "Sitting in the dark, questioning the past, playing music that makes it worse."
Okay, so she knows me too well.
I glance at the Spotify tab on my laptop. Yep. Still playing a sad acoustic cover of "Can't Help Falling in Love."
I switch it off. Out of shame.
The thing is, I don't know why I'm doing this.Alex hasn't done anything wrong. Well, unless breathing too close to me counts. Or calling me "kid" with that lazy smirk like I'm not practically the same height now.
He hasn't flirted. He hasn't said anything weird. He hasn't made any moves.
He just… exists. And takes up space.But now that space just has to be. My space.
And maybe it's selfish, but I hate that he doesn't seem fazed. Not by me, not by the house, not even by Lucas being weirdly distant these days, although that's kinda valid after my even more valid crashout.
I grab my pillow and scream into it for a second. It helps. Not much, but enough.
I hear footsteps in the hallway.
They're heavier than Mom's. Slower than Lucas's.
I don't have to look to know who it is.
A knock follows, barely there. Then, like always, he doesn't wait for permission.
Alex.
He leans against the doorframe like this is a casual sitcom scene. "You okay?"
"Fine," I lie, not looking up from my ceiling. "Just being dramatic."
He chuckles softly. "At least you're honest about it."
There's a pause.
Then: "Camila's voice carries. I heard something about digging into my past?"
My eyes fly open. "You—no—how did—?!"
"I was in the hallway. Didn't mean to eavesdrop." He tilts his head. "You really think I've got some dark secret?"
I sit up, heart pounding. "I mean… don't you?"
He walks in slowly. "If I did, wouldn't it be more fun to let you find out the hard way?"
My chest tightens.
"That's not comforting."
Alex shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Wasn't meant to be."
Another silence. Another weight.
Then, suddenly, like a thread snapping in my chest:"Are you even straight?"
It bursts out of me like a balloon finally overinflated, and even if I asked before, I just needed to ask again.
His eyes darken just slightly. "What?"
"I mean—you don't act like you are. Not that that means anything, obviously, I just—I've had people in this house tell me how you looked at me and—"
"People?"
I shut my mouth.
"I didn't mean to say that. Never mind."
"No. Say it."
He's standing closer now. I hadn't noticed him move.
My heart is a drumline in my chest.
"I don't want to assume," I say, voice too soft. "I've just… wondered. A lot."
Alex breathes in, deep. Runs a hand through his hair. Looks like he's deciding between jumping out the window or pinning me to the wall.
"You think I look at you?"
My breath catches. "Sometimes."
He nods, once. "I do."
Pause.
"I shouldn't. But I do."
The air thins between us. My hands are clammy. My brain is soup.
"You said you were straight," I whisper.
"And recently, I also said, I have liked guys," he says, voice low. "Things change, I change."