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„Things We Are Afraid Of”

(Toby’s POV)

I couldn’t stop watching him. In the crowded school hallways, my eyes would find Travis without even trying—like he was somehow more in focus than everything else around him. The way he’d shift his backpack higher on his shoulder when it slipped. The careful way he’d check his watch between classes. The slight hesitation before he’d enter a room, as if preparing himself. For weeks now, I’d been trying to get closer, and for weeks, he’d been finding new ways to step back, each excuse more reasonable than the last. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the distance between us wasn’t what he truly wanted either.

“Sorry, I have to help my grandmother today,” he’d said last Tuesday, eyes sliding away from mine.

“Can’t. Work called me in,” he’d explained on Thursday, already turning toward the exit.

“Need to get home,” he’d murmured yesterday, checking his watch with an urgency that seemed both real and convenient.

I was beginning to collect these excuses like stones in my pocket—small, hard things I turned over in my palm when I was alone. Still, I kept noticing things. The phone calls he’d take in the hallway, speaking too quietly for anyone to hear. The careful way he packed his lunch, never wasting anything. How tired he looked sometimes, like he’d been awake all night. There was something happening in his life that I couldn’t see, something he wouldn’t let me see... and somehow, that only made me want to know him more.

Today, I caught him by his locker after calculus, moving quickly so he couldn’t slip away. “Hey,” I said, leaning against the metal door next to his, “do you want to maybe study for that history test? I could come over, or you could—“

“I can’t tonight,” he said immediately, not even looking up as he exchanged books. “My grandmother needs her medication changed and my mom’s working late.”

I stayed quiet, watching his hands—the way they paused briefly before continuing their task. It wasn’t a lie, I could tell; there was too much tired truth in his voice. But it was also not the whole reason.

“What about tomorrow?” I pressed, knowing I was pushing but unable to stop myself. 

Travis glanced up then, finally meeting my eyes. Something flickered across his face—a brief, unguarded moment I couldn’t quite read. Regret? Longing? Whatever it was, it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“Look, Toby... you’re a good friend,” he said softly, shutting his locker with a gentle click. “I’m sorry I’m not always the same for you.”

Friend. The word landed like a stone dropped from a height—simple, heavy, final. A year ago, I would have treasured it; now, it felt like a door closing. I nodded, swallowing against the sudden tightness in my throat. “It’s fine,” I lied, shifting my backpack. “I get it.”

But I didn’t get it. Not really. I understood that his home situation was complicated; I’d pieced together enough to know that. His grandmother was sick. His mother worked long hours. His father was... somewhere. Present but not always available. I knew all this, and still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else keeping him away from me—from everyone.

And then there was Brett.

A name I’d seen scribbled in the margins of Travis’s notebook, always carefully crossed out afterward. A name I’d caught him whispering once into a phone in an empty classroom, his voice soft in a way I’d never heard it. Brett. Who was he? What did he mean to Travis? The questions circled my mind like hungry birds, swooping down occasionally to peck at my thoughts.

I walked home alone that afternoon, Travis’s words still echoing. “You’re a good friend.” Friend. The autumn air was sharp with the smell of dying leaves, but I barely noticed, too busy dissecting those three syllables, trying to find something in them I might have missed. Some hint that maybe he meant something else, something more.

My house was silent when I arrived, as it always was. My parents wouldn’t be home for hours. I dropped my backpack in the hallway and headed straight for my room, not bothering with a snack. Laying on my bed, I stared at the ceiling, thinking about Travis’s careful distance, the way he guarded himself. What was he protecting? Or who was he protecting himself from?

And what did Brett have to do with any of it?

Sleep came for me somewhere in that circular thinking, dragging me under without warning. I dreamed of a forest—tall pines stretching up toward a slice of sky I could barely see. Ahead of me on a narrow dirt path walked Travis, his back straight, his pace steady. I tried to call his name, but no sound came out; my voice trapped somewhere behind my ribs. I tried to run, to catch up with him, but the distance between us never changed. Then he turned, just slightly, looking over his shoulder—not at me, but at something beside the path.

I followed his gaze and saw it there on the ground: a name scratched into the dirt. Brett. The letters were smudged, as if someone had tried to erase them with their palm, but they remained visible, stubborn. When I looked up again, Travis was gone—disappeared between the trees, leaving me alone with that half-erased name.

I woke with a start, my heart beating too fast, my shirt damp with sweat. The room was dark; I’d slept longer than I meant to. Rolling onto my side, I grabbed my phone from the bedside table. No messages. No missed calls. Just the time: 9:43 PM.

Outside my window, the neighbor’s pine tree swayed gently in the night breeze. Its shadowy branches reminded me of the forest in my dream, and suddenly I was thinking of Travis again. Of the name I’d seen. Brett. It wasn’t just a random word my subconscious had invented; it was real. Something—someone—from Travis’s life that he kept writing down and crossing out, as if he couldn’t decide whether to remember or forget.

Had Brett been Travis’s boyfriend? The thought hit me with unexpected force, a sharp pain beneath my ribs. I imagined them together—Travis and this faceless Brett—holding hands, laughing at private jokes, sharing the kind of closeness Travis never allowed with me. The images made my stomach twist. I hated these visions more than I could explain, even to myself.

But I couldn’t stop them from coming, couldn’t stop wondering. In the darkness of my bedroom, I finally admitted the truth I’d been dancing around for months: I wanted Travis to look at me the way I looked at him. I wanted to be more than his friend. And I was terrified that Brett—whoever he was—had already claimed the place I longed to occupy.

I rolled over, burying my face in my pillow, willing sleep to come back and take these thoughts away. But sleep stayed distant, and in the hollow silence of my room, all I could hear was Travis’s voice: “You’re a good friend.” And all I could think was: I don’t want to be your friend. I want to be something else entirely.