Chapter 3: The Art of Disappearing
Ethan wasn't sure which was worse.
Hearing Riley's voice again.
Or the fact that it didn't make him feel anything.
He closed his bedroom door behind him, leaning against it for a second, fingers pressing into the smooth wood. His heart wasn't racing. His hands weren't shaking. Two years ago, just the sight of her would have undone him. Now?
Now, he just felt… nothing.
Or at least, that's what he told himself.
The room was dimly lit, warm golden light spilling from the bedside lamp. It was the only space in the house he had made his own—dark wood floors, navy blue walls, shelves filled with books and scattered photographs that he never looked at anymore. His bed was neatly made, but his desk was a mess—sketchbooks piled on top of one another, charcoal pencils scattered across the surface.
Sketchbooks he hadn't opened in weeks.
Ethan used to draw everything. The city skyline, the way the light hit the windows in the afternoon, Ava's messy curls when she was lost in a book. Riley. Always Riley.
Not anymore.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, trying to push the tension out of his body.
"I should have been there."
Her words still echoed in his head, clawing at something buried deep inside him.
And he hated that it almost made a difference.
Because the thing was—**she should have been there.**
She should have knocked on his door when the news broke. Should have held his hand at the funeral when everyone else kept their distance. Should have sat on the porch with him that night, the way she used to, staring at the sky and saying nothing because she knew he didn't need words.
But she didn't.
She left him alone.
And Ethan had learned to live with loneliness.
He crossed the room, sinking onto the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees.
A soft knock at the door.
Ava.
He didn't have to say anything—she pushed it open without waiting for permission, stepping inside. She wore one of his old hoodies, the sleeves swallowing her small hands, her expression unreadable.
Ethan sighed. "If you're here to talk about Riley, don't."
Ava didn't sit, didn't move closer. She just stood there, staring at him.
"She was crying when she left."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "Not my problem."
Ava tilted her head. "No? Because it kind of seems like you wish it was."
"Ava."
She ignored the warning in his tone. "She messed up, okay? She knows that. But maybe she's trying now."
He let out a bitter laugh. "Two years too late."
Ava frowned, crossing her arms. "And what if it wasn't?"
That made him pause.
She shifted on her feet, studying him carefully. "I know you, Ethan. You think you don't care anymore, but you do. And if you keep pretending you don't, you're just gonna end up more miserable than you already are."
He stared at her.
She wasn't wrong.
But she wasn't right, either.
Because the thing was—he had spent too much time caring.
Caring that Riley had chosen popularity over their friendship. Caring that she had let him disappear from her life without a second thought. Caring that she hadn't even shown up when his entire world collapsed.
Caring had ruined him.
So, no. He wasn't going to start now.
He pushed off the bed, walking to his desk, flipping open a sketchbook as if the conversation was over.
Ava sighed, watching him for a long moment. Then, softly:
"She still calls me, you know."
Ethan's fingers tightened around his pencil.
"She asks about you."
He didn't answer.
Ava lingered for a second longer, then turned and walked out, leaving him alone with the silence.
Leaving him alone with the truth.
Because no matter how much he told himself otherwise…
He wasn't sure he knew how to stop caring.