Chapter 2 The First Night

The door clicked shut behind Beck, and the silence in the apartment became a living thing.

Leo was still under the kitchen table, his stuffed wolf pressed to his chest. My phone continued playing the galaxy time-lapse on the floor between us. I hadn't moved. I couldn't. Beck's words echoed in my skull: When I find out who it is, they'd better hope I never do.

I was sitting in his living room. Babysitting his brother. Drowning in a secret that would make him hate me forever.

And I had no idea how I was going to survive the next six hours.

My hands were sweating. I wiped them on my jeans and forced myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The same technique I used when Hailey had a meltdown and I was the only one home.

Focus on Leo. That's why you're here. Not Beck. Leo.

I turned my attention back to the boy under the table. He hadn't moved, but his eyes were still fixed on the swirling galaxy on my screen. That was something. Hailey used to do the same thing—watch videos on loop for hours before she trusted me to come close.

I pulled out a piece of paper from my bag and a set of colored pencils. Not words. Just colors. I started drawing a small flower, pressing lightly so the sound wouldn't scare him.

"The purple one is my favorite," I said softly, not expecting an answer. "My sister likes blue. She says blue is the color of quiet."

Leo's fingers twitched.

I kept drawing. Another flower. A tree. A bird.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. My back ached from sitting on the hard floor, but I didn't move. This was a test. Not just for Leo—for me. To see if I could actually do this. To see if I deserved to be here, after what I'd done.

Then Leo's hand emerged from under the table.

He reached for the blue pencil.

I held my breath as he pulled it toward himself and began to draw on the edge of my paper. His lines were shaky, uncertain. But he was drawing.

A shape. A circle. Two smaller circles inside it.

Eyes. He was drawing eyes.

I looked at him. He wasn't looking at me—he was looking at the page. But his shoulders had relaxed, just slightly.

I whispered, "That's really good, Leo."

He didn't speak. But he didn't stop drawing either.

And for the first time since the post went viral, I felt something other than guilt. I felt useful.

At 10 PM, the front door opened.

Beck walked in, sweaty and exhausted, his practice bag slung over one shoulder. He stopped in the doorway when he saw us.

Leo was still under the table—but now he was surrounded by a dozen drawings. Flowers, stars, a wolf that looked suspiciously like his stuffed animal. And I was lying on my stomach, flat on the dirty floor, drawing a rocket ship while Leo watched.

Beck didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he dropped his bag and crouched down to look at the drawings.

"He did these?" Beck's voice was rough.

I nodded, not moving from the floor. "The blue ones. I did the rest."

Beck picked up a drawing of a wolf. Leo's wolf. The lines were uneven, but the emotion was unmistakable. It was the first time Leo had drawn anything in months. Beck's mother had told me that during the interview—he used to draw all the time, but after his father left, he stopped.

Beck looked at me. Really looked at me, like he was seeing me for the first time.

"How did you do that?" he asked quietly.

"I didn't do anything," I said, sitting up slowly. "I just sat with him. Sometimes that's all it takes."

Beck's jaw tightened. He looked at Leo, then back at me. Something shifted in his expression—not warmth, exactly. But the hostility was gone. Replaced by something rawer.

"My mom can't pay you until Friday," he said. "I know we agreed on fifteen an hour, but—"

"I don't care about the money," I interrupted.

He frowned. "Everyone cares about money."

"I don't." I stood up, brushing off my jeans. "I have a sister who doesn't speak. I know what it's like to have no one who understands. So let me help. Please."

Beck stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then he looked away.

"Fine," he said. "But don't expect me to thank you."

"I don't."

He nodded toward the door. "I'll walk you to the bus stop. It's late."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm not letting you walk alone at night in this neighborhood." His voice left no room for argument. "Grab your stuff."

The bus stop was two blocks away, under a flickering streetlight. Beck walked beside me, his hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The silence between us was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just… full. Of things neither of us knew how to say.

"You're not what I expected," he said finally.

I glanced at him. "What did you expect?"

"Someone who'd look at Leo like he was a science experiment." He kicked a pebble. "You didn't. You just… sat with him."

"Because that's what he needed."

Beck stopped walking. I stopped too, turning to face him. The streetlight buzzed overhead, casting strange shadows across his face.

"Why are you really here?" he asked. "No one does something for nothing."

The question hit me like a punch to the chest. Because I knew the real answer. I'm here because I ruined your life and I'm trying to fix it without you ever finding out.

But I couldn't say that. So I said something else. Something true, but not the whole truth.

"Because I know what it's like to be invisible," I said quietly. "And I know what it's like to have someone see you anyway. I wanted to be that person for Leo."

Beck's expression flickered. For one second—one impossible second—his eyes dropped to my lips.

Then he looked away.

"You're weird," he said, but there was no venom in it.

"I know."

The bus rumbled around the corner, headlights cutting through the dark. Beck stepped back.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.

I nodded. "Same time."

I climbed onto the bus and found a seat by the window. As the bus pulled away, I looked back.

Beck was still standing at the stop, watching me go.

My phone buzzed. A new message from an unknown number.

"Nice night for a walk. You and Beck looked cozy. See you tomorrow, admin."

My blood turned to ice.

Someone had been watching.

I stared at the message, my heart slamming against my ribs. The bus lurched forward, and I gripped the seat in front of me to keep from falling.

Unknown number. No name. No profile picture.

I typed back: Who is this?

The response came in three seconds.

"You know who. And I know what you did. The question is—what are you going to do about it?"

Another buzz.

"Don't bother deleting the page. I already took screenshots of everything. Every post. Every approval. Every mistake."

My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.

"Here's the deal: you do what I say, when I say it. Or everyone finds out that the girl who runs the confession page is the same fat loser who's been playing babysitter for the boy she destroyed."

A final message.

"See you at school, Ivy."

I looked up, frantically scanning the bus. Late-night riders—an old woman sleeping, a man with headphones, a teenager in a hoodie in the back.

The teenager in the hoodie lifted their head.

And smiled.