Noah
Noah woke up on the couch.
Everything hurt. His neck. His back. His shoulders. His chest—not his heart, his actual ribs, like someone had been pressing down on them all night.
He tried to sit up. The room tilted. He stayed down.
Stared at the ceiling. There was a water stain in the corner. Had that always been there?
He couldn't remember.
What day is it?
Wednesday? Thursday?
Then it came. Not slow. Fast. Like a fist to the stomach.
Atlas. The fight. The screaming. The door closing.
"Fuck." The word scraped out of his throat. Raw. "It's done."
He said it again. "It's fucking done."
He lay there. One shoe still on. His shirt twisted around his torso. He looked down at himself.
How did I get here?
He sat up. Slower this time. The room spun but stayed still.
His phone was on the floor. Screen down. He reached for it. His hand shook.
Turned it over.
11:43 AM.
Messages. Clara. Elias.
you okay?
you coming in?
He typed back. One hand. The other pressed against his chest because it still felt hollow.
not today
Clara replied immediately.
are you okay?
Noah stared at the words. His thumb hovered. Then typed: i will be
Set the phone down. Looked around.
The apartment was a mess. Wet clothes on the bathroom floor. Coffee mug on the counter. Everything wrong.
He stood. His legs were unsteady. Walked to the bathroom.
Turned on the light. Looked in the mirror.
His face was swollen. Eyes red. Puffy. Like he'd been stung by something. Dark circles underneath. His hair stuck up on one side.
"Jesus."
He touched his face. The skin was hot. Tender.
He looked at himself. Tried to meet his own eyes.
Couldn't.
"This isn't me," he said. His voice came out flat. Strange.
He turned on the faucet. Cold water. Splashed his face. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five.
Looked up. Water dripping from his chin.
Still didn't recognize himself.
He walked back to the living room. Saw the wet clothes in the bathroom doorway. His jeans. His shirt. From last night. From the shower.
"Fuck," he said again.
His phone buzzed. He looked.
Marcus.
He typed back: call you later
Marcus replied: you good?
Noah stared at the question.
i will be
He set the phone down. Went to the kitchen. Opened the cabinet.
Two mugs. His navy one with the chip on the handle. And Atlas's. The black one. Simple. Clean.
Noah stared at them.
Throw it out. Just throw it out.
His hand reached for Atlas's mug. Fingers touched the handle. Cold ceramic.
He couldn't close his hand.
He stood there. Arm extended. Hand open.
Move. Just move.
He grabbed his own mug instead. Slammed the cabinet shut. The sound echoed.
Made coffee. French press. His hands were shaking so the water spilled. Burned his wrist. He didn't wipe it off. Watched the red mark bloom on his skin.
Waited for it to steep. The kitchen was too quiet. He could hear everything. The refrigerator. The clock. Cars outside. His own breathing. Each inhale too loud.
The coffee finished. He poured it. Lifted the mug to his mouth.
Tasted nothing. Just heat.
He set it down.
Looked around the apartment. Wet clothes. Dishes in the sink. Cushions on the floor. Everything out of place.
Clean it. Just clean it. Do something.
He started with the bathroom. Picked up the wet clothes. They were heavy. Cold. He didn't look at them. Threw them in the hamper.
Then the dishes. Soap. Hot water. He scrubbed each one. His hands were red. Raw. He kept going. Harder. Until the skin burned.
Then the living room. Put the cushions back. Straightened the coffee table. Vacuumed. The noise filled everything. Blocked out the quiet. Blocked out his thoughts.
He cleaned the windows. The counters. The stove. The refrigerator. Every corner. Every surface. Got on his hands and knees for the baseboards. His back hurt. His shoulders burned. He didn't stop.
He looked at his phone.
1:14 PM.
How—when did—
He kept going.
Reorganized the bookshelf. Folded the blankets. Wiped down the light switches. Scrubbed the bathroom floor. His knees ached. His hands cramped. He pushed harder.
Looked at his phone again.
4:36 PM.
He sat on the floor. Stared at the time.
Three hours. Where did three hours go?
His hands were shaking. Red. There were marks on his palms. Deep. From scrubbing. From the brush. Some of them were bleeding.
He looked at them. Turned them over. Blood on his fingertips too. From where his nails had dug in.
His phone buzzed. Marcus.
me and jared are coming over
Noah typed: you don't have to
Marcus: too late. already on the way
Noah set the phone down. Looked around. The apartment was clean. Perfect. Everything in its place. Like a hotel room. Like nobody lived here.
He stood. His knees cracked. He went to the bedroom. Stopped at the door.
His hand on the frame.
Go in. Just go in.
He couldn't.
