Chapter 5 The Boy I Ran Into
POV: Valeria Cruz
I should not be thinking about him.
That should be the easiest part of all this.
Not Jason. Not Camila. Not the humiliation sitting in my chest like something bruised and half-healed already.
Him.
The stranger outside the house.
The one with the steady eyes and the calm voice and the irritating way he looked at me like I didn’t have to perform being okay for him.
I should’ve forgotten him by now.
He was a moment.
A collision.
Nothing more.
And yet—
I’m still thinking about the way he said, You’ll be alright, like he had already decided it was true.
Which is ridiculous.
Because he doesn’t know me.
Because one conversation outside a party doesn’t make someone matter.
Because I have bigger things to worry about than some guy I literally ran into after catching my boyfriend with my best friend.
I sit up in bed and rub my hands over my face.
Morning light is coming in through the blinds, weak and pale, and my whole body feels heavy.
I didn’t sleep much.
Not really.
Too many thoughts. Too many images. Too many moments replaying themselves without asking permission.
The kiss.
Jason’s face.
Camila’s smile.
The way no one looked surprised.
And then, somehow, right in the middle of all of it—
Rafe.
That name settles into my head too easily.
I hate that.
There’s a soft knock on my door.
“Val?”
Sofia.
I clear my throat. “Yeah?”
She pushes the door open a little, peeking inside. “You awake?”
“Now I am.”
That gets the smallest smile out of her, and for a second, the room feels less heavy.
She steps in, still in pajamas, her hair a mess, rubbing one eye. Mateo is right behind her, because of course he is. He never lets her do anything alone if he can help it.
They both look at me.
Too carefully.
“What?” I ask.
Sofia shrugs. “You came home late.”
Mateo folds his arms. “And weird.”
I raise a brow. “Weird?”
He nods once. “Quieter than usual.”
That almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Mateo gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me for a second.
Sofia climbs onto the edge of the bed without asking. “Are you mad at somebody?”
Kids are terrifying.
“No.”
That’s enough of a lie to make Mateo snort.
“Wow,” he mutters. “That was bad.”
I glare at him. “You’re ten.”
“And right.”
Unfortunately, he is.
I let out a breath and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I’m just tired.”
That part is true.
Sofia leans against my arm. “You still taking us to school?”
“Yes.”
“You promise?”
I look at her then.
Really look.
And it hits me again—the thing that always hits me when life gets messy.
No matter what breaks, I still have to be steady for them.
No matter what hurts, I still have to move.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I promise.”
That satisfies her.
Mateo, not so much.
He’s still watching me like he’s waiting for the real answer.
He doesn’t get it.
Not because I don’t trust him.
Because he’s ten.
Because he should be worried about homework and cartoons and whatever boys his age are supposed to care about—not whether I got my heart broken at a party last night.
“Out,” I tell them, standing up. “Get dressed.”
Sofia slides off the bed dramatically.
Mateo doesn’t move.
“What?” I ask.
He hesitates, then says, “If somebody made you cry, I can hit them.”
I freeze.
Then I laugh.
Actually laugh this time.
Short, surprised, real.
Sofia gasps. “Mom says we don’t hit.”
“Mom says a lot of things,” Mateo says flatly.
And there it is.
That tiny crack of reality slipping in.
Enough to kill the laugh before it really starts.
I walk over and flick him lightly on the forehead. “No hitting anyone.”
He scowls. “You always ruin the fun.”
“Get dressed.”
He mutters something under his breath, but he finally turns and heads out, Sofia trailing after him.
The door closes behind them.
I stand there for a second, letting the quiet settle.
Then I move.
Because that’s what I do.
I get dressed. Brush my hair. Pull on the hoodie that still smells faintly like fabric softener and nothing else. Safe. Familiar. Mine.
No dress. No pretending. No version of me built for anyone else’s approval.
Downstairs, the house is quiet in the wrong way.
No movement from the living room.
No voice from the kitchen.
