The next morning, the sun had been up for a long time when I finally emerged. No brutal wake-up, just that heaviness that sticks to the bones after a sleepless night and a ghost hangover. My room smelled stuffy, cold sweat, and the damp fabric of the hoodie I'd slept in. The phone clock read 11:47. I'd slept four hours, maybe five. Enough for the brain to restart, not enough for the body to forgive.
I went down the stairs barefoot, each step creaking a little louder than usual. The house was quiet, almost dead. No music, no laughter, just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of a bird screaming outside. In the kitchen, the coffee table was still littered with empty bottles, cardboard pizza boxes, crushed chips, and an improvised ashtray (a coffee mug) full of twisted cigarette butts. The stale smell of cold tobacco, flat alcohol, and melted cheese almost made me gag.
Rickie was slumped on the living room couch, shirtless, one arm dangling off the edge, mouth open. He was snoring softly, like a diesel engine stalling. Cleo was nowhere to be seen – probably back upstairs sleeping off a vomit or just escaping the light. Jackson… Jackson was there.
He stood in front of the coffee machine, back to me, in black boxers and a gray t-shirt too short that showed a strip of skin at the small of his back when he bent to grab a mug. His hair was a total mess, flattened on one side, sticking up on the other. He hadn't showered yet; you could still smell the night's sweat on him, mixed with the burnt coffee he was making.
He turned when he heard me, steaming mug in hand. His eyes were red, circled, but he had that crooked smile that never fully went away, even with a hangover.
"Hey, morning zombie. You look like shit, man."
"You too. How long did you sleep?"
"Three hours. Maybe two. I spent the end of the night staring at the ceiling wondering why I drank so much."
He took a sip of coffee, grimaced.
"Fuck, this is disgusting. I put too much water."
He held out the mug anyway. I refused with a gesture.
"I'm gonna make something cold. Water. Aspirin. Maybe puke later."
I poured myself a big glass of water from the tap, drank it in one go, then a second. The water was ice-cold, almost painful in the throat. It woke up the numb nerves. Jackson sat on a high stool at the kitchen island, legs spread, mug between his hands. He watched me without saying anything at first, just observing.
"Where were you last night?" he finally asked.
I shrugged, back turned, rummaging in the cabinet for pills.
"Outside. Couldn't sleep. Walked a bit."
"In the forest? At four in the morning?"
"Yeah."
Silence. He set his mug down, rubbed his face with both hands.
"Did you run into someone?"
I paused, still facing away. The word "Wave Withman" floated in my head like a pebble in the pond's black water. I let it sink.
"No. Just trees. And silence."
"You've been weird since you got back."
I turned around, pills in hand. I swallowed two with the rest of my water.
"Weird how?"
"I don't know. Calmer. Or farther away. Like you saw something that made you think."
I set the empty glass in the sink. I crossed my arms.
"Maybe I just need to decompress. The party was heavy."
He nodded slowly.
"Yeah. It was fun, but heavy. We all pushed a bit too far."
New silence. Outside, a bird started singing again, shrill, unbearable.
Jackson got off the stool, stepped closer to me. Not too close. Just enough for me to feel his body heat despite the space between us.
"Listen… if you ever need to talk about what's eating your head, I'm here. Don't have to spill everything at once. But I'm not dumb. I see you've got something looping in there."
I looked at his eyes – red, tired, but direct. No mockery. No game. Just an honest question.
"Thanks. But right now, I just need something simple. Coffee. Shower. Eat something that isn't cold pizza."
He smiled – a real smile this time, tired but sincere.
"Okay. Coffee I can do. Shower, go first. Food… we'll order something decent when Cleo and Rickie wake up. Or we go into town. There's a little place that does decent burgers."
I nodded.
"Burgers. Good idea."
He stepped aside to let me pass. I went upstairs to take my shower. The hot water slapped my skin, rinsed the sweat, the fatigue, the night's smells. Under the stream, I closed my eyes and saw the pond again, the circles on the water, Wave Withman's gray eyes staring without blinking. "Dive or watch." The words spun, but without urgency. Not today.
When I came back down, clean, wet hair, in shorts and fresh t-shirt, Jackson had started a new pot of coffee. Rickie had woken up, sitting on the floor against the couch, head in hands.
"I want to die," he groaned.
Cleo appeared at the top of the stairs, in a bathrobe, sunglasses on despite being indoors.
"Does anyone have a bucket? Or a gun?"
We all laughed – a weak, painful, but real laugh.
Jackson handed me a mug of coffee – black, strong, no sugar.
"Here. To survive until the burgers."
