Volume 2, Chapter 1: I Wanted To Go Home, But I Wasn't Really Free There Either

  It was Friday. The day the rest of the world yearns for with a desperate, ritualistic hunger. Back in middle school, I used to find a hollow sort of comfort in it—a brief ceasefire in the war of expectations.

  The library. It was once my top-pick, the only territory I actually cared to defend. Now, the very thought of the doorframe felt like a trespass. I wasn't welcome there—not after the incident. I had turned my only haven into another crime scene I had to avoid.

  I could feel my old sanctuaries fading into the background, the exits I used to take suddenly boarded up or out of reach. It should have been terrifying, but instead, I felt a strange, numb sort of peace. I was tired of running, and if the escapes were gone, maybe it just meant there was nowhere left to hide.

  It was as if I’d finally accepted that I was being forced into the light, and for once, I didn't have the energy to fight it.

  ...At some point, my hatred for the academic circuit became more than just a preference. It became an identity. I’m not entirely sure when the wires crossed or why the passion short-circuited, but it did. And once that fire goes out, trying to relight it feels like trying to start a car with no engine.

  Doink!

  "Huh?" I barely peeled my face off the cool, grain-textured surface of my desk.

  I glanced at the clock: 2:40 PM.

  "Class is about to end. I’d hate for you to sleep through the bell and wake up in an empty room." Rosalie was standing over me, her smile far too bright for the dim afternoon light.

  "I’d wake up anyway," I muttered, my voice a flat monotone. I reached for my schoolbag with a practiced, lazy lethargy. "The bell is basically my alarm clock."

  "Well, that’s not what happened yesterday..." Rosalie chuckled, a playful edge to her voice.

  "Tch. Whatever. I’d like to forget yesterday. And the day before that. Actually, let's just archive the whole week." I swung my bag onto the desk, the weight of the textbooks feeling like a physical manifestation of my boredom.

  "Well, it all turned out just fine, didn't it?" Rosalie leaned in and tapped a finger on the tip of my nose. "Thanks to you."

  I swatted her hand away, more out of habit than genuine irritation, and stood up. Our teacher was still slumped in his chair, his face illuminated by the blue light of his laptop as he scrolled through whatever digital abyss teachers go to at the end of the day.

  "I didn't really do much," I said, already walking toward the exit. "Just sent a few texts. Low effort, high yield."

  "You contribute a lot more than you think, Zeke," she said with a grin, falling into step behind me.

  I stopped in the doorway and looked back at her. The hallway was already beginning to vibrate with the pre-release energy of five hundred teenagers.

  "Don't gas me up, Rosalie. You know it was mostly luck, right?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "The coincidences," I explained, my mind running a quick audit of the ballroom scene. "You and Hazel just so happened to be passing the restroom at the exact right moment. If you hadn't been there, my 'intel' would have been useless."

  "True," Rosalie smiled, her eyes narrowing slightly as she read me. "But you were the one who read the room. What you told me wasn't luck, Zeke. That was deduction."

  "...That was luck, too." I looked away, unable to handle the sincerity in her gaze.

  "Hah! Don't be so hard on yourself. Admit it—you’re enjoying the result, aren't you?" She laughed, a light, genuine sound that felt foreign in these sterile hallways.

  "Tch."

  Brrrrring.

  The bell screamed, flushing my regressions down the drain. Finally. Time to head back to the Beaumont estate for forty-eight hours. I'll be welcoming the oncoming dread of being home alone for the weekend.

  "See you next week, Zeke!" Rosalie waved, already being swept away by the current of students.

  "See you..." I raised a hand half-heartedly.

  There was nothing left for me here. I stepped into the flow of the hallway and kept walking.

  "Oop!"

  A few girls almost bump into me. They start giggling and talking about how I got in their way. In reality, they're the ones that are supposed to look out for what's in front of them. I'm always the target of these kinds of scenarios, I've lived through them countless of times.

  "Will you be coming over?" asked a female student.

  "Of course I will. There's something I want to give you." responded the male student.

