By winter, the air on Elm Street carried a faint chill, the kind that made people walk faster and hold their jackets tighter. For Jay and Racheal, it marked nearly a year since the moving truck had brought her into his life.
Their friendship had become a rhythm all its own. On weekends, they watched old movies and argued about which were better. On weekdays, they texted between her classes and his gigs. Their bond felt safe, effortless. But under that safety was something fragile—something waiting for one wrong word to break it.
Racheal had started college in the city that fall, majoring in business management. The campus buzzed with noise and opportunity, full of faces she didn't know and stories she hadn't heard. She liked the freedom, the independence. But sometimes, amid the lectures and crowded hallways, she missed the simplicity of Elm Street—missed Jay's sarcastic humor, the sound of his drumming drifting through her window at night.
One Thursday afternoon, as she packed her things after class, a voice broke into her thoughts.
"Hey, you're in Professor Daniels' business class, right?"
She turned to see a tall guy with dark hair and a confident smile. He wore a gray hoodie and carried the same textbook she did.
"Yeah," she said, smiling politely. "I am."
"I'm Brian," he said, shifting his bag onto his shoulder. "You're Racheal, right? I've seen you around."
"Guilty," she said lightly.
He grinned. "You free this weekend? A few of us are grabbing lunch after the seminar. You should come."
Racheal hesitated. She didn't really know him, but there was something easy about his tone. He wasn't pushy, just friendly.
"Maybe," she said. "I'll think about it."
"Cool," he replied, his smile widening. "You should bring your friend too—the one you're always texting."
Racheal blinked. "You noticed that?"
He shrugged. "Hard not to. You smile every time your phone buzzes."
She laughed nervously, her mind immediately jumping to Jay.
---
That night, she sat on her bed, scrolling through her messages. Her phone buzzed just then—a message from Jay.
> Jay: "Practiced till my hands hurt. Either I'm getting better or the drums are winning."
Racheal: "Don't destroy your hands; I still need you to help me carry groceries."
Jay: "So I'm a drummer and a delivery guy now?"
Racheal: "Exactly."
She smiled at the screen. With Jay, everything always felt simple.
But as she typed, she hesitated before sending her next message.
> Racheal: "Someone asked me out today."
Jay's reply came fast.
> Jay: "Haha. Yeah, right."
She frowned slightly.
> Racheal: "I'm serious."
There was a pause. Then another message.
> Jay: "Oh… okay. Well, that's cool. It's your choice, right? Say yes if you want."
She stared at his words, her chest tightening. She had half-hoped—maybe foolishly—that he would say no. That he'd sound jealous, or protective. Something. Anything that showed he cared beyond friendship.
> Racheal: "Are you sure?"
> Jay: "Yeah, sure. Go for it. Why not?"
She bit her lip, the sting of disappointment sharper than she expected.
He thought she was joking. He always thought she was joking when she tried to test the edges of his heart.
So, later that weekend, when Brian asked again, she said yes.
---
Jay didn't think much of it at first. Racheal had always had friends—guys and girls both. He assumed this was just another college hangout. But as the weeks passed, she texted less often. Calls grew shorter.
One Friday evening, after band rehearsal, Jay stopped by her house. Her mother greeted him at the door with a smile.
"She's not home, dear. She went out for dinner. I think with that new boy from college."
Jay froze. "Brian?"
"Yes, that's the name. He seems polite."
"Yeah," Jay said, forcing a smile. "I'm sure he is."
He walked home in silence, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The streetlights blurred as his mind raced. Why did it bother him so much? She was free to see whoever she wanted. They were just friends—best friends, sure—but still.
Then why did his chest feel so heavy?
---
When Racheal finally told him herself, he tried to act casual.
"So… you and Brian, huh?" he said one afternoon over the phone, his tone flat.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "We've gone out a few times. He's nice."
"That's great," Jay said. "Really. I'm happy for you."
But the words came out wrong—too stiff, too practiced.
"Jay," she said after a pause, "are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he said quickly. "Just tired."
They talked a few more minutes, then hung up. When the call ended, Jay sat on his bed, staring at the wall. He felt angry—at her, at himself, at the universe for making feelings so complicated.
He thought back to that night under the streetlight, to her soft laughter and the way her eyes glowed when she looked at him. Had it meant nothing?
Maybe he'd been fooling himself all along.
---
Days turned into weeks, and silence settled between them like fog. They stopped texting daily. When they did talk, it was awkward, careful. Their easy rhythm had turned into something forced, uneven.
Jay threw himself into his music, hoping to drown the ache. But every song he played seemed to circle back to her. Every beat sounded like her name.
One night, after a particularly long rehearsal, he saw her message pop up.
> Racheal: "Can we talk?"
He hesitated, then replied.
> Jay: "About what?"
> Racheal: "About us."
A minute later, he called her.
"Why?" he asked, skipping the greeting.
"Because you're mad at me."
"I'm not mad," he lied.
"Yes, you are. You've barely talked to me."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just… didn't expect you to actually say yes."
"I thought you told me to," she said softly.
"I thought you were joking, Racheal!" His voice rose, sharp. "You always joke!"
She was quiet for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Jay. I just thought you didn't care."
He wanted to say he did. God, he wanted to say it. But pride held his tongue.
"Goodnight, Racheal," he said instead, ending the call.
For three long weeks, they didn't speak. The silence between them was worse than any argument. Jay's drumming grew louder, harder, until the neighbors complained. Across the street, Racheal cried into her pillow, wondering if she'd just lost her best friend—or something more.