Chapter 8 The Things I Don't Say

If you had asked me yesterday what my least favorite emotion was, I would’ve confidently answered embarrassment. Or maybe envy. Possibly confusion.

But as I sat across from Jace Rivera in the dining hall, picking at a chocolate croissant he’d practically bribed me with, I realized the real answer was way worse:

Hope.

I hated hope.

Hope was unsteady. Messy. Dangerous. Hope was the emotional equivalent of walking across campus in socks and stepping in a puddle—you think you’re safe, and then suddenly everything is cold and gross and ruined.

And yet… there I was, full of it.

Ugh.

Jace nudged my elbow. “You’re making that face again.”

I froze. “What face?”

“The one where you look like you’re arguing with your own soul.”

“I do not make that face.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely do. You’re making it right now.”

I scowled. “Maybe I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

You.

Us.

Your hoodie and the way it still smells like vanilla laundry detergent from yesterday.

Your stupid dimples.

“Psychology,” I lied.

He smirked like he didn’t believe me. Spoiler: he didn’t.

But to his credit, he didn’t push.

Instead he opened his laptop and said, “So, about our project…”

Right. The project. The reason we were even sitting together. Totally academic. Totally normal. Totally safe.

Except every time his knee brushed mine under the table, my brain short-circuited like a cheap toaster.

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound professional. “So we’ve collected forty-eight responses so far. We need at least sixty to make it statistically meaningful—”

“Ava,” he interrupted softly.

“Hmm?”

“You’re avoiding looking at me.”

I blinked directly at him. “I am not.”

“You’re staring at your croissant like it owes you money.”

I looked down. The croissant did look a little bullied.

“I’m just… processing,” I muttered.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me carefully. “Does this have anything to do with yesterday?”

I almost choked. “No!”

He lifted his eyebrows.

“Okay, yes,” I admitted. “But only a little.”

“How little?”

“Like… one percent little.”

He snorted. “Ava, you panicked so hard you practically sprinted out of my room.”

“It wasn’t a sprint,” I muttered.

“It was definitely a sprint.”

I stabbed a piece of croissant with unnecessary aggression. “Fine. Maybe I got… overwhelmed.”

He softened immediately. “Hey. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

Great. Now I was even more embarrassed.

“I know,” I said.

His eyes lingered on me for a moment, warm and steady in a way that made my heart misbehave.

“You don’t have to tell me what you’re feeling,” he said, “but I want you to know I’m not going to leave just because things get messy.”

The words hit me like a soft, warm weight.

Not heavy.

Just… grounding.

“Okay,” I whispered.

Because what else was I supposed to say?

He didn’t smile, exactly—but there was something like relief in his eyes.

I looked down, cheeks heating, and flipped to a new page in my notebook.

“Right,” I squeaked. “Back to work.”

He chuckled under his breath, but didn’t push it further.

Which somehow made him even more dangerous.

Three Hours Later

Research was done. Questions collected. Graphs made. Emotional stability: nonexistent.

I was halfway to my dorm when someone grabbed my wrist.

Normally I would’ve screamed.

But when I turned, it was just Harper, eyes wide like she’d spotted a celebrity meltdown.

“Okay,” she said breathlessly. “You need to tell me everything.”

“I don’t—”

“EVERYTHING.”

I sighed. “We ate croissants.”

“And?”

“We talked.”

“And??”

“He said he’s… focusing on someone.”

Harper grabbed my shoulders. “Ava. Babe. Honey. Sweet naïve cinnamon roll. HE MEANS YOU.”

My face caught on fire. “He didn’t say that.”

“He didn’t need to.” She shook me lightly. “Do you understand how romantic that line is? If someone said that to me I would simply fall into their arms and demand we elope.”

“I panicked,” I admitted.

“That sounds about right.”

“Harper…”

She paused. “Yeah?”

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Her expression softened. “Oh, Ava.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I mumbled. “What if I ruin everything? What if I fall too hard? What if I’m already falling too hard?”

Harper wrapped me in a sudden, tight hug. “Then we’ll get you a helmet.”

I groaned. “Harper—”

“A metaphorical helmet,” she clarified. “Or a real one. Your call.”

I laughed despite myself.

Then I did the thing I never do.

I told the truth.

“I think I really like him,” I whispered into her shoulder.

Harper froze.

Then she squealed so loudly a squirrel literally fell off a tree branch nearby.

“Oh my GOD—”

“Harper!”

“This is HUGE!”

“This is TERRIBLE.”

“THIS IS ROMANCE!”

I groaned. “Don’t make this a thing.”

“It is a thing,” she declared. “And I am now your emotional support hype woman.”

Oh no.

“And,” she added, “you have to tell him.”

I jerked back. “Absolutely not.”

“You HAVE to!”

“I am not confessing anything!”

She crossed her arms. “Fine. Don’t confess. Just… let things happen.”

“That sounds even worse.”

“Well, tough.”

She marched ahead like she was leading a parade and I reluctantly followed, feeling like the universe was stacking dominos behind me—just waiting for the perfect moment to knock them all down.

I had no idea how right I was.

8:37 PM — Dorm Study Lounge

I only wanted hot chocolate.

That was the entirety of my agenda.

Hot drink. Cozy chair. Zero emotional disasters.

So naturally, when I walked in and saw Jace sitting alone on the couch, rolling a pencil between his fingers and staring at the door like he’d been waiting—

—I immediately considered fleeing.

But he saw me.

And he smiled.

So I was doomed.

“Hey,” he said. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

“Hoping?” I echoed, like a parrot with anxiety.

He nodded. “I wanted to give you something.”

“Give me—?”

Before I could finish, he held out a folded piece of paper.

I stared at it suspiciously. “Is that… a math problem?”

He laughed. “No. Open it.”

I unfolded the paper.

Then stared.

Then blinked.

It was a list.

A list titled: Reasons You Shouldn’t Avoid Me Anymore

My heart stopped.

Literally stopped.

Reason #3: You make the best annoyed faces.

Reason #6: I like it when you argue with me.

Reason #9: You don’t pretend with me.

Reason #12: I care what you think of me. More than I should.

Reason #14: You smell like cinnamon cereal.

Reason #17: I’m pretty sure I’m falling for you.

My knees almost buckled.

I looked up at him—stunned, breath gone, world tilting.

He watched me carefully.

Like every second mattered.

“Jace,” I whispered. “You can’t… write things like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because—because it sounds like—”

“Like what?” he asked quietly.

“Like you…”

Like you feel the same.

Like I’m not imagining all of this.

Like everything is about to change.

He stepped close enough that the air shifted between us.

“Ava,” he murmured. “I like you.”

My heart exploded.

“I’ve been trying to figure out if you felt anything back.”

I swallowed hard. “Jace…”

“You don’t have to say it,” he whispered. “Just… let me know if I’m reading this wrong.”

I opened my mouth.

But before I could answer—

Before I could choose between running or confessing or just spontaneously combusting—

The door flew open.

Two people stumbled in, arguing loudly.

Not just any two people.

Sydney.

And—

Ethan.

Harper’s ex. The one she still cried about sometimes.

And they were holding hands.

Jace stiffened.

My stomach dropped.

Sydney’s eyes widened when she saw us.

“Oh,” she said coldly. “You’re here.”

Great.

Perfect.

Just what we needed.

She crossed her arms. “We need to talk. All of us.”

Jace muttered a curse under his breath.

I suddenly had a very strong urge to climb out a window.

Because whatever this was—

Whatever storm was about to break—

I knew one thing for sure:

Hope was, in fact, the worst emotion in the world.