  There’s something fascinatingly grim about passing happy couples on the sidewalk. I have no love interests—no "Main Character" romance to look forward to. In fact, I’ll probably strive to keep it that way. We’re all conditioned to hope for a "Good Ending," aren't we? But many stories suggest otherwise. Not everyone gets the cinematic sunset. Most people just get a credits roll over a blank screen.

  On Fridays, the routine is always the same: you wait outside for the buses. They don't arrive until 4:00 PM, giving the socialites plenty of time to loiter and the overachievers time to squeeze in one last study session.

  Usually, I’d just find a patch of grass and wait for the bus to take me away. But today, the library was calling my name. It wasn't a choice, really. It was a compulsion—a biological command from a brain that wasn't finished with its "To-Do" list.

  I’d spent the last forty-eight hours treating the library like a crime scene I wasn't ready to return to. Yet, as I trekked through the hallway, a heavy compulsion took hold of my legs. It was the internal weight of an unfinished task. I couldn't go home—couldn't face the silence of the weekend—with that Aaxya study session incident still hanging over me. It was a loose thread, and if I didn't pull it now, I knew the whole fabric of my ghost identity would eventually unravel.

  My feet moved on autopilot. They took a sharp detour, cutting against the hallway current. A few people grunted or shouted complaints as I bumped past them, but I didn't care. I was a ghost moving through a wall of static.

  I reached the library’s large doorframe in record time. Aaxya was there, sitting at a corner table, her things already packed as if she were about to bolt. Then, she spotted me.

  Aaxya?

  She froze. This time, she didn't run. The "flight" response had been replaced by a weary, wide-eyed stillness. I walked over, the silence of the library amplifying the sound of my own heartbeat, and sat in the chair across from her.

  I hadn't formally apologized yet. Thursday had been a wash—I’d spent the entire day in a state of burnout, conserving every ounce of energy I’d wasted on Wednesday night.

  "Aaxya," I started, my voice sounding scratchy and unfamiliar in the quiet. "I’m sorry."

  I forced myself to look at her. She was still frozen, but the jagged tension in her shoulders seemed to soften, just a fraction.

  "I’m sorry for yelling at you. And I’m sorry I took this long to say it."

  I waited. I didn't look away. "Do you think you could forgive me?"

  Her eyes darted across the room, scanning the spines of a thousand books as if she were searching for a pre-written script to follow. She looked like a search algorithm trying to find words that hadn't been invented yet.

  ?"Yeah... I actually wanted to apologize to you first," Aaxya mured, her voice barely catching the air. She was practically vibrating with nerves, her fingers twisting a loose thread on her sweater. "I wanted to apologize for... well, for making you so angry."

  ?I felt a sharp, uncomfortable pinch in my chest. "What? No—Aaxya, don't do that. You don't have to apologize for my temper." I shifted my gaze to a nearby bookshelf. "I’m the one who messed up. Lashing out like that... it was immature. I'm sorry."

  The silence that followed wasn't peaceful; it was heavy. Aaxya looked like she was trying to let something out, her mouth opening and closing without a sound. Tapping the table in repeated intervals. I couldn't stand the static. I decided to just say the thing we were both thinking. A selfish gamble. Cynical even.

  ?"You're currently trying to find a way to blame yourself for being 'too sensitive,' aren't you?" I asked, my voice dropping the formal edge.

  Aaxya flinched, her head snapping up. Her eyes were wide, caught between being impressed and being exposed. "How did you... how did you know I was going to say that?"

  ?"I didn't," I said, and for once, I let a small, tired smile ghost across my face. "It’s just... it’s something you would say. We both share that habit of taking the blame."

  Internally, I hated that I was right. It felt invasive, like I’d picked the lock to her head without asking.

  I would have preferred to be perceived as rude or weirdly presumptuous rather than being right. Being right meant I understood her well enough to see her hurting herself, and that felt like a weight I wasn't ready to carry.

  Or perhaps she was just agreeing with me to save me from the awkwardness of being wrong. I'm at the pinnacle of arrogance.

  But her expression shifted—the panic faded into something softer, a quiet sort of validation.

  "Why did you come here today, Zeke? Did you... did you know I’d be here?"

