Chapter 7: Echoes of the Quad

The poetry club met in a basement room under the English building, a dim cave of chipped paint and mismatched chairs with the smell of old books and stale coffee. I’d stumbled into it on a whim, desperate for something—anything—to drown out Sarah’s voice from last night, her cold grip on my phone, her hiss: “This ends tonight.” She’d stood there, Timothy’s “Miss you” glowing like a confession she’d never understand, and laid down the law: no more calls, no more texts, no more him. I'd shaken my head, hollow, and she'd turned and gone, but the silence that followed was worse, a hollowness filled with his laughter, his hands, all that I could never have. And I sat here, reclining in a folding chair, the box with the ring a heavy hollowness against my back pocket, hoping words to fill the hollowness.

The air was thick with a dozen students, their low and gruff voices as they unfolded papers and took sips from paper cups. A guy with a man bun strummed a guitar in the corner, off-key but honest, and a girl in a plaid skirt was taping up posters on the wall—"Open Mic Night, Friday!" The fluorescent lights hummed, causing the shadows to dance on the concrete floor, and I dug deeper into my seat, the hum of it all a thin veneer for the tempest in my head.

I hadn't warned Timothy I was arriving—hadn't warned anyone—yet yesterday in the quad, his hand on my arm, his "What's really going on?" still burning, a wound that would not close. A girl edged forward, her boots rasping the floor, and cleared her throat. "I'm Jade," she said, her voice rough and raw, like she'd smoked too much or cried too hard. She was twenty perhaps, angles all—silver stud in her nose, hacked black hair uneven, paint-splattered jeans hugging her legs.

She glanced around the room, heavy and black, and saw me for too long. "This one's called 'Fracture'," she said, ironing out a creased sheet, and started to read. Her sentences impact like blows—"Cracks in the glass, too thin to hold, you bleed where no one sees"—and I shifted, the chair creaking underneath me. She never looked up, but her sentences cut deep, stripping back layers I had tried to keep hidden. "A shadow pursues, a name you cannot speak." My breath caught, ring box biting deeper into my leg, and I glanced around, half-hoping they'd gawk, would understand.

But they just nodded, snapped fingers in silent rhythm, mesmerized by her poetry.

She was done, creasing the page crisply, and took a seat two over from me, her gaze wandering back my way, hard and unyielding. "Nice," a hoodie-wearing guy growled, scribbling in a notebook. "Next?" I didn't move, didn't give, just sat there, Jade's words echoing through my head—you bleed where no one sees. She rested back, arms crossed, and I felt her staring at me, like she'd stared right through.

The door opened then, slamming hard enough to make me flinch, and Timothy strode in, all denim and honey-colored hair, his grin lighting the darkness like a firework.

My stomach dropped, a cold shock, and the room seemed to shift, heads turning his way.

"Hi, Mo!" he bellowed, gesturing like we were at a football match and not in some stuffy poetry room. "Saw you slipping in—thought I'd come on over and see what's happening." He plopped into a chair beside the door, spread his legs wide apart, and grinned at the crowd. "Reading serious things, huh?"

A few laughed, the tension breaking, and Jade raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching. “It’s poetry,” she said, dry as dust. “Not your scene, huh?”

“Depends,” he shot back, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Make it rhyme, and I’m in.”

More laughter, and he took over the room, as always—easy, unguarded, the sun bursting through my clouds. But I could not breathe, not with him standing there, not with Sarah's "This ends tonight" still resonating in my head. He gazed at me, smile easing. "You reading, Mo? Bet you've got some deep shit in that head."

"Nah," I growled, hunching deeper, the cold metal of the chair biting into my back. "Just listening." "Shame," he said to me, but his eyes lingered, questioning, as if he could pull the truth from me if he dug deep enough. Jade's eyes flashed between us, bright and curious, and I wanted to run, to melt into the brick walls. A braided girl followed behind, her poem of lost summers a soft murmur I hardly noticed. Timothy sat back, applauding when she was done, and leaned over to the man next to him and said something that caused the man to laugh.

He closed in—his laughter, his voice, his body, taking up space until it was pushing against me, a pressure I couldn't escape.

Jade rose up again, boots pounding, and read another—\"Drowning in silence, a hand you can't hold"—and I white-knuckled the arm of the chair, her words cutting too sharply.

The group applauded her when she sat down, fingers snapping, and Timothy yelled out, high and loud. "Damn, that's dark!" he said, grinning up at her. "You're good, uh—?"

"Jade," she supplied, smiling very marginally. "And you're loud."

"Guilty," he laughed, and the room relaxed, curving to him as ever. But I could not laugh with him, could not keep up. Every one of Jade's words was a mirror, every one of Timothy's looks a spotlight, and Sarah's threat hung over me, a shadow that clung.

The session ended, chairs scraping as individuals pulled on coats and conversation swelled—Friday's open mic plans, coffee haunt debates. I rose, awkwardly, to dissolve, but Timothy intervened, forestalling me. "You're not speaking tonight," he said, voice lowering, that furrow between the brows reappearing. "Thought this'd cheer you up."

It's okay," I said too quickly, taking a step back. His closeness stirred—jeans on my jacket, sweat-and-soap smell of him—and I couldn't look at him, not with Jade still staring at me, not with Sarah's voice ringing in my ears.

"Okay's not okay," he said softly, reaching for my arm. I pulled back, quick, and his hand flailed in mid-air, confusion on his face. "Mo, what's—

"Gotta go," I break in, heading for the door, ring box clanking against my leg with every step. The outside air was chill, quad shade now, streetlights humming above, and I breathed deeply, trying to steady the shake in my hands. Steps followed later—slow, deliberate—and I looked around, looking for Timothy's grin, his "Come on, talk to me."

It was Jade, hands jammed in her pockets, breath steaming in the chill. She stopped a few feet away, dark eyes glinting under the lights, and tilted her head. "You're drowning in him," she said, low voice cutting through the darkness like a blade. "Whoever he is." I bristled, dry mouth, and before I could answer, the basement door creaked open behind her. Timothy appeared, his shadow sharp against the light, his eyes fixed across the quad, unwavering and unreadable. My heart stuttered, Jade's words echoing in my mind, and I was stuck, hung between them, the shadows deepening.