I took the mug. Our fingers brushed for a second. No electric shiver. No sudden tension. Just the normal contact of two friends who drank too much the night before.
We settled outside on the terrace, coffees in hand, timid midday sun warming gently. We talked bullshit: everyone's worst hangover, the time Rickie puked in a 200-euro cab, the dumb videos Cleo filmed during the party (we'd watch them later, when our heads hurt less).
At one point, Jackson turned to me, voice low so the others wouldn't hear too much.
"Seriously. If one day you want to talk about what makes you walk in the forest at 4 a.m., I'm listening. No judgment. No pressure."
I looked at the horizon, the trees moving gently.
"I know. Thanks."
He nodded, didn't push.
The rest of the morning stretched slowly: we tidied up a bit of the mess, ordered burgers via the app (delivery in 40 minutes), put on a chill playlist in the background (lo-fi, nothing too loud), and settled on the terrace loungers. Heavy bodies, foggy heads, but together.
No revelation. No big declaration. Just a normal day picking up where it left off after a night that shook everything.
And in a corner of my mind, far away, the pond water kept making silent circles.
For now, that was enough.
Around 1:30 p.m., the delivery guy arrived with the burgers. Smell of hot fries and grilled meat invaded the terrace in two seconds. We all rushed like starving people despite fragile stomachs. Four kraft paper bags stained with grease, four large iced sodas, and a mountain of extra fries because Rickie had accidentally checked "extra fries" three times.
We settled around the low table outside. Midday sun beating hard, but tree shade protected us a bit. Cleo kept her sunglasses on, even to eat. Rickie unwrapped his burger like opening a Christmas gift. Jackson and I sat side by side on the same wooden bench, knees brushing sometimes without it being calculated.
First contact with food: the first bite of burger was almost painful it was so good and heavy at once. Soft bun, juicy meat, melted cheese stringing, sauce dripping on fingers. I closed my eyes for a second to savor. Jackson laughed next to me.
"You look like a guy seeing light at the end of the tunnel."
"That's exactly it. The light is the cheddar."
Cleo snorted while chewing.
"You're gross. Eat without commenting, please."
We ate in silence for a good ten minutes, just chewing sounds, paper crinkling, ice clinking in cups. Then Rickie broke the silence with a loud burp.
"Sorry. That was therapeutic."
Cleo threw a soft fry at his face.
"You're a pig."
"A happy pig."
The conversation drifted to easy bullshit: worst burgers we'd ever eaten (Rickie won with a highway fast-food thing that smelled like burnt tire), restaurants we wanted to try if we ever came back to the area, and even a stupid debate on whether fries were better with ketchup or mayo. Jackson was pure mayo team, I was ketchup-mayo mix team, Cleo categorically refused mayo "because it's liquid cholesterol," and Rickie ate both at once without distinction.
After the burgers, we left the wrappers scattered on the table and sprawled on the loungers. Sun warming the skin, but a small breeze kept us from overheating. I closed my eyes, let the heat relax my muscles. Jackson was on the lounger next to me, arms behind his head, shirtless now (he'd ditched the t-shirt too fast after eating)."What are we doing this afternoon?" Cleo asked in a thick voice.
"Nothing," Rickie answered instantly. "Literally nothing. I'm not moving until tomorrow."
"You're right. Group nap."
Jackson turned his head toward me.
"You up for a nap or do you still feel like running off into the forest?"
I opened one eye.
"Naps. Definitely naps."
We put on a very soft playlist – lo-fi with rain samples and slow beats – on the Bluetooth speaker. Low volume, just enough to fill the silence without assaulting our skulls. Cleo fell asleep in less than five minutes, sunglasses still on her nose, mouth slightly open. Rickie was already snoring like a tractor. Jackson and I stayed awake a little longer.
He spoke first, voice low so as not to wake the others.
"You really walked in the forest last night?"
"Yeah."
"Did you find something? Like a cool spot?"
I hesitated for a second. The pond, the rocks, the stranger's gray eyes… It already felt far away, like a dream fading.
"A little body of water. Calm. Pretty. It was good for thinking."
"Thinking about what?"
"Nothing specific. Just… breathing without anyone talking to me."
He nodded slowly.
"I get it. Sometimes I need that too."
Comfortable silence. The wind moved the leaves above us.
"If one day you feel like going back there with someone… tell me. I'll come. No questions asked."
I turned my head toward him. He was looking at the sky, not me. No crooked smile, no innuendo. Just a simple offer.
"Okay. I'll tell you."
He closed his eyes.
"Cool."