  ?"Honestly?" my voice dropped in vulnerability. "No. I just had this nagging feeling. Like a toothache you can't ignore until you deal with it."

  My eyes darted once more.

  "I couldn't go home. Not without resolving what happened Wednesday morning"

  Aaxya smiled then. It wasn't a polite, "school-safe" smile. It was warm—the kind of look that makes you realize why people actually bother with friendships.

  ?"...Well, I’m glad you had that toothache," she whispered. "I wouldn't have ever had built the courage to find you first."

  ?"Hm?" I looked away, pretending not to hear my ears feeling a bit too warm. "What was that?"

  "Oh! Nothing..." she retreated back into her embarrassment bunker.

  "Oh! Nothing! Never mind!" She scrambled to gather her things, her face turning a vivid shade of pink.

  ?I’d pretended not to hear her, and pushed her just enough to see her real self. It's selfish of me, because I didn't deserve this kind of sincerity. I was just a guy who’d spent a week being a jerk and then showed up on a Friday to clear his conscience. But seeing her relax—just a little—made me feel better.

  Honestly? I still felt like a total fraud. Apologizing is easy, but actually feeling worthy of a "sorry" is a different kind of labor—one I wasn't sure I’d finished yet. People always talk about moving on like it's a choice you make, but what if you're just stuck? What if the apology is accepted, but the person who gave it is still trapped in that Wednesday morning?

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  "I-I'm gonna go. Bye, Zeke!" She didn't wait for a reply. She was out of that chair and through the library doors like she was being chased by a fire.

  ?"Wait, hey—!" I called out, but she was already gone.

  ?The air she left behind wasn't cold; it had a trace of something light, almost sweet. I sat there for a second, feeling the quiet return. My apology had been clumsy, and her exit had been a disaster, but for the first time in a week, the air didn't feel like lead.

  I headed for the lobby, my shoes echoing against the tile. Outside, the only thing waiting for me was a bus. No notifications, no buzz in my pocket, nothing. It was lonely, sure, but I’d be lying if I didn't admit that the silence felt like a heavy blanket. It was the only peace I knew how to handle.

  I’d be lying if I said I enjoyed the walk back. In all honesty, I’d rather just blink and teleport to my seat on the bus, but that’d probably draw more attention than I’m prepared to handle. My brain is constantly offering up these absurd, high-effort solutions to minor inconveniences. It’s a glitch I’ve learned to live with. At least there isn't anyone around who can read my thoughts—I’m pretty sure the sheer volume of my overthinking would give them a migraine.

  ?As I neared the main lobby, the glass walls revealed the inevitable: a crowd. A sea of students was already out there, hovering near the curb. I realized, with a sting of something that felt like genuine embarrassment, that this would be the first time I’d stood in a group of people since last Friday. It’s a pathetic thing to admit, even to myself, but it’s the truth.

  ?I’m not trying to justify the isolation. I don't buy into that "lone wolf" nonsense—I don't think being a loner makes me, or anyone else, superior. I’m just an observer. I sit back and watch the chaos unfold because it’s easier than joining it. But the ugly truth no one wants to admit is how suffocating the atmosphere gets when you’re on the outside looking in. Now imagine being the one in that atmosphere. It’s sickening, really, how much energy people waste on being seen.

  ?I stopped at the front doors and just stood there for a few seconds. The lobby was empty, draped in that eerie, post-hours silence that I actually found peaceful. For a heartbeat, I wanted to lean into it—to pretend I was some stoic protagonist in a film, brooding in the shadows. But I knew better. In reality, I was just a guy who wasted too much time dissecting every step he took.

  ?A familiar spike of anxiety settled in as I watched the students outside. They were laughing, shouting, and moving in a rhythm I didn't understand. I took a breath and reached for the handle, bracing for the wind—and the world—to hit me in the face.

  ?"Zeke! Hold up!"

  ?The sound of rubber soles skidding on the staircase echoed through the lobby—that distinct, obnoxious screech of someone moving way too fast for a hallway. I turned just in time to see Remi sliding toward the landing, her arms windmilling for a second before she stuck the arrival with a frantic, heavy thump.

