The morning Elena left for Lincoln Prep, the apartment was silent.
Simon stood at the window, arms crossed, watching her father's car idle outside. The engine rumbled like the tension in the walls—low, constant, heavy.
Elena moved quietly around the living room. Her duffel bag hung from her shoulder, her phone clutched tightly in one hand. Her cheer jacket was folded over her arm—not because she needed it, but because it still smelled like home.
Their home.
Their secret.
Their war zone.
Simon didn't speak. Neither did she. Not at first.
Because what could they say?
Goodbye felt too final.
See you later felt like a lie.
But when she reached the door, she paused—one hand on the handle, the other hanging at her side.
Then she turned.
"You'll text me?" she asked.
Simon stepped forward. "Every night."
"And if I don't answer?"
"I'll wait anyway."
She smiled, faint and flickering like a candle fighting wind.
Then her voice broke. "They think this is going to fix us."
Simon shook his head. "They don't understand—we're not something broken."
"No," she whispered. "We're something they never saw coming."
He crossed the room, grabbed her by the waist, and kissed her like it was a promise.
Because it was.
The drive to Lincoln Prep was less than an hour, but it felt like another world.
Simon spent the day in a daze. Class passed in snapshots—books he didn't read, lectures he didn't hear, faces he didn't recognize.
All he could think about was how empty everything felt without her.
Their hallway. Her empty chair at dinner. The scent of her shampoo fading from the bathroom.
She was still close, technically.
But it didn't feel that way.
It felt like something had been cut from him.
At night, his phone buzzed.
> Elena: You okay?
> Simon: No.
> Elena: Me neither.
> Simon: Do you want to stop?
> Elena: Never.
Elena: But I'm scared I won't be enough from here.
> Simon: You've always been enough.
> Elena: Say something reckless.
> Simon: I'd run away with you if you asked me to.
> Elena: I almost did this morning.
> Simon: Then ask now.
> Elena: I can't.
Elena: Not yet.
> Simon: Then I'll wait. Until you do.
For the next week, they lived on borrowed moments.
Text messages. Midnight calls. A blurry video chat while she hid under her blanket after lights out.
It wasn't enough.
But it was everything.
Simon started journaling again—something he hadn't done since middle school. Not in a poetic way. Not even to sort out his feelings. Just to remember her. To keep her with him.
Things like:
> Elena hums when she's thinking. She doesn't realize she does it. She bites her pen when she's nervous. She whispers "good night" like a secret prayer.
At school, things didn't cool down.
If anything, her absence made things worse. People talked more freely without her there to shut it down.
Simon caught wind of a group chat circulating screenshots of their texts—ones he never sent.
Fake messages. Fabricated drama.
All to stir the pot.
He stormed into the boys' locker room one afternoon and shoved his teammate Derek against a locker.
"You think it's funny?" he growled.
Derek shrugged, not bothering to fight back. "Relax, dude. People just like the story."
"She's not a story."
"Could've fooled me."
Simon walked away before he could throw a punch.
But the fury didn't leave him.
It boiled.
Simmered.
Burned.
That night, he didn't sleep.
At 3:07 AM, he sent her a voice note.
> "You once told me people would never understand. You were right. But I don't care anymore. Let them talk. Let them spin lies. Because none of them were there when I fell in love with you. None of them know how it feels to breathe easier when you walk in the room. They weren't there for the silence that made everything louder. But you were. And that's all that matters."
She replied with a voice note of her own.
Her voice was hoarse from crying.
> "Promise me something, Simon."
> "Anything."
> "When this gets worse—and it will—don't let them change who you are."
On Sunday, they met in secret.
Midtown, just before sunset. A bookstore they used to visit, tucked between two crumbling brownstones. Elena wore a hoodie and sunglasses. Simon pulled his cap low.
They ducked between aisles. Didn't talk. Just stood close, hands brushing on spines of old poetry books.
In the corner, near the dusty travel section, he pulled her into a kiss that tasted like memory and need.
They didn't say much.
Didn't need to.
She slid something into his hand before she left.
A note. Folded tight. Pressed with a kiss.
> "If they pull us apart again, you'll still have this.
Because my heart's yours now.
And I'm not asking for it back."