FICTION – FSS #193

He quickly climbed the trellis and reached the balcony outside of her bedroom. He watched her through her window. She was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, phone in hand, completely unaware. She always tied her hair back when she focused, and it was. Probably texting. Probably him.

Jason exhaled slowly, pressing his back against the wall just under the window. He hadn’t planned this. Not exactly. But after three days of being ignored, after seeing that one blurry photo on her story—just a hand on her thigh and a drink in the background—he couldn’t sit still.

He could hear The Cranberries playing in the background—Linger, soft and haunting. She moved to the music, not dancing exactly, but swaying in that unconscious way, like the song had tapped into something old and private inside her. Like it spoke to her soul. Like she was his private dancer and didn’t even know it.

With difficulty, he swallowed. He needed to go. He wasn’t that guy. Not the creepy ones—the ones who watched from the dark, who mistook obsession for romance. The ones who fantasized about a glance, a laugh, a shared elevator ride, and turned it into something it wasn’t.

The ones who, when they finally worked up the nerve, stood trembling and said, “Don’t you remember? You smiled at me once.” Eyes wide. Pleading. Every breath pulling them deeper into the abyss of desperation.

Jason stared at his hands. Pale knuckles, shaky grip on the cold railing.

This wasn’t who he was.
At least, he hoped not.

He jumped from the balcony, hurting his ankle but maintaining his dignity. The pain was excruciating, but it kept him honest. Every limp, every throb was a reminder: he didn’t belong up there. Not like that.

Branches whipped past as he hobbled through the trees behind her house. The cold air cut at his lungs, the wet grass soaked through his sneakers. But he kept going—because turning back would’ve been worse.

Finally, he reached the lake, where his friend Tina was waiting. She was pacing back and forth, arms crossed tight, hoodie pulled over her head. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“Did you do it?” she asked urgently, stepping toward him. “Well?”

He didn’t answer right away, sinking onto a bench near the water’s edge, leg outstretched, ankle swelling fast. He winced.

“I saw her,” he said, staring out at the dark water. “She was dancing.”

Tina blinked. “So… that’s a yes?”

Jason shook his head slowly. “No. I couldn’t. I’m not that guy.”

She let out a breath, relief and maybe a little disappointment mixing in her face. She sat next to him, pulling her knees up to her chest.

“Good,” she said. “Because if you were, I wouldn’t be here.”

They sat in silence for a while, the lake still, the sky just hinting at dawn.

How did I get here?
Jason stared at the rippling water like it might answer.

Where did this notion come from—the idea that if he just showed up, climbed high enough, looked long enough, maybe something would fall into place? Some moment, some clarity, some spark between them that would finally catch.

But there was no spark. Just a girl in her room, moving to music, living her life without him in it. And him, standing outside like a stranger.

He wasn’t always this guy. Was he?

Maybe it wasn’t about her at all. Maybe she was just the screen he projected it all onto.

“I think I scared myself,” he said aloud, not even sure if Tina was still listening.

She said nothing at first. Just nodded slowly.

“You weren’t trying to get her back,” she said after a while. “You were trying to find something in yourself. And you didn’t like what you saw.”

Jason closed his eyes.

That was it. That was exactly it.

Tina reached for his hand, hoping Jason would somehow see her, somehow feel her—not just her skin, but what was underneath. All the nights she answered when no one else did. All the pieces of him she held onto so he wouldn’t fall apart.

Her fingers brushed his knuckles. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t look at her either.

Jason was still staring at the water, lost in his head, somewhere far away from this bench, this lake, from her.

She squeezed his hand gently, grounding him. Or maybe anchoring herself.

“You don’t have to chase ghosts,” she said, voice low. “You aren’t one.”

Jason finally turned to her, and for the first time that night, there was something behind his eyes. Not clarity, not yet—but something softer than the ache he’d been carrying.

He looked down at their hands, then back at her. And something between them shifted.

Tina noticed Jason was crying. Not sobbing, not breaking—but that controlled weep, the only kind allowed for men. Shoulders still. Jaw tight. Tears slipping down anyway.

He squeezed her hand tighter, but it wasn’t painful. It was grounding. Like he needed to make sure she was real.

She watched him, unsure if she should speak, unsure if words would help or just fracture the moment.

Were the tears for the girl he never really had?
Or for something else?
Something older. Deeper. Something even he hadn’t named yet.

Maybe it wasn’t about her at all. Maybe it was the weight of pretending he was okay for too long. The performance of being fine, being cool, being over it. Maybe this was the moment he stopped acting.

Tina didn’t move. She didn’t ask. She just let him feel it.

Because sometimes that’s the only way through.

Everyone knew Jason was the strong one. The steady one.
It was killing her to see him like this—silent, unraveling at the edges.

She remembered last summer. When she chucked every ounce of her self-respect out of the window for Marcus. God, Marcus. She could barely say the name without feeling her stomach turn.

Jason didn’t judge her. Didn’t say I told you so. He just sat next to her on the curb, handed her a Gatorade, and said, “You’ve got nothing to prove. Not to anyone.”

And then:
“I promise I’ll see you through to the other side. We can cry, get drunk, get high, and cry again—if that’s what you need.”

At the time, she thought he was just trying to make her feel better. Talking big, saying what friends say when they don’t know what else to do.

But he meant it.

The bastard was right there, holding her hair back as she worshipped the porcelain god, talking her through it like she was in labor. He had an endless supply of toilet paper, too—which, in hindsight, was no small thing. Because let’s be real: when a real crying fit hits, tissues don’t cut it. Toilet paper is the only thing that makes sense. There’s a lot, and it’s everywhere.

And now here he was. Finally cracked open.

And it was her turn.

“Why are you here, Tina?” Jason asked, voice rough. “Pity? Some sense of duty? Or something else?”

She didn’t flinch, but it stung. Not the words—she’d heard worse—but the fact that he said them. That he really didn’t know.

Tina leaned back, looked up at the night sky like it might help her find the right words. It didn’t.

“You think I came out here in the middle of the night, to a freezing-ass lake, because I pity you?” she said finally. “Come on, Jason. Give me more credit than that.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

“I’m here,” she said, softer now, “because I don’t like who you become when you think no one’s watching. Because I’ve seen you hold everyone else together for so long that I forgot you might fall apart, too.”

She paused.

“And maybe… yeah. Maybe because part of me was waiting for you to need me for once.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Honest.

Jason didn’t respond right away. But this time, when he looked at her, he really looked.

“There’s never been a time I didn’t need you,” he said, eyes low. “But I don’t think I knew that until right now.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled like he’d been holding it for years.

“So I acted like a jackass.”

Tina didn’t speak right away. She just let it hang there, let him sit in it.

Then she smirked, just a little. “Yeah. You did.”

Jason gave a short, almost-laugh. “Thanks for the grace.”

She nudged his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

And just like that, the cold didn’t feel so cold.
The silence didn’t feel so loud.
And maybe—for the first time in a long time—Jason felt like he wasn’t holding the weight alone.