  ?She jogged over, glancing at the crowd through the glass before looking back at me, grinning like she’d just pulled off a successful heist. "Fancy meeting you here, Zeke."

  ?"Yeah, fancy meeting you here," I droned. I meant for it to sound sharper, but the bite wasn't there—I was too tired to maintain the energy. "Where do people even get that phrase?"

  ?"I don't know!" Remi laughed, shoving her hands deep into her pockets. "It just felt like the right time for a 'Main Character' entrance. Why are you still here, anyway? I figured you’d be out at the bus stop by now."

  ?"Library," I said, keeping it brief. My bag felt twice as heavy as it had ten minutes ago. "I had to... do things."

  ?"Ooh, mysterious." She started toward the heavy glass doors, and my feet followed her lead before my brain could even register the movement. It’s annoying how she does that—just commands the space around her. "I was just upstairs returning those spare clothes to the Council Room. I completely forgot they were in my bag until the strap started digging into my shoulder."

  ?I stopped dead. My heart did a weird, uncomfortable little skip as I felt the unmistakable bulk at the bottom of my own bag. "The clothes. Right. Those clothes."

  ?Remi stopped and looked back at me, her eyebrows shooting up into her hairline. "Don't tell me... did the Great Zeke Beaumont actually forget to return his spare clothes?"

  ?"I didn't forget," I lied, focusing very intently on a smudge on the ceiling tiles. "I was just... running low on my own clothes."

  ?"Uh-huh. Sure you were. You just wanted a souvenir." She reached out and snagged my wrist. "And you could've just asked to keep 'em!"

  ?Her grip was warm, solid, and surprisingly strong. It wasn't a "cinematic" touch; it was just a hand on a wrist, but it was enough to pull the static out of my head. I realized my palm was probably a little sweaty, and I suddenly felt very aware of how wrinkled my own shirt was compared to her energy.

  ?"Come on, Zeke," she said, giving my arm a tug. "Let’s get you home before you stay standing in one place for too long before missing the last bus."

  ?The Friday wind hit us the second we stepped outside. It was cold and smelled of wet asphalt and diesel exhaust, but for once, it actually felt like a relief. It blew the "library smell" out of my lungs. The buses were idling in a long, vibrating line, but Remi didn't let go of my wrist.

  ?"Same bus, Zeke! No escaping me today." She leaned in, her eyes searching mine with that annoying, brilliant intensity. She was close enough that I could see the way the wind was messing up her black hair, and it made me feel strangely... grounded. "You okay? You look like you're staring into a void."

  ?"I'm fine, Remi," I said. And for the first time all day, I didn't have to manual-pilot my own breathing. "Just zoning out..."

  ?"Got it." She giggled, giving my arm a playful, heavy tug toward the bus doors. "Just making sure there was still a human being inside that uniform."

  I gave her a half-hearted smile—the kind that probably looked more like a grimace than a gesture of friendship. It was a bittersweet sort of expression, the physical manifestation of me trying to prove I was still a functioning human being.

  Are my episodes of zoning out really that obvious? It’s a bit jarring to realize that while I’m off in my own head, the rest of the world is watching the lights stay on with nobody home.

  Reluctantly, yet with a strange, quiet eagerness I didn't want to admit to, I followed her onto the bus. We ended up jammed into a duo seat. It was a tight fit; the kind of proximity that makes you realize exactly how much space another person occupies in your life.

  The bus idled for a few more minutes, the engine vibrating through the floor, before the doors hissed shut and our drive began.

  I claimed the window seat, pressing my forehead against the cool glass and trying to rerun my high school career so far in my mind, auditing those experiences. It was a short trip. I barely got anywhere with that daydream as I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder.

  Remi.

  Sometimes, I just wish people would leave me be. I don't say that out of spite—I don't hate anyone. It’s just that getting dragged into a conversation feels like being cornered. It traps me in this confined mental space where my own disinterest feeds their lack of engagement, and if I force myself to be "on," I just end up exhausted. It’s a lose-lose scenario.