I don’t know if that’s good or not. With my mom, silence can mean sleeping, passed out, gone, or just waiting.
I move carefully anyway.
The twins eat cereal at the table while I make coffee strong enough to count as a survival strategy. The fridge is almost empty again. We’re down to milk, eggs, and some leftovers that are one bad decision away from becoming dangerous.
I do the math automatically.
Groceries after school.
Work later.
Stretch what’s left.
Same as always.
Nothing about today changes that.
Which should comfort me.
Routine usually does.
Today it just feels exhausting.
“Val.”
I turn.
Mateo’s watching me over his spoon.
“What?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
That means something.
I narrow my eyes. “Say it.”
He looks back down at his cereal. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The one where you act extra normal when something’s wrong.”
I stare at him.
Kids are terrifying.
Again.
Before I can answer, Sofia cuts in. “She does do that.”
I point at both of them. “Eat.”
They do.
Mostly because they know I mean it.
I turn back to the counter, but Mateo’s words stick.
Act extra normal when something’s wrong.
Maybe I do.
Maybe I’ve been doing it so long I don’t even notice anymore.
Maybe that’s why Rafe looked at me like that.
Not because I was falling apart.
Because I was trying not to.
The thought unsettles me more than it should.
By the time we’re walking out the door, I’ve almost shoved him out of my head again.
Almost.
The morning air is cool, the street quiet except for the usual sounds—cars in the distance, someone’s dog barking two houses down, the scrape of Mateo’s sneakers every time he drags his feet just enough to annoy me.
Normal.
Good.
I need normal.
We walk in a line that’s become muscle memory over the years: me in the middle, Sofia talking, Mateo pretending he isn’t listening while he definitely is.
And for a little while, it works.
I almost feel like myself.
Then my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out automatically.
Unknown number.
For one second, I think Jason.
My whole body tightens.
Then I open it.
You survive the night?
That’s all.
No name.
No explanation.
But I know.
Of course I know.
Because no one else would phrase it like that. No one else would ask like they were checking damage instead of fishing for details.
Rafe.
I stop walking without meaning to.
Sofia bumps into my side. “Why’d you stop?”
“Nothing. Keep going.”
Mateo looks at the phone in my hand. “Who is it?”
“No one.”
Another bad lie.
He notices.
Thankfully, he doesn’t push.
I stare at the screen.
He put his number in my phone.
At some point between catching me outside and me leaving, he saved himself in like he had every right to assume we’d speak again.
That should annoy me.
It doesn’t.
Which is somehow worse.
I type back before I can overthink it.
Barely.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Still counts.
I hate how that makes the corner of my mouth move.
I also hate that he notices things I haven’t said out loud to anyone.
I should put my phone away.
I don’t.
You always check on strangers like this?
There’s a pause this time.
Then:
You’re not a stranger.
That one lands.
Harder than it should.
I don’t answer right away.
Because I don’t know what to do with a sentence like that from someone who technically shouldn’t matter at all.
Sofia tugs on my sleeve. “Val.”
I blink and look up. We’re at the corner near their school.
Right.
Real life.
I crouch slightly, fixing the strap of her backpack even though it doesn’t need fixing.
“Straight home after school,” I tell them.
“We know,” Mateo says.
“I mean it.”
“We know,” he repeats.
Sofia hugs me before running toward the gate, Mateo following two steps behind like he’d never admit he’s making sure she gets in okay.
I watch them for a second.
Then look back down at my phone.
You don’t know me, I type.
He answers slower this time.
I know enough.
I stare at the screen until the words blur a little.
Because somehow that feels less like confidence and more like certainty.
And certainty is dangerous.
Especially when your whole life just proved how badly you can misread people.
I lock my phone and slide it back into my pocket.
Because I don’t know what this is.
Because I don’t know what he wants.
Because I definitely do not have room in my life for another complicated boy with a strong jaw and too much confidence.
But as I turn and start walking toward my own school, one thing becomes painfully clear.
I don’t think he was just a moment.
And that—
that might be its own kind of problem.