Atlas's cologne. Still in the air. Faint but there. Cedar and bergamot and something else he could never name.
The bed. Unmade. Atlas's side. The pillow still had the indent where his head had been. The sheets were pulled back. Like he'd just gotten up. Like he was coming back.
Noah's legs went weak. He slid down the doorframe. Sat on the floor. His back against the wood.
His vision blurred.
Don't.
But it came anyway.
Atlas laughing in that room. Atlas pulling him into bed. Atlas's hands on his waist. Sliding under his shirt. Warm. Atlas's mouth on his neck. His collarbone.
The way Atlas looked at him in the mornings. Hair messy. Eyes soft. Reaching for Noah without saying anything. Just pulling him close.
I miss—
"No." Noah's voice came out sharp. "No. Stop."
Thank god it's over.
But his chest ached.
It's better this way. It had to end.
But he could still smell Atlas's cologne.
He was cruel. He was cold. He ignored you.
But he remembered Atlas laughing at his jokes.
"Stop." His voice cracked.
But the memories kept coming. Faster.
Atlas getting dressed. Atlas looking at himself in the mirror. Atlas turning to Noah and asking if he looked okay. Noah saying yes. Always yes.
Atlas—
Noah's chest went tight. He couldn't breathe. His hands went to his ribs. Pressed.
Breathe. Just breathe.
He couldn't.
His vision went dark at the edges. His ears rang.
Get out. Move. Don't stay here.
Away from the door. He got to the stairs. Pulled himself down. One step at a time.
Got to the living room. Collapsed on the couch.
Gasped for air. His chest heaved. Once. Twice. Three times.
Slowly, his breathing evened out.
He lay there. Stared at the ceiling.
It's over. Finally.
His hands were cold. He pressed them between his knees.
I don't have to feel like that anymore. Like I'm not enough. Like I'm invisible.
But his chest still ached.
Stop thinking about him.
Stood up. Put on his shoes. His jacket. Pulled the hood up.
Walked outside.
The air was cold. Clean. Sharp. He took a breath. It hurt going down.
Good. It's over. I can breathe again.
But he couldn't. Not really.
He walked to the park. The one he'd been watching from his window for weeks. Always meaning to go. Never going.
Everything looks different from far away.
He walked the path. Slow. Looking at everything. Trees. Benches. People walking dogs. A kid on a bike. A couple holding hands. The girl laughing at something the guy said.
But his throat went tight.
He found a bench under a tree. Sat down. Leaned his head back.
The sky was gray. Heavy. It looked like it might rain.
He put in his earbuds. Scrolled through his playlist. Stopped on Linkin Park.
"Somewhere I Belong."
Hit play.
Closed his eyes.
The music started. Slow. Then building.
"I wanna heal, I wanna feel / What I thought was never real"
He heard himself singing. Quiet at first.
"I wanna let go of the pain I've felt so long"
Then louder.
"Erase all the pain till it's gone"
Someone walked past. Looked at him.
Noah opened his eyes. Stopped singing.
Fuck.
He sat there. Listening. Not singing anymore. Just letting the music fill his head.
But his eyes burned.
The song ended. Another started. He didn't hear it.
He stood up. Walked.
I'm free now. I can do whatever I want.
But he didn't want to do anything.
He found a cafe. Went inside. Ordered. Coffee. A sandwich.
Sat down. The sandwich came. He looked at it. Picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up again. Took a bite. Couldn't swallow. Put it down.
Drank the coffee. Black. Bitter. It burned his tongue.
Noah set the mug down. Hard. Coffee splashed over the rim.
Got up. Paid. Left.
Walked to the grocery store. Went inside. The lights were too bright. Everything too loud.
He walked the aisles. Grabbed things. Chips. Beer. Chocolate. Candy. Ice cream. More chips. Soda. Cookies.
Things he didn't need. Didn't want. Just grabbed them. Filled the basket.
Atlas hated junk food.
"Good. I can eat whatever I want now."
But his stomach turned.
At the register, the bags cut into his hands. Plastic digging into his palms. He didn't switch them. Just carried them. Felt the pain.
Back at the apartment, he set everything on the counter. Looked at his hands.
Red lines. Deep. Some breaking the skin.
What else am I not feeling?
A knock on the door.
Noah opened it.
Marcus and Jared stood there. Marcus had a duffel bag. Jared had a backpack and two pizza boxes.
Marcus looked at Noah. His eyes scanned his face. Slower this time. Taking everything in.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Marcus stepped inside. Dropped the duffel. Pulled Noah into a hug.
Noah stood there. Arms at his sides. Then slowly brought them up. Held on.