  "Hey, Zeke. Can you... open your contacts real quick?" Remi asked. She was leaning in close, peering at my phone with a look of intense, suspicious curiosity.

  "Huh? Why? You already have my number," I said, shielding the screen slightly.

  "No... I just want to check something. Trust me."

  I sighed and handed it over. She started scrolling with a focused intensity that made me nervous. Her face lit up as she discovered... well, a whole lot of nothing. My contact list was a graveyard.

  "Aha! I’m putting Aaxya’s number in here," Remi said, her thumbs flying across the screen. She was beaming. "I noticed it was missing. Can't have that!"

  "What?! Remi, wait—" I reached for the phone, but she was too quick. She’d orchestrated this whole "check" just to play matchmaker. It’s hard to stay mad at a girl like her; she has this way of making her meddling feel like a public service.

  "Hehe. Aaaaand... sent!"

  "Alright, give it back," I said, sounding visibly frustrated but unable to hide the fact that I was playing along. "Hand it over."

  "Okay, okay! Take it!" She was laughing so hard her grip weakened, and I managed to snatch the device back. I pulled up the new contact, and my heart nearly skipped a beat.

  Aaxya ??

  I slowly turned my head to look at her. I’m sure my expression was a mix of horror and genuine confusion, because she immediately erupted into another fit of laughter. A few students nearby shot us weird looks—her explosive joy was a stark contrast to the usual silence of the afternoon bus.

  "Remi, stop it! It’s... it’s not funny!" I grabbed her shoulder and gave her a light shake, trying to get her to compose herself.

  "It is! It really is!" she wheezed, clutching her stomach.

  I quickly edited the name back to a dignified 'Aaxya' and stared out the window, trying to look like I wasn't associated with the girl currently dying of laughter next to me. It wasn't working. After a few minutes, she finally calmed down, and a rare, comfortable silence settled over us.

  I watched the familiar storefronts roll by, realizing we were getting close to the transit stop.

  "Hey, Zeke? Can I ask you something?" Remi’s voice was quieter now. She tapped my shoulder again, pulling me away from the window. "It’s... kind of about you."

  "Hm? Sure."

  "I always feel so awkward around you," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "Even when I try to start small talk, you always give me these one-word answers. It’s like talking to a wall."

  "What? Really?"

  "Yeah. You’re just... really hard to talk to. That’s what I mean."

  "I am?" I shifted in my seat, feeling a weird prickle of defensiveness. "But you’re talking to me right now. And back on the sidewalk in the rain, you were—"

  "Nope! We are forgetting the rain day!" She leaned over and pressed her fingers against my lips to shut me up. "But just because I make it look easy doesn't mean it actually is. Not for everyone else. And honestly..." She averted her eyes, playing with a loose thread on her bag. "I still find it a challenge to start things up with you sometimes. Haha."

  She was staring at the floor, a small, tentative smile on her face. I just nodded. I didn't know what to say. It hadn't occurred to me that my silence was a barrier for her, too. I always thought people were fine with the quiet. I find small talk exhausting; I’d rather not say anything at all unless it’s a real discussion.

  "You don't seem like a talkative guy, so I guess it makes sense," Remi continued, her eyes still fixed on her shoes. "Maybe that’s why I wanted to be friends with you in the first place."

  I nodded again. A simple, stupid gesture.

  It’s not like I chose to be this way. Back in elementary school, I didn't know how to socialize at all—I just annoyed people by being 'the smart kid.' Eventually, I realized people didn't like that version of me, so I just... stopped. The act of being quiet became my reality. I found peace in that silence.

  "Hey, Remi," I asked, genuinely curious now. "Why are you so talkative then? What's the point?"

  "Huh? Oh." She glanced at me, then back at the floor, looking uncharacteristically shy. "I just like people, I guess. I love making my friends feel like they actually belong somewhere. It’s kind of embarrassing when I say it out loud, but that’s the truth."

  "That's not embarrassing," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "It’s just who you are."

  "Haha, true." She grinned, the high-energy Remi returning in a flash.

