Vise Versa

The wind had a bite to it that Tuesday morning — not winter-cold, but enough to make the bones feel like they should've stayed under blankets. The kind of air that smells like wet pavement and fallen leaves.

The kind that reminds you you're alive… even when you wish you could forget.

Skie walked slowly to the bus stop, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. She didn't listen to music. The silence in her earbuds felt like a better fit these days. Like lyrics would only lie to her. Songs were for people who believed in happy endings.

The wind picked up, carrying the distant sound of a barking dog and someone's morning playlist — muffled bass thudding through a cracked window.

And then… a voice behind her.

"Cold, huh?"

She turned.

Her mother stood at the front porch, arms crossed, sipping from a chipped mug. Her robe hung open over her nightgown, fuzzy slippers soaked slightly from the dewy grass. Her hair was pulled back in a way that said she hadn't slept much.

"Forgot your lunch," she said, holding out a paper bag.

Skie took it and said in a tone, "Thanks."

Her mom didn't go back inside right away. Instead, she stepped closer. Looked at her daughter for a beat longer than usual.

"I haven't seen you smile in a while," she said softly as she scratched the back of her neck.

Skie blinked. "I'm just tired."

Her mom tilted her head. "Is this a friend-tired, a school-tired, or a heart-tired, kinda thing?"

Skie paused, surprised. "Does it matter?"

"Only if you want to heal it."

There was a pause. Then Skie mumbled face down, "All three."

Her mother reached out and tucked a loose braid behind her ear. "Don't lose people who love you just because you're afraid of how badly it might hurt to keep them."

Skie looked up at her with a sad expression, as she swallowed her pain. "It already hurts."

Her mother gave her a sad, knowing smile. "Then that means they mattered."

Dylan sat at the breakfast table staring at a boiled egg like it might explain the universe to him.

His dad scrolled through the news on his phone. His mom, dressed for work, was speed-packing lunch boxes. His older brother was complaining about college apps again.

And Dylan?

He hadn't spoken a word since he sat down.

His mom slid a cup of warm barley tea in front of him and paused. "You look pale. Did you eat yesterday?"

He nodded too quickly. "Yeah."

His dad glanced up. "You're not staying up too late sketching again, are you? We already talked about this. No more 3 a.m. art binges."

"I'm not," Dylan mumbled.

His mom put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You know you can talk to us, right? About school? Friends? Anything?"

The smell of her rose-scented lotion was suddenly too much. Too soft. Too safe. Dylan blinked hard and gave a quick smile.

"I'm okay." he said as his elder brother looked up at him.

The lie sat between them like an uninvited guest at the table.

Conner's house was quiet. Too quiet.

His dad sat at the kitchen table eating cereal with no milk. Dry crunches between sips of black coffee. The news was playing low in the background — something about local election results and a football scandal.

"You look like crap," his dad said without looking up.

Conner shrugged, pulled orange juice from the fridge, and drank straight from the bottle.

"Still dating that girl from Eastlake?" his dad asked.

"Alyah. Yeah."

"Good. Don't let things distract you this season. You've got tryouts coming. Scouts from real programs."

Conner leaned against the counter. "What if I don't want to play football forever?"

His dad looked up. Blinked. "Then you better start wanting to."

Another long sip of juice. Conner didn't reply.

His dad was the QB of his team back in his time. So when he kids, he hoped that they would carry on the touch. Maybe, the would go pro. His hopes and dreams he pushed on to Conner when he found out he had a little interest in football.

His dad added, more casually now, "You used to have that tight little group. The girl and the… artsy kid."

"Skie and Dylan."

"Yeah. You guys used to be thick as thieves. What happened?"

Conner looked out the window. The yard hadn't been raked. Leaves were scattered like forgotten pieces of a puzzle.

"Time," he said.

His dad grunted. "Time doesn't break friendships. Silence does."

Silence he thought as he stared at his dad.

Conner's Dad is emotionally distant — wanting him to focus mainly on football, and he spoke so casually about silence.

Then he slowly realized that the silence between father and son mirrors his silence with Skie/Dylan.

After School

Skie was reading, but not really.

She stared at the same paragraph in her book for over ten minutes, eyes unfocused, the words turning into shapes without meaning. Across the room, she saw Conner laughing with Alyah again. They weren't even doing anything special — just talking and scribbling in a notebook.

But he looked light. Like none of this was sitting on him the way it was on her.

She hated how that made her feel. How selfish it sounded. But she missed being the reason he laughed like that. Missed the ease.

And just like that, Alyah leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Skie closed the book, too hard, and got up.

Dylan was in the art room alone.

He'd asked Ms. Langford if he could use it after class.

He stared at the sketch he'd drawn — Aaron's face, turned in profile, eyes soft, half-smiling. The kind of look Aaron gave when he was listening, really listening. Dylan had captured it almost too perfectly.

He took the drawing.

Tore it in half.

Then again. And again.

Until it was nothing but shreds on the floor, as he pants rapidly out of frustration and anger.

That night, things cracked open.

Aaron showed up at Dylan's house unannounced.

He was out front, hoodie on, hands in his pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet.

When Dylan opened the door, they both froze. Like neither expected the other to actually be there.

"I need to ask you something," Aaron said.

Dylan stepped outside, closing the door gently behind him. The cold hit fast — autumn air sharp in his lungs.

"What?" he asked in a low voice. 

Aaron shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "Did I do something wrong?"

Dylan blinked. "What?"

"You've been avoiding me. Not texting back. Not showing up to the group section. You don't even look at me anymore."

Dylan's throat tightened.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he whispered.

Aaron stared at him. "Then what is it?"

Dylan looked at the sky instead of him. "It's just… me."

A silence stretched.

Aaron frowned. "You told me to be honest with Ruby. To show up real. Why can't you do the same?"

That broke something.

Dylan's voice shook. "Because if I show up real, I'll ruin everything."

Aaron stepped forward. "Try me."

Dylan didn't say it. Couldn't.

He waited for minutes but Dylan never said anything but stood there in silence. 

Tears about to roll out but he held them in so tight.

He wasn't ready to ruin this friendship with his selfish desire for a boy who he knew was to straight to ever fall for someone like him. 

He never said anything and wasn't going to now.

And his eyes said it all.

Aaron's scoffed. Then, softly said: "You wouldn't tell me, would you?"

He didn't say anything as Aaron angrily walked away in frustration.

Dylan wanted to hold him back but all he could do was braek down in that spot and cried.

He cried so hard.

So broken.

 So alone. Standing outside in the cold with no one to understand the broken heart. 

His broken heart.

Later that night — Conner's Room

Earlier that day, Alyah had texted him but he never responded.

He finally replied to Alyah's message with something short. Distant.

Then opened a group chat that hadn't been used in months.

And texted.

CONNER:

We were better when we were us. I miss it. You guys. Everything. I know I messed up. I know it might be too late. But if either of you want to talk… I'm here.

He hit send.

Didn't expect a reply.

But two minutes later:

DYLAN:

Same.

Then, a little after:

SKIE:

Let's try again. Just not the way we were. Let's be honest this time.

For the first time in weeks, the world didn't feel so cold.