We eventually all fell asleep. Endless afternoon nap. When I woke up, the sun was already low, orange, almost setting. It must have been 5 or 6 p.m. Rickie and Cleo had gone inside – probably to check their phones or puke discreetly. Jackson was still there, sitting on the edge of his lounger, rolling a cigarette.
He saw me open my eyes.
"You slept like the dead."
"Yeah. Feels good."
He lit his cigarette, took a drag, held it out to me. I refused with a gesture.
"You quit?"
"Not really. Just not in the mood right now."
He smoked in silence, blowing the smoke upward. The smell of tobacco mixed with the cooling forest air.
"Pizza tonight or should we try cooking something?" he asked.
"Pizza. Don't tempt fate with our stomachs."
He laughed softly.
"Wise choice."
Cleo came back out, hair tied in a messy bun, phone in hand.
"Guys, there's a storm coming according to the weather app. Max two hours."
Rickie followed her, looking even more zombie-like.
"Perfect. Netflix night under the covers. Or in the rain, if the terrace is covered."
We put away the loungers, brought in the empty bottles, and settled in the living room. Jackson started a new round of coffee (weaker this time). We put on a light horror movie – some 80s thing with shitty special effects – just to laugh. The rain started around 7:30 p.m.: big drops drumming on the metal roof, wind slamming the poorly closed shutters.
We huddled under blankets, dim lights, pizzas ordered (miraculous delivery despite the storm). We laughed at the movie's dumb jokes, commented on the characters' stupid deaths, passed the box around hand to hand.
At one point, during a quiet scene, Jackson leaned toward me, voice covered by the rain outside.
"You good?"
I nodded.
"Yeah. Really good."
He smiled – a tired, content smile.
"Good."
The evening stretched like that: movie after movie, dumb conversations, muffled laughs, the rain that didn't stop. Around midnight, Rickie and Cleo called it quits and went upstairs to bed. Jackson and I stayed a bit longer, watching the end of an animal documentary without really following it.
At one point, he stood up.
"I'm going to bed. You coming?"
No ambiguity. Just the practical question.
"Yeah. Good night first."
He went up. I turned off the TV, killed the lights, listened to the rain for another five minutes in the dark.
Then I went upstairs too.
No big decision. No spectacular dive.
Just a normal day, long, gentle, after a night that had shaken everything.
The next day – or rather the day after, because the post-hangover day had stretched into the following night without us really noticing – we woke up late. Very late. The sun was already high, light coming through in yellow bands between the poorly closed shutters. I opened my eyes to the wooden ceiling, listened to the silence of the house. No footsteps, no music, just the quiet tick-tock of a clock somewhere downstairs and the stubborn song of a bird.
I went down the stairs in wrinkled shorts and t-shirt. The kitchen smelled of cold coffee and yesterday's toasted bread. Rickie was sitting at the table, head in hands, in front of a half-eaten bowl of cereal. He looked like a survivor of a war he'd lost against himself.
"Morning ghost," he muttered without looking up.
"Morning corpse. How long did you sleep?"
"Eight hours. Nine maybe. Lost count. You?"
"Same. Feels like I hibernated."
Cleo appeared in an oversized tracksuit, hair a mess, sunglasses perched on her head even though there was no harsh light.
"Is there fresh coffee or are we doomed to the microwave?"
Jackson came down right after, shirtless, scratching his stomach. He saw the empty coffee pot and sighed dramatically.
"Okay, we're not dying today. I'm making more coffee. Anyone want eggs?"
We all groaned a collective "yes," like zombies waking from a coma.
He started the coffee maker, got out a pan, cracked eggs without finesse. The smell of melting butter and cooking eggs began to fill the room. Cleo put on a very soft playlist: acoustic folk, light guitars, calm voices. No shouted lyrics, no bass. Just enough to fill the silence without overwhelming it.
We sat around the table. Paper plates (no one felt like washing anything), slightly overcooked scrambled eggs on the edges, toasted bread slices, jam from the cupboard. Jackson sat across from me, pushed a plate toward me without a word. Our eyes met for a second. Nothing loaded. Just the usual morning nod.
We ate slowly. Rickie told an absurd dream where he was chased by a llama on roller skates. Cleo laughed so hard she nearly spat out her coffee. Jackson added even dumber details until we were all doubled over around the table.
After breakfast, no one really felt like moving. We migrated to the terrace. The sun warmed gently, the air smelled of damp grass and pine. Rickie pulled out an old deflated soccer ball he'd found in the garage.
"Wanna do something? Like shitty soccer, no rules, just to move a bit?"
We said yes without conviction, but we got up anyway.