  I realized I didn't really know her at all. I’d always seen her as the energetic overachiever, someone who worked harder than everyone else just because she could. She felt too "good" to be hanging out with a fraud like me. I don't put in the work. I don't have goals. Maybe I’m just not cut out for the kind of life she leads.

  "Hey, look! We’re almost there!" She pointed through the front windshield.

  The street was recognizable now—three more turns and the ride was over. I looked at Remi as she watched the road ahead. We’d only taken the bus together once before. As far as I knew, we lived in opposite directions. Once we stepped off this bus, we’d be parting ways immediately.

  And for the first time today, I found myself wishing the bus was moving just a little bit slower.

  I found myself drifting again, back to the middle school "academic circuit." I still catch myself running post-game simulations on what I could’ve done differently—how much potential I had before my own mind started clouded over. I usually tell myself that everyone else was just on a level I couldn't adapt to. It’s a convenient lie; it’s easier to believe I was outclassed than to admit I just gave up.

  The bus groaned to a halt, the brakes hissing like a tired lung.

  "C'mon, Zeke. Let's go!" Remi tugged my arm the second she stood up, as if she were afraid I’d grow roots into the seat if left alone for too long.

  I grabbed my bag and followed her into the aisle, stretching out the kinks in my back. We stepped off into the humid afternoon air, and I stood there for a moment, watching the bus pull away and merge back into the flow of traffic. I watched it until the tail lights faded—not because I cared about the bus, but because it was a reason to delay the inevitable "goodbye."

  When I finally turned around, Remi was already looking at me. We’d pivoted in perfect sync.

  "Oh! Haha. Look at that—we’re telepathic now!" Remi laughed, her eyes crinkling.

  "Haha... yeah. Pretty cool," I said, my voice barely above a murmur.

  "Very!" She adjusted her bag, then gave me one last, lingering look. "I’ll be heading off now. Have fun texting Aaxya! I expect updates!"

  "Alriiight," I shot back, draping my voice in a heavy layer of sarcasm.

  The second she turned the corner, I checked my phone. No response to the "number verification" text yet. I told myself I was glad. I’d need to explain that this was all Remi's doing, not mine. I had to clarify that I didn’t have any ulterior motives. I was already in a bad spot as it was.

  I started on the route to my house. My house is relatively big and decently noticeable from a distance. I'm glad we aren't stupid rich, and by that I mean the people who actively flaunt their wealth. I'm glad my parents have some sense of ground.

  The route is a treadmill of memories. I’ve known these sidewalks my whole life, and every crack in the pavement feels tainted by a past I’ve tried to bury. Maybe that’s why I decided to forget everyone I knew when I started high school—I wanted to outrun the version of me that used to live here.

  After a few minutes. I entered my general neighborhood, which I've known my whole life. This sidewalk is tainted with my own past. I'd like to leave that past behind. Maybe that's why I decided to forget everyone I knew.

  I remembered a chess match back in elementary school. I’d lost, and the sting of it was so sharp I spent the next few weeks obsessively studying openings and endgames just so the rematch would be a total slaughter. My obsession with winning was a fever back then. I wonder where that drive went. I often wonder if it was stolen from me, or if I just opened my hand and let it fly away. Probably the latter. It’s less exhausting to not care.

  Within minutes, the Beaumont estate loomed into view. It’s a house that welcomes me back after a long week, but "home" feels like the wrong word for it. It’s just a structure where I count the stars from my bedroom window and try to look productive. I do my homework and not much else of anything.

  You’d think that since I’ve started "knowing" people again, I’d actually reach out. I’d try to build something. But I don't. I refuse to force it. I’ve always hated superficiality—the "game" humans play where they pretend to care just to feel less alone. I stopped playing that game a long time ago. I became a blank slate just to get by. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

  I walked up the front path, the grass neatly trimmed and impersonal. I found the spare key tucked away in its usual spot on the porch chair and slid it into the lock.

  I stood before the heavy oak door for a second, a familiar, pathetic hope rising in my throat. I waited for a greeting. A voice. A footstep. Anything to break the vacuum.

  But there was nothing.

  The air inside was still and smelled of lemon polish and expensive loneliness. My parents were gone again.

  I was home alone.