Atlas hugged me like this. After—
He let go. Stepped back.
Jared came in. Shut the door. Looked at Noah.
"You look like shit, man."
Noah's mouth twitched. "Thanks."
Jared pulled his hood up over his head. Grinned. "We match now."
Noah pulled his hood down. Tried to smile. His mouth moved. Corners pulled up. His cheeks hurt.
They went to the living room. Jared sat on the couch. Noah sat next to him. Marcus sat across from them. On the chair.
They looked at each other.
Nobody spoke.
Jared leaned over. Hugged Noah from the side. Didn't say anything. Just held on.
Marcus got up. Came over. Sat on Noah's other side.
They both put their arms around him.
"Guys—" Noah's voice came out wrong. Thick.
"Shut up," Jared said. Quiet.
They sat like that. Thirty seconds. Forty. A minute.
Noah felt his eyes burn. He blinked hard.
It's over. Finally over.
But his chest ached.
Then Marcus pulled back. Jared did too.
Noah wiped his face. Fast. Before they could see.
Marcus saw anyway. Looked away. Stared at the wall.
Noah stood. Went to the other chair. Across from them.
"You eat today?" Marcus asked. His voice was careful.
Noah looked at the floor. "I worked."
"That's not an answer," Jared said.
"So you didn't eat," Marcus said.
"I'll order food," Jared said. Already pulling out his phone. "Pizza? Burgers? Both?"
"Both," Marcus said.
They ordered. Marcus did most of the talking. Jared added things. Extra fries. Onion rings. Wings.
Noah sat there. Silent.
The order went through. Jared set his phone down.
Silence.
Marcus leaned forward. "So what—" He stopped. Started again. "What happened?"
Noah looked at the floor. The carpet. There was a stain.
He said nothing.
Marcus and Jared waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
"It's over," Noah finally said. His voice came out flat.
But it didn't feel like relief.
"Yeah, we got that," Jared said. His voice was careful. "But like—how'd you—" He stopped.
"Everything was—" Noah stopped. Started over. "I wasn't—" His voice went rough. "I was never really there. In his life."
And he was never in mine.
"Did he cheat?" Jared asked. Blunt.
Noah's whole body went cold. His hands went numb.
Did he?
"I don't know."
Marcus leaned back. "If it hurts this much—" He stopped. "Maybe it ending is—" He stopped again. "I don't know, man."
Noah nodded.
It's better this way. It had to end.
But his throat went tight.
The doorbell rang.
Jared got up. Got the food. Brought it back.
They kept eating. Jared told more stories. Marcus talked about his classes.
Noah listened. Responded sometimes.
His phone buzzed.
His mom.
are you okay honey? you didn't go to work
call me when you can
Noah typed back: im fine. will call later
Set the phone down.
At least I don't have to lie to her about him anymore.
Marcus was watching him.
"You good?" Marcus asked.
"Yeah."
I am. I'm fine. It's over.
But he wasn't.
They moved to the TV. Jared set up the PlayStation. They played.
Marcus and Jared kept making jokes. Kept trying to make Noah laugh.
It worked. Sometimes.
Around midnight, Jared yawned. "I'm dead."
"Guest room?" Marcus asked Noah.
"Yeah. First door on the left."
They got up. Marcus grabbed the duffel. Jared grabbed his backpack.
"You gonna be okay?" Marcus asked.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
Marcus nodded. "Night."
"Night."
They went to the guest room.
Noah sat on the couch. Heard them moving around. Heard the door close.
Silence.
He looked at the stairs. His bedroom was up there. At the end of the hall.
Go up. Just go sleep in your own bed.
He stood. Walked to the stairs. Put his foot on the first step.
Stopped.
Atlas's cologne. The bed. The pillow. His side.
I miss—
"No." His voice came out sharp.
But his chest went tight.
I don't have to deal with his coldness anymore. His silence. The way he shut me out.
But he remembered Atlas's laugh.
The way he ignored me.
But he remembered Atlas pulling him close.
"Stop."
He turned around. Went back to the couch. Lay down. Pulled the blanket over himself.
Stared at the ceiling.
"It's finally over," he whispered.
But his eyes burned.
But he felt empty.
It's better this way.
But his chest ached.
He closed his eyes.
I don't miss him.
I don't need him.
But the silence was too loud without him.
It's over. Finally over.
But it didn't feel like an ending.
It felt like something had been ripped out of him.
And he didn't know how to fill the space it left.
He lay there. Eyes closed. Body tense.
Sleep came eventually.
But brought no peace.
Just dreams of Atlas.
And waking up would only mean another day of this.
Another day of telling himself he was fine.
Another day of not believing it.