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MidReal Story
The Fallout
Scenario:this story is about tragedy and news and police and high school shootings and lgbtqia and murder and suicide and mental health and love and drama and ptsd and grief and mourning and loneliness and loss and family and therapy and drug and alcohol use and college and high school and Finding Identity and Purpose and The Importance of Support Systems and my name is mohamed abdi and i am bisexual and 17 years old and i have dark skin and my fathers name is abdinur abdi and he is 40 years old and he has dark skin and my mothers name is layla abdi and she has dark skin and my little sister munira abdi is 11 years old and she has dark skin and i have a white straight girl best friend named sasha and she has blond hair and blue eyes and she is 17 years old and we have the same interests and i became attracted to the popular and hottest guy in school his name is blake simmons and he is gay and he has blond hair and blue eyes and he is the captain of the football team and he is 17 years old
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Mohamed Abdi
He is a 17yearold high school student. He is introspective, resilient, and emotionally sensitive. Mohamed struggles with his father's sudden death and grapples with his feelings for Blake Simmons, the captain of the football team and his best friend. Mohamed finds solace in art and his relationship with his sister Munira. He navigates high school dynamics, including friendships and crushes, while dealing with grief and selfdiscovery.
Abdinur Abdi
He is Mohamed's father and a 40yearold employee at a local factory. He was caring, supportive, and humorous. Abdinur unexpectedly died from heart failure during a workout session. His relationship with Mohamed was close, and his sudden absence leaves a profound impact on the family. Despite his passing, Abdinur leaves a lasting legacy of love and stability that Mohamed strives to come to terms with.
Blake Simmons
He is the captain of the high school football team and a 17yearold gay student. He is popular, confident, and charismatic. Blake becomes Mohamed's close friend after they bond over shared interests like art and music. Mohamed develops romantic feelings towards Blake, which creates an internal conflict between friendship and desire. Blake's presence in Mohamed's life offers comfort during difficult times and represents a figure of acceptance in their small town.
My name is Mohamed Abdi.
I am 17 years old.
I have dark skin.
My father's name is Abdinur Abdi.
He is 40 years old.
He has dark skin.
My mother's name is Layla Abdi.
She has dark skin, too.
She is 35 years old.
I also have a little sister named Munira Abdi.
She is 11 years old and has dark skin, as well.
I have a white straight best friend named Sasha.
She has blond hair and blue eyes.
She is 17 years old, just like me.
We share the same interests, such as painting, drawing, and reading books.
On Monday, I wake up and shower.
I brush my teeth, eat breakfast, say goodbye to Munira, Mom, Dad, and Sasha.
Sasha drives us to school.
We are in our last year of high school before we go to college.
We sing "Often" by The Weeknd.
We walk into school and talk about what happened over the weekend.
We are in history class.
Sasha is my friend.
I ask Mr. Murray if I can go to the bathroom.
I get up and walk into the bathroom.
I see Blake Simmons fixing his hair because today is photo day for school.
He looks at me and says, "What's up?"
I say, "Nothing much."
He says, "So you're here for photo day?"
I say, "Yeah, I am."
He says, "What are you wearing?"
I say, "A white button-down shirt and some black pants."
He says, "That's nice."
I say, "A black shirt."
He says, "So am I."
He says, "Your hair looks good."
I say, "Thank you."
He says, "You're welcome."
Suddenly, we hear a lot of gunshots in the halls.
We run into the stall and stand on the toilet.
Blake says, "Was that a gun?"
I say, "Yes."
We both start crying.
The shots get louder.
We hear someone walking into the bathroom.
She says, "Hello?"
Blake says, "Kelly Thorne?"
She says, "Blake Simmons?"
She says, "Who's with you?"
He says, "Mohamed Abdi."
She says, "Where are you guys?"
He says, "In the stall."
She walks into the stall and sees us.
She says, "What are you guys doing up there?"
Blake says, "There's a shooter in the school."
Kelly starts crying.
She says, "Emma Newton killed my sister Sarah Thorne. She was my twin sister."
We hear one more gunshot.
Then we hear police sirens.
The officers come into the bathroom and rescue us.
They say Emma Newton k##d herself and half of the school is d#d.
After the police rescue us from the bathroom, they lead us out of the school.
We walk past the bodies of our friends and teachers.
There is blood on the floors and walls.
We walk out of the school, and tears are streaming down our faces.
The police officers drive us home.
No one says a word in the car.
When we get home, I go straight to my room.
I sit on my bed, looking at old photos of me and my friends.
I cry while looking at the photos, and tears fall onto them.
