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Chapter 59: The Question That Waited
Sam's Perspective
For a while, it was like nothing had changed.
Sam sat across from Jon, the tension between them quiet but not unbearable. They talked about trivial things—homework, a weird substitute teacher in third period, a funny video Terry had shown Jon during math. The words came easy. Too easy. Like muscle memory.
Sam found herself laughing once or twice, despite the ache inside her. Jon had that effect—he made life feel less sharp.
The food on her tray wasn't quite as tasteless anymore, and for the first time in days, chewing didn't feel like a task.
She didn't know how much time passed. Minutes? More? All she knew was that she was here, with him. And for a flickering moment, that was enough.
But then Jon shifted.
There was a small pause—barely perceptible—but she felt it. Like the moment before a storm breaks the sky.
And then, he asked it.
"So," Jon said, carefully, not unkindly. "How are things going… since the break?"
Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
Silence pressed against her from all sides.
Her throat went dry. Her heart thudded louder than the chatter in the cafeteria. She looked down at her tray, hoping some profound answer would rise from her mashed potatoes.
Nothing did.
What should she say?
Lie?
Say she was fine?
Tell him the break gave her clarity, peace, whatever nonsense people say in movies?
Or…
Should she tell him the truth?
That she'd been miserable. That she barely slept the first night they were apart. That she'd started crying while brushing her teeth for no reason. That music didn't sound the same and food didn't taste right and the only time she felt remotely like herself was the moment he sat down at her table again.
But telling the truth felt like handing him a dagger and turning her back to him.
What if he didn't want to come back?
What if she opened up and he told her it was too late?
Could she survive hearing that?
Her chest tightened. Her hands felt clammy.
She didn't say a word.
Jon waited, his expression unreadable but patient.
And then he smiled. Not cruelly. Not sadly. Just… softly. Like someone recognizing an answer without hearing it.
"I guess we're still not ready to talk," he said, his voice low.
Her eyes shot up, panic flickering behind them.
"I'm sorry," he added. "You asked for space, and I still came here and pushed this lunch on you. That's on me."
He stood up, grabbing his tray. He wasn't angry. He wasn't cold. But he was leaving.
Sam's mouth opened, but no words came out.
Just silence.
Jon turned, stepping away from the table.
And she just watched him go.
Sam sat there frozen for a while.
She stared at her lunch like it had personally betrayed her. The hum of the cafeteria around her faded into a background blur—just noise. Static.
The silence Jon left behind filled her chest like water.
Cold and rising.
And then the voice came back.
The same voice that had haunted her all this time.
Coward. You let him walk away. Again.
Sam clenched her fists on the table. Her nails dug into her palms, grounding her. Her breath grew uneven as the old fears bubbled up again—fear of vulnerability, of being hurt, of loss. But underneath all that?
Rage.
Not at Jon. Never at him.
At herself.
At this version of her that cowered behind logic and excuses. That ran when things got hard. That shut down when she should have reached out. That asked for space when what she really wanted was him.
Enough.
Sam stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing a few looks. She didn't care. She spotted Jon from across the cafeteria—he was putting his tray away, walking calmly toward the washroom like nothing had happened. Like he wasn't just ripped out of her world for the second time.
Her breath shook with every step. But she didn't hesitate.
This time, she didn't walk.
She stormed.
The boys' bathroom door swung open violently. Jon had just stepped inside, surprised to hear the slam behind him.
He turned. "Sam?"
But before he could say another word, she was in front of him.
Sam grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in.
Their lips met—desperate, raw, unfiltered.
She didn't speak. She couldn't. There were no words big enough to explain what was boiling inside her. Guilt. Regret. Longing. Fear. Love. A cocktail of emotion too messy for language.
So she poured all of it into the kiss.
It wasn't delicate. It wasn't practiced. It was a tidal wave crashing into the shore—all of her emotions, all in a single act.
Jon's eyes widened in surprise at first, but then his hands moved instinctively to her waist. The shock gave way to something else—something warm and steady. His lips moved against hers, meeting her intensity.
He kissed her back.
The world disappeared.
All that was left was this moment. This closeness. This second chance she wasn't going to let slip through her fingers again.