The field was the uneven lawn behind the house. We marked goals with shoes placed on the ground. No soccer shoes, just worn sneakers and flip-flops. Half of us played barefoot because it was funnier. Passes were soft, shots all over the place, we bumped into each other without meaning to, we fell in the grass laughing. Jackson tackled me gently, I pushed him back, we ended up both on the ground laughing like idiots while Cleo scored an imaginary goal yelling "GOOOOOOL" like a South American commentator.
We played like that for an hour, maybe more. Until the ball rolled under the terrace and we decided that was enough. We collapsed in the grass, out of breath, smiling, sun on our faces.
The afternoon stretched without us noticing. We read stuff on our phones, scrolled aimlessly, shared dumb memes. Cleo started a game of Uno on the terrace coffee table. We played for ages, cheating openly, accusing each other of cheating, yelling when someone dropped a +4 at the worst moment.
Around 6 p.m., Jackson suggested:
"Pancakes? We've got flour and eggs."
We said yes as if it was the best idea in the world.
We all got into the kitchen. Rickie mixed the batter while cracking dumb jokes, Cleo cut fruit for topping, Jackson flipped pancakes with varying success (the first one went straight to the ceiling). I handled the Nutella and sugar. We ended up eating standing around the island, hot pancakes roughly rolled, sticky fingers, laughter everywhere.
Evening came slowly. We didn't feel like going out, didn't feel like doing much. We turned the couch into a fort: cushions on the floor, blankets, dim lights. We started a dumb series we'd seen a thousand times – something about friends living together and arguing over stupid stuff. We commented on the dialogues, predicted the jokes, argued over who was the dumbest character.
At one point, Jackson sat next to me on the couch, shoulder to shoulder. No particular move. Just there. Cleo and Rickie fell asleep halfway through the third episode, heads back, mouths open.
Jackson lowered the volume.
"You look… calm tonight."
I nodded.
"Yeah. Feels good."
He nodded.
"Same."
We didn't add anything. We watched the series in silence, listened to the others' breathing, felt the blanket's warmth on our legs. Outside, night had fully fallen. Crickets sang. The pond water, far away in my head, kept making tiny circles, almost inaudible now.
And that was enough.
Really.
Tomorrow would probably be the same: late wake-up, food, laughs, nothing spectacular.
And that was perfect like that. The evening stretched on without anyone forcing the pace. The pizzas were laid out on the coffee table in full self-service mode: open boxes, half-eaten slices, strings of cheese still hanging. We'd dimmed the lights – just the LED string lights Rickie had left hanging from the ceiling and two small floor lamps giving the room a warm orange glow. No rain after all; the storm the app had predicted fizzled out, the sky stayed black but dry, with only a light breeze rustling the leaves outside.
Cleo was sprawled on the pouf, phone in hand, scrolling through reels and laughing alone at videos of cats falling over. Rickie had migrated to the floor against the couch, back propped up, legs stretched out, a cold pizza slice in one hand and his phone in the other. He was narrating his friends' stories out loud: "Look at this, they're at the bar at 10:30 p.m. already complaining about tomorrow's hangover. Bunch of weaklings."
Jackson and I stayed on the big three-seater couch. Not glued together, but not far apart either. Our shoulders brushed whenever one of us moved to grab another slice or set an empty beer down. The playlist had drifted on its own to smooth R&B – SZA, Summer Walker, slow tracks with bass that vibrated in your stomach without attacking. No one had the energy to change it.
At one point, Cleo lifted her head from her screen.
"Okay, what now? We're too tired to dance, too awake to sleep."
Rickie groaned without looking up.
"We stay like this until death comes. Perfect plan."
Jackson chuckled softly, grabbed the last four-cheese slice that was lying around.
"We could play something dumb. Like truth or dare, but soft version because I'm out of energy for crazy dares."
Cleo made a face.
"Truth or dare? Seriously? We did that last night and look where it got us: me dancing on the table and you doing guitar solos like you're at Coachella."
"It was beautiful," Jackson replied, biting into his slice. "And anyway, this isn't for embarrassing ourselves, it's just to talk. Truth only if you want. No pressure."
I shrugged.
"Why not. But I vote we keep it chill. No heavy questions."
Rickie finally looked up, suddenly interested despite his zombie face.
"Okay, I start. Cleo: truth or truth?"
Cleo rolled her eyes.
"You suck. Truth."
"Most embarrassing thing you ever did for a crush?"
She thought for two seconds, then smirked.
"I once sent a three-minute voice message to a guy crying because I listened to Kodaline's 'All I Want' too loud. He replied 'uh… you okay?' and I never dared see him again."
We all burst out laughing – tired but genuine laughter. Rickie went next:
"Your turn, Cleo."
