Ellie And Mason After

Mason’s hoodie smells like laundry soap and cold air, like he just stepped out of a locker room. Ellie can’t stop staring at the zipper, at how his fingers keep fidgeting with it even though he’s standing still. The gym lights buzz overhead, making everything feel too bright and too loud for what’s happening between them - like when you try to talk in a hallway and the bell keeps going off in your head.

You remember seventh grade like it was a song you used to know by heart. You and Mason were the kind of couple that held hands without thinking, that laughed at the same dumb jokes, that promised you’d “always” pick each other first. Now you’re in eighth grade again, on good terms, sitting across from him at a table with paper plates that taste like cardboard. Your desire isn’t some big fireworks thing. It’s smaller. It’s simple. You want him to look at you like you still matter.

He leans forward when you pass him the juice boxes, and his shoulder knocks yours. It’s nothing. It’s also everything. His smile comes fast, like he’s trying to be casual, like you won’t notice his eyes are doing the real talking. “You always steal the strawberry one,” he says.

“I don’t steal,” you say, even though you do. Your voice comes out lighter than your stomach feels. “I just… call dibs.”

Mason’s laugh is quiet, almost careful. “Dibs,” he repeats, like he likes the word. His hand hovers near yours on the table, not grabbing, not locking you in place. He taps the edge of your sleeve instead. Once. Then he pulls back like he’s suddenly remembered he’s not allowed to touch you the way he used to.

You try to act normal. You circle a doodle on your paper with the pen you keep forgetting you have - little stars, little stick figures, the kind of drawing you do when you’re pretending your brain isn’t spinning. “So,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say, “prom. You going with anyone?”

He blinks. The buzz of the lights gets louder in your ears. “Maybe,” he says.

Maybe is a dodge. You hate it, but you still hope it’s soft. “With who? Or is it a secret like - ” You stop yourself before you sound like you’re accusing him. You swallow. “Like last year?”

His jaw tightens for half a second. “Last year was last year.”

“That’s not an answer,” you say, and your pen scratches harder on the paper.

“It’s an answer,” he says, and now his voice is warmer, like he’s trying to pull you back toward him. “It’s not like I’m trying to make it weird.”

But it is weird. It’s weird because you remember what he promised. You remember how he said he’d try to stop.

Your throat burns anyway. “You didn’t tell me,” you say before you can stop yourself. The words come out small but sharp, like biting into a sour candy you didn’t mean to pick. “Not the drinking. Not the Zyn. Not… whatever you were about to start.”

Mason’s eyes flick to the side, where his friends are laughing at something you can’t see. The sound is muffled, like it’s happening underwater. He looks back at you, and for a second his smile is gone. “Ellie - ”

“Don’t Ellie me,” you cut in, because you’re tired of acting like you’re okay with half-truths. You keep your hands flat on the table so they don’t shake. “I thought we had trust. I thought you meant it.”

He exhales, and you can smell mint on his breath, sharp and fake-clean. “I did mean it,” he says. “I just - ”

“Just what?” you whisper. Your pen rolls between your fingers. You want to slam it down. You want to throw it. You want him to say the right thing and make your chest feel safe again.

Mason’s voice drops. “My friends were being… loud. Like, they kept pushing. And I told you I’d try. I was going to.”

You stare at him, and the room feels colder. “You told me you’d try,” you repeat. “But you told them you weren’t gonna stop no matter what.”

His face shifts like you hit a bruise. “I didn’t think you’d find out like that.”

“And you didn’t think I’d care?” you say, even though you know the answer. You care too much. That’s the problem.

He looks at you like he’s about to beg, then he stops himself. His fingers clench around the edge of the table, knuckles pale. “I’m not asking you to forget,” he says. “I’m asking you to - ” He swallows. “To not assume I’m still lying.”

You want to believe him. You do. You can feel it trying to crawl back into you, like a song you don’t want to stop humming. But trust isn’t a toy you can just pick up again. It’s more like a glass you drop once - you can glue it, but you still see the crack when the light hits.

Your eyes sting, and you hate that your voice sounds shaky. “Then why won’t you just tell me the truth now?”

Mason opens his mouth, then hesitates. A laugh bursts out from his friends again, too loud, and he flinches like it’s a bad smell he can’t get away from. “Because I don’t want to argue,” he says, and there’s something in it - fear, maybe. Not fear of you. Fear of what you’ll say if he tells you everything.

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