The following is told from Josh's point of view:
Everyone knows the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. These are all essentially meaningless until you actually lose someone, and then suddenly they become too real.
When I got the call that Charlotte had died, I didn't believe it. I had just seen her a couple of days before; how could she have just dropped dead? It didn't make any sense. Then I heard the word, that one word that punches you in the chest, knocks you flat-out on the ground, and sucks all of the air out of your lungs: suicide.
When the news spread, my DMs flooded with messages from people I knew and people I had never spoken to before, telling me they were so sorry for my loss and that I was in their thoughts and prayers. That was when I hit the second stage of grief: anger. What the fuck were strangers' thoughts and prayers going to do? They weren't going to bring Charlotte back. They weren't going to change the events leading up to her death. They certainly weren't going to make me hate myself less.
That was June. When school started back up in September, I was still in the depression stage and occasionally teetering backwards to anger and bargaining. I kept thinking I heard Charlotte's laugh or her voice calling my name, but she was never there.
Charlotte followed me everywhere, like she was always hiding in my shadow but never stepping into the light. At soccer practices, when one of my teammates pulled some hetero shit, I heard her sing-song voice in the back of my head: Two bros chillin' in a hot tub five feet apart 'cause they're not gay.
In those instances I would almost smile, until I remembered that Charlotte wasn't there and would never be.
I heard her singing along to different songs I played while driving, the way she would scream out the chorus to "Talia" by King Princess, and the way she'd beg me to play "Boyfriend" by Dove Cameron even though she knew I hated that song, but I'd always give in and play it anyway.
The world stopped making sense after Charlotte. In my head, my life was divided into 2 different periods: WC (With Charlotte) and AC (After Charlotte). The AC period was so much harder. It's difficult to know how much someone means to you until you lose them, and then all that you think about are the regrets.
Yet I somehow continued to go to school, to go to soccer practice, to hangout with my other friends, almost as if I was on autopilot. At home, I was miserable, but out in public, I did my best to put on my mask and be the same old Josh I'd always been.
Really, all I had to do was keep doing this for the remainder of the school year, and then I could leave everything and everyone behind. Clareview was just a purgatory I was trapped in, and I told myself that it didn't matter because soon I'd be free. I could leave and never look back.
All of that changed, though, when I met Connor Hill.
I really didn't know much about him, other than the fact that he was a senior, too. When he confronted me in the bathroom, asking me if I was bi, it felt like I had been punched in the gut. I had been so careful.
My mind was racing, my heart thumping so loudly in my chest I was sure he could hear it. I clenched my fists, feeling the bruises on my knuckles from Friday's fight throb in response. I took a step towards him.
"Why the fuck are you asking me that?" I growled, my jaw tightening.
"Sh-shit, I... I don't know!" he stammered, flinching away from me. His eyes were wide with fear, and for a moment, I regretted my aggressive stance.
"I swear to Godâ"
Before I could finish my threat, he started babbling, his words coming out in a panicked rush.
His confession took me by surprise. I pulled out my phone, and there it wasâhis profile. No photos, just a blank profile. I thrust my phone in his face. "Is this you?"
He nodded, swallowing hard.
"Shit." The anger drained from me, replaced by a cold fear. Maybe some good old-fashioned threats of violence would make him stay quiet.
However, I shook that thought away because there was something about him that I just found...intriguing.
If I had to be honest, I thought he was cute. He had kind of shaggy brown hair, and I focused on a small chunk that fell over one of his blue eyes, which were still wide. He looked incredibly innocent and possibly naive.
All of these thoughts flashed through my mind in a matter of seconds, but I didn't dare say any of it out loud. Instead, I said, "You can't tell anyone, Connor."
"Why would I tell anyone?" he asked, looking genuinely confused.
"I don't know. To... mess with me."
"Well, how do I know you won't do the same to me?"
He had a point. "Your profile doesn't even have photos on it," I retorted. "All I could do is start a rumor."
"I think you know what happens with rumors around here."
I did. Too well. "I guess we'll just have to trust each other, then."
"I... guess so."
I wanted to say more, to explain, to apologize, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I turned and walked out of the bathroom, thinking that was the end of it.
***
Was it possible to have a crush on someone who you'd also determined was your worst nightmare?
That was how I had begun to think of Connor Hill.
After our bathroom conversation, when I learned he was also gay, I couldn't get him out of my fucking head. His smile was haunting me, taunting me with how bad I just wanted to, I don't know, just hangout with him. Learn about him. Listen to the gentle way he spoke, like he wasn't sure he should even be talking out loud.
As I continued to see him around school, I found myself stealing glances in his direction, trying to figure him out. He appeared like any other student, nothing particularly extraordinary about him, yet there was an aura of mystery that intrigued me. It wasn't just about the Grindr incident; there was something deeper, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.
