Vise Versa

Dylan's Journal Entry / Art Sketches

Dylan sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, the sketchbook open in front of him like a wound he couldn't close.

The pages were smudged, water-damaged from the night before — tears, maybe. Rain. Both.

He held his pencil like it might draw itself, but his fingers trembled with hesitation.

He tried to sketch Aaron again. Not from memory this time — from feeling. But all that came out were broken shapes. Eyes without irises.

A mouth that didn't quite smile. A silhouette that looked like it wanted to run.

The silence in the room was loud.

He flipped to a blank page and wrote:

> "It's not that you hurt me.

It's that I let myself believe you couldn't."<

He stared at the words. Let them sit. Then slowly tore the page out and crumpled it.

His phone buzzed once.

He didn't check it.

Instead, he scrolled through old photos of the three of them. The beach trip. The sleepovers. The dumb Halloween costumes. His chest ached with a longing so deep it scraped the bone.

He opened a new message to Aaron.

Typed: DYLAN: I miss us.

Deleted it.

Typed again: DYLAN: You looked at me like I was a stranger.

Deleted that too.

He turned off his phone. Laid back on the floor, eyes burning out of tears.

Silence, again. And this time, he didn't fight it.

---

Aaron's POV

Aaron sat alone on the bleachers, the track stretching out before him in lines he used to run with purpose. Now they just felt like boundaries.

The wind was cool against his skin, but he was sweating. Inside, he was boiling.

He held his phone in his hands, thumb hovering over Dylan's name in his contacts.

Dylan.

That name used to taste like summer and sketchbooks. Now it just sat in his throat like something he couldn't swallow.

He remembered the night at the diner. The way Dylan looked at him — like he was expecting Aaron to say something important. Something real.

But Aaron had stayed still. Frozen.

He replayed moments — brushing shoulders in the hallway, and how Dylan nervously smiled when their eyes met when they sat alone in the art room.

He took a deep breath. Typed:

AARON: What if I want to apologise in person about the other day?

His hand shook as he hit send. A quiet wind passed by, but everything else felt still. Too still.

He put his head in his hands and stayed there.

---

Skie and Mrs. Adams

Skie walked up the familiar porch again. She knocked twice.

Mrs. Adams opened the door with a warm, worn smile. "You came back."

Skie nodded, her voice barely there. "I don't know where else to go."

Inside, the house smelled like cloves and lemon polish. One of the cats meowed and rubbed against her leg.

Mrs. Adams handed her a dusty photo album. "This was from when I was your age."

Skie opened it slowly. Black and white photos of teenagers — laughing, arms around each other. One page had a photo torn in half.

"That girl?" Mrs. Adams said softly, "She was my best friend. Until she wasn't. A boy got in the way. Pride got in the way."

Skie looked up. "Did you ever talk again?"

"No. And I've regretted it every day."

Silence filled the room again, heavy but gentle.

Mrs. Adams placed a warm banana muffin in Skie's hand. "Sometimes, darling, someone has to be the first to break the silence. Even if your heart is still aching. It's speak or forever be silent"

Skie bit her lip and nodded.

She didn't want their story to end in regret.

Not like that.

---

Conner's Flashback

Conner sat on his bedroom floor, a shoebox in his lap. Dust on his fingertips.

Inside were pieces of their childhood: a frayed friendship bracelet Skie made in sixth grade. A concert ticket Brian had gifted him, as he forcefully dragged Dylan, as they snuck out to see a band they weren't even allowed to listen to. A CD labeled: "Road Trip Mix — No Skipping It, Idiot."

He slid it into the old player. The music crackled to life — loud, ridiculous, full of memories.

Then came the voicemail. He didn't even realize he had saved it.

> "Hey Conner! It's Dylan. I found your dumb water bottle under the bleachers. Again. You owe me one of those giant cookies. Anyway, you better show up to movie night or I'll come drag your sorry butt out of your house."<

Laughter.

That dumb, beautiful laugh.

Conner closed his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek. It hit the bracelet.

He whispered to the empty room, "We were good once."

His phone lit up.

A message.

From Skie.

SKIE: I think I want to talk.

He stared at it. Then typed back.

CONNER: Me too.

For the first time in days, he smiled. Just a little.

And maybe — just maybe — that was enough to lit the flames again.