The Way Things Change

Slipping Away

The days after that conversation blurred together. Betty had asked for space, and I gave it to her, even though it felt like I was ripping my own heart out by doing so. Every time I saw her at school, walking down the hall with her friends, laughing or sitting at her locker, a hollow feeling settled deeper into my chest.

I couldn't go back to how things were before we started talking again, and it was torture knowing she was so close yet so far. But I had to respect her choice. I couldn't push her—not if I really cared about her. I had to let her figure it out on her own, even if it meant waiting in the dark, wondering whether we'd ever get back what we lost.

School didn't help. Everywhere I went, there were reminders of Betty. People still whispered when we passed each other, the ghosts of that party and my mistakes haunting me. I could feel the weight of everyone's judgments pressing down on me like a lead blanket, but I had no choice but to keep my head down and pretend it didn't bother me. Pretend that it didn't tear me apart inside.

I wasn't ready to tell my friends the full story either. Aaron and Marcus tried to ask what was going on, but I deflected. They could sense something was off, especially when Betty and I weren't hanging out, but I couldn't bring myself to explain everything. It was too raw, too embarrassing.

Instead, I focused on the little things: my classes, soccer, homework. Anything to keep my mind busy. But at night, when the distractions faded away, the reality of it all hit me hard. I kept replaying our conversation in the park, hearing Betty's voice in my head over and over: I need space. I needed to stop hoping for something that might never happen.

One afternoon, about a week after we'd last spoken, I was sitting on the bleachers after soccer practice, watching the sun sink low on the horizon. The field was empty now, the last few teammates having headed home, and I found myself thinking about all the times Betty and I used to come here after school. It used to be our spot, a place where we could talk about anything.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Yo, James!" Aaron's voice broke through my thoughts, and I looked up to see him jogging over, his bag slung over his shoulder. "You good, man? You've been kinda quiet lately."

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "Just a lot on my mind, I guess."

Aaron frowned, sitting down beside me on the bleachers. He wasn't the type to press, but I could tell he was worried. "Is it about Betty?"

I hesitated, but there was no point in lying. He'd seen me and Betty hanging out more lately, and he definitely noticed when we stopped. "Yeah," I admitted, staring out at the empty field. "We've been... talking. Or, we were. But now she says she needs space."

Aaron nodded slowly, leaning back on his hands. "That sucks, man. But it's not the end of the world, you know? She didn't say she was done with you, right?"

"No," I said, my voice heavy. "But it feels like she might be."

Aaron was quiet for a moment, probably choosing his words carefully. "Look, I'm not gonna pretend I know everything about your situation, but I do know that relationships—whether it's with friends, girls, whatever—they take time. And if she needs space, maybe you giving her that is what'll show her you're serious about fixing things."

"I know," I said, running a hand through my hair. "It's just hard not knowing if she's ever going to forgive me."

Aaron shrugged. "All you can do is be patient, man. If she's worth it—and it sounds like she is—you've gotta wait it out. Let her come to you when she's ready."

His words made sense, but that didn't make the waiting any easier. Still, there was something about hearing it from someone else, someone outside of my own head, that made it feel a little more manageable. I wasn't alone in this, even if it felt like it.

We sat in silence for a while, watching the last slivers of sunlight disappear behind the trees. Eventually, Aaron stood up and clapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, let's grab some food. You've been living off cafeteria pizza for way too long."

I laughed, the tension in my chest easing just a little. "Yeah, alright."

We left the field, and for the first time in days, I didn't feel like I was completely drowning. Maybe Aaron was right. Maybe the only thing I could do now was give Betty the space she needed and hope that, in time, things would work themselves out.

---

A few more days passed, and I started to settle into a routine. Betty was still distant, but I tried not to let it consume me. I kept reminding myself that if she really needed time, I had to respect that. Pushing her wouldn't help; it would only make things worse.

One Friday after school, I was at my locker when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"Hey, James."

I turned around, my heart skipping a beat. Betty was standing there, her expression soft but uncertain. She looked like she was holding back, like she was still trying to decide how she felt about everything.

"Hey," I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. I didn't want to assume anything, didn't want to push her too fast.

She bit her lip, glancing down the hall before meeting my eyes again. "Can we talk?"

"Yeah, of course," I said, feeling a mixture of hope and anxiety surge through me. "Do you want to go somewhere private?"

She nodded, and we walked outside to the courtyard. It was quieter there, the school day over, and the fading light of the afternoon made everything feel softer, less harsh. We found a bench near the edge of the lawn, far from the other students milling around.

Betty sat down first, and I followed, my heart racing as I waited for her to speak. She took a deep breath, her fingers playing with the bracelet on her wrist—something I'd noticed she did when she was nervous.

"I've been thinking," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "About everything. About us."

I nodded, keeping my gaze on her, even though my stomach was in knots. "Okay."

Betty exhaled, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. "I'm still hurt, James. I can't just forget what happened. And I don't think we can go back to how things were before."

My chest tightened, but I stayed silent, letting her continue.

"But..." she hesitated, as if weighing her next words carefully. "That doesn't mean I don't care about you. I do. And I miss you. I miss us."

The knot in my chest loosened just a little, and I felt a flicker of hope. "I miss you too, Betty. So much."

She smiled, but it was small, tentative. "I think we need to start over. Not as if nothing happened, but from a new place. If we try to pretend things haven't changed, we'll just hurt each other again."

It was more than I'd expected, more than I thought I deserved. But it was something. A new beginning.

"I'm okay with that," I said softly, meaning every word. "Whatever it takes, Betty. I'm here."

She nodded, looking relieved but still cautious. "We'll take it slow, okay? One step at a time."

"One step at a time," I agreed, feeling lighter than I had in weeks.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe—just maybe—we had a chance at finding our way back to each other.