I wanted to be close to him, breathe him in, push him up against a wall and...
Shit. I had it bad.
Some of my friends from the soccer team invited me to a party at another kid's house after homecoming. I'd actually gotten multiple invites from different girls in my grade, but I told all of them I wasn't going.
What was the point of going to a dance if I couldn't sit with Charlotte and make fun of how stupid the straight couples looked as they grinded up against each other?
But a party was something I could get behind.
Charlotte and I had gotten fake IDs before she passed, and I used mine any chance I got. I told my friends I'd bring some beer and liquor to the party. They told me I was the man, thanked me for being a real one. I laughed and told them no worries, dude. I got you, bro.
Jesus, I sounded so straight I knew Charlotte would've joked that I was planning on planting roofies in girls' drinks. (She had a very dark sense of humor, which ultimately rubbed off on me.)
The night of the party, I found myself watching everyone playing stupid drinking games. I leaned against the wall, just sort of watching like it was a TV show. The room was a blur of people and laughter, but I felt detached, like I was floating above it all. My mind was foggy, struggling to focus on anything.
When some of my friends from soccer came up to me, making casual conversation, I forced myself to answer. When I laughed, it came out sounding hollow. The noise around me felt distant, muted. My eyes wandered, landing on Connor. He was laughing with his friends, so carefree. I wondered what it felt like to be that completely unburdened.
I took another swig of my drink, the liquid burning its way down my throat.
Since Charlotte's death, I had started drinking a lot. The more I drank, the more I could forget. Or at least, pretend to forget, because I had a constant, gnawing guilt in my stomach. The feeling followed me everywhere. Sometimes I'd wake up during the night, covered in sweat, and I'd struggle to breathe.
At one point, during the game, I watched Connor's eyes flit up to me. Our eyes met for a split second, and I quickly looked away, taking another sip, my heart racing.
The room started spinning slightly. I wandered through the house for a bit, stumbling towards the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face.
When I opened the door, I wasn't expecting to see Connor. He was at the sink, trying to clean his sweatshirt. Our eyes met, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.
"Sorry," I mumbled, trying to steady myself against the doorframe.
Connor looked up, his expression shifting from surprise to concern. "I'm done...if you have to...get in here."
I took a step forward, but my balance betrayed me. I stumbled, reaching out to grab something, anything. Connor's hand caught my arm, and before I knew it, we were both on the floor. The room spun around us, and I could feel his breath on my face.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice a mix of worry and something else, something I couldn't quite place.
I didn't answer. Instead, I did the only thing that made sense at that moment: I kissed him.
The kiss was brief, but it felt like a lifetime. My mind was a mess of emotions, and I could barely think straight. When Connor pulled away, his eyes were wide with shock.
"This isn't a good idea," he said, pushing me off of him. "You're really drunk."
"Who cares?" I groaned, closing my eyes. The weight of everything I'd been holding back came crashing down, and I could feel tears welling up. "Does any of it even matter anymore?"
Connor's hand was on my shoulder, his touch gentle. "Does any of what even matter?"
"Anything," I choked out. "Everything." The tears spilled over, and I couldn't hold back the sobs. It was like a dam had burst, and all the pain and frustration I'd been bottling up came flooding out. I was embarrassed to be having a complete emotional breakdown in front of him, but the alcohol made it impossible for me to control myself.
Then, everything became hazy. I remember vomiting and talking to some people as Connor led me outside. But it was all a blur, my memory fading as if I were watching videos of my life but having no real recollection of them.
Connor asked for my address, and I somehow managed to give it to him.
I remember arriving at my house. "Are you gonna be okay?" Connor asked, his voice full of genuine concern.
"I'm fine," I lied. I didn't believe it, but it was all I could say.
Connor walked me to the door. As I saw the look in his eyes, almost like a sort of longing, I knew I needed to stop whatever was happening between us. I didn't want to hurt anyone else. I needed to force some distance before he got caught up in all of my brokenness. Before he got attached.
So, drunkenly, I told him, "I'm sorry."
"For what?" he asked, his eyes searching mine.
"That I can't...give you what you're looking for," I said.
Connor looked like he wanted to ask more, but I couldn't handle it. I went inside, closing the door behind me. I leaned against the door, tears streaming down my face, and eventually I slid down to the floor.
I wasn't religious. I didn't believe in heaven or hell or any of that stuff. But at that moment, I silently asked if Charlotte was there, if she could tell me what to do because I had evidently completely lost the plot of my entire life. I plead to the void, asking questions I knew didn't have simple answers.
And though I didn't realize it yet, Connor would turn out to be the answer to everything.