Free Fall

: Chapter 4 : Isn't that kind of like velocity?

Chapter Four: Isn't that kind of like velocity?

"We're in a class that has everything to do with nature."

Content warning: queer questioning, emotional tension, internalized anxiety, parental dynamics.

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The sound of my alarm drags me out of a dream I can't remember. Most days, I spring up fast enough to avoid anyone barging in to check I'm still breathing, but not this time. The buzz drones on until I finally slap the snooze button and sink into the silence.

I haul myself to the shower, letting the heat soak the thoughts from my head, and dry off in the fogged mirror. It's a routine I know like muscle memory, but something feels off. I can't tell what. I slip on my Ember River sweater vest and fidget with the knot in my tie until it sits just right. That's when my phone pings.

A new selfie from Christian.

He's grinning in a New England Revolution jersey, a black fedora tilted just enough to be ironic, blue sunglasses reflecting the sky. There's this cocky little smile tucked into the corner of his mouth that radiates a kind of effortless confidence I can't name without sounding like I'm admiring him too much.

I stare longer than I mean to.

Media always makes queerness a neon sign—loud, bright, unmistakable. But Christian is quieter than that. Still, I feel it in him. Or maybe I feel it in myself.

In the kitchen, I hear my parents talking about something mundane—groceries or weather or bills. I don't ask Christian or Dryden for a ride. I just leave. I'd rather walk than explain anything to anyone this morning.

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Christian greets me by my locker like he's always been there.

"What are you doing tonight?" he asks, just as I'm pulling out Lord of the Flies.

"Time travel. Netflix. Probably finishing Cobra Kai. Robbie's entire arc deserves an Emmy," I mutter, stuffing books into my bag. He squints at me like he expected something different.

"You're something else," he says with this amused little laugh, and we start walking to class. Every step feels like a beat skipped in a song I don't quite know the lyrics to.

I want to tell him. Something. Anything. That I like the way he says my name. That I think he might be the first person who actually sees me. But how do you even say that to someone who hasn't asked?

"That your return outfit from last night's study sesh?" I ask, nodding at his polo and messy hair.

He doesn't answer. We slide into our bench seats in physics class, and the air shifts. Something about the silence between us is louder than our conversation.

Mr. Olsten drones on about energy conservation and pendulums. I pretend to take notes. Christian actually takes them. Like, highlighters and diagrams and everything. I draw half a free-body diagram, then spiral it into a doodle. Then another. When he nudges my elbow, I pretend to be focused.

After class, a notification buzzes in my pocket. I don't have to check it. I know it's him. The selfie from earlier still lingers in my mind. I didn't reply.

I consider texting back in art class, but I just stare at my phone and draw a single curved line across the paper. No meaning. No shape. Just movement.

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I spot Dryden across the lot talking to someone from the football team. I should probably say something, but I don't.

Instead, I make my way toward Christian's Jeep.