She pointed at Jackson.
"You. Truth. Worst rejection you ever got?"
Jackson pulled a dramatic face, took a sip of beer before answering.
"Senior year. I invited a girl to prom. She said yes. On the day, she showed up with another guy. She just told me 'sorry, I changed my mind last night.' I spent the evening drinking gross punch in a corner pretending I was super busy checking my phone."
Cleo whistled.
"Ouch. Rough."
"Yeah. But hey, it taught me not to invest too much before being sure."
He glanced at me sideways – quick, almost imperceptible. I felt my cheeks heat up despite myself. I looked away toward the window. Outside, the night was calm, stars visible between the clouds that had settled.
My turn came. Jackson looked at me, crooked smile but not mocking.
"Your go. Truth or truth?"
I sighed.
"Truth. Go easy."
He paused, like he was weighing his words.
"What scares you the most right now? Not something general. Something specific."
The question landed like a stone in water. Silence settled for a second. Cleo and Rickie watched us, curious but not pushing. I stared at the ceiling for a moment, then answered, voice low.
"Wanting something… or someone… and not knowing if I'm ready to deal with what it implies."
No one laughed. No one jumped in with a joke. Jackson stared at me for a long time, no smile this time. Then he nodded slowly.
"That's a good answer."
Rickie broke the silence by grabbing a crushed chip that was lying around.
"Okay, my turn. Jackson: truth or truth?"
Jackson laughed.
"Truth. Hit me."
"Have you ever wanted someone in this room… right now?"
Cleo stifled a laugh in her hand. Jackson didn't even blink.
"Yeah."
Rickie raised an eyebrow.
"Who?"
Jackson turned his head toward me, slowly, without looking away.
"Him."
The word dropped clean. No crooked smile, no wink. Just that, direct.
Cleo whistled softly.
"Okay, we're moving up a level."
Rickie burst out laughing, but it was nervous.
"Damn, you don't hold back."
Jackson shrugged.
"We said truth. I'm not lying."
I felt my heart pound in my throat. Not panic. Not shame. Just a warmth rising slowly, like something finally becoming obvious.
I didn't look away.
"Same," I said simply.
Silence. Three seconds. Then Cleo clapped her hands.
"Okay, we stop here before this turns into soft porn. I'm taking the last tequila shot that's left. Anyone?"
We all laughed – relieved, freeing laughter. Rickie grabbed the bottle.
"Me. To celebrate the chillest coming out in history."
We toasted with what was left. The tequila burned, but it felt good. The playlist kept going in the background: Frank Ocean now, "Thinkin Bout You," the voice floating like a caress.
Around 1 a.m., Rickie and Cleo gave up. They shuffled upstairs, muttering mocking "good night lovebirds." We let them go without answering.
Jackson and I were left alone on the couch. Music looped softly. Dim lights cast gentle shadows on our faces. He moved closer – not much, just enough for our thighs to touch fully.
"You didn't answer earlier," he whispered.
"To what?"
"What I said."
I turned my head. Our faces inches apart.
"I said same."
He smiled – a real smile, no irony.
"So what do we do now?"
I shrugged, but my voice was calm.
"We let it come. No need to force it."
He nodded.
"Okay."
He placed his hand on mine – warm palm, fingers gently lacing together. No kiss. No sudden move. Just that. We stayed like that for a long time, listening to the music, each other's breathing, the silence of the house.
Around 2:30 a.m., he stood up.
"I'm going to bed. You come whenever you want."
No pressure. No obvious expectation.
"Yeah. Good night."
He went upstairs. I turned off the lights, let the playlist loop. I waited five minutes in the dark, sitting on the couch, feeling my heart slow down.
Then I went upstairs too.
His door was cracked open. A small bedside lamp on. He was sitting on the bed, shirtless, in sweatpants, scrolling on his phone. He looked up when I entered.
"You came."
"Yeah."
He set his phone down, patted the mattress next to him.
I sat down. Not against him. Not far either.
We didn't say anything for a while. Just the sound of our breathing, the wind outside, the music still faintly rising from the living room.
Then he turned his head.
"We can just sleep. No need to do anything."
I nodded.
"Yeah. Just sleep."
He turned off the lamp. Darkness settled, soft. We lay side by side, under the same blanket. Our shoulders touched. His leg brushed mine. Nothing more.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time in a long time, the pond, the circles, the gray eyes… all of it felt far away. Not erased. Just… on hold.
Here, in this bed, with Jackson breathing calmly beside me, I felt something finally loosen.
Not a dive. Not a fall.
Just one more step along the edge.
And that was already a lot.