I'm depressed now because I lost my friends today.
At home, my family is waiting for me.
Mom, Dad, and Munira all hug me.
They ask me if I'm okay.
I sit at the kitchen table staring at the TV.
CNN is showing news about the shooting at my school.
The TV shows a list of people who died today.
My friends are on the list.
My teachers are on the list.
My parents try to get me to eat, but I push the food away.
I can't eat anything right now.
Munira is sitting next to me, holding my hand tightly.
She looks worried about me.
I feel numb inside, thinking about what happened today.
I lay in bed, staring at my phone.
I open Instagram and scroll through Blake's page.
He has a lot of photos of him playing football and working out at the gym.
I press follow and send him a text message.
"Hi, this is Mohamed from the bathroom stall during the school shooting."
He responds quickly.
"Hi Mohamed, how are you?"
I type back, "Just kind of numb. You?"
He replies, "Also numb. Did you go to the vigil?"
I tell him I didn't go and have been hiding in my room.
He says he's home alone right now and is scared to leave the house.
I tell him I'm here for him if he needs me.
I wake up drenched in sweat.
I had a nightmare about the school shooting.
I get out of bed and take a shower.
Mom drives me to Sasha's house.
She drops me off and leaves.
Sasha hugs me when I get inside.
We go to her bedroom and talk about the shooting.
I ask her, "Why do you think Emma did it?"
She says, "Is there ever a reason?"
I don't say anything.
Later that night, I'm at home with Mom and Munira watching the news.
They're still talking about the school shooting.
I check Blake's Instagram again.
He posted a video of him playing football at our high school during a match.
I get to Blake's house and knock on the door.
Blake opens the door.
He says, "Hey, Mohamed."
He says, "Come in."
He says, "My parents are in South Korea for business. They left me alone in this big house."
We walk into the house.
There's a pool and a hot tub.
We walk past four bedrooms.
He shows me the sauna and bathrooms.
He also shows me his gym.
He says, "Would you like some wine?"
I say, "Sure."
I say, "You post a lot about football and working out on Instagram."
He says, "Yeah, I do."
I say, "But in real life, you're not like that at all."
He says, "I don't know why I act like that on Instagram."
We drink our wine.
We sit in his living room.
We're both still feeling the wine.
My phone buzzes.
Mom asks if I'm okay.
I tell her about Kelly's sister's funeral tomorrow.
His face gets serious.
I ask if he'll come with me.
He says yes without thinking.
The next day, Blake and I go to Sarah's funeral.
We see Kelly there, and she's sad.
She says her sister was killed by Emma.
We tell Kelly we're sorry for her loss.
After the funeral, I go home.
I feel numb again.
I'm in my room, crying.
Later, I go to Blake's house.
We watch TV and eat nachos and tacos.
He says his parents are always away on business, so he eats this a lot when they're gone.
I ask if his parents trust him not to throw parties when they're away.
It's 10 PM.
We're sitting on his bed, watching "Gossip Girl" on his laptop.
The room is quiet except for the show's dialogue.
Blake's eyes start to close.
He asks me to stay until he falls asleep.
I look at the time and hesitate, but I say okay.
After a while, I can tell he's asleep by his breathing.
I watch his face for a few minutes.
He looks peaceful sleeping.
Then I get up quietly and leave the house.
I take a taxi home and go inside my house.
I text Sasha saying sorry for missing the gun violence march today.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if life will ever feel normal again.
I wake up sweating.
I had another nightmare about the school shooting.
I take a shower and brush my teeth.
I call Sasha.
She answers, and we talk about school.
My dad comes into my room and asks if Sasha is going back to school.
I tell him yes, and he says I should stay home.
He wants me to see a therapist named Henry Johnson.
I agree, and we hang up with Sasha.
Later, I meet Henry at his office.
He's 32 years old, calm, and listens carefully.
We talk about the shooting and how I feel.
He says I'm not alone and that many people are going through the same thing.
Henry leans forward slightly and says, "Mohamed, have you talked to anyone else who was there that day?"
I nod and reply, "Yeah, I've been talking to Blake a lot; we were both in the bathroom."
Henry raises an eyebrow and asks, "And how has that been for you, connecting with someone who experienced it too?"
I pause, looking down for a moment.
"Good. It's been good to talk to him."
I leave Henry's office and walk home.
The streets are quiet, and the sun is setting.
I think about our conversation and how I told him I'm bisexual.
It feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
I sit in the car, still feeling a bit shaken from my therapy session.
Dad is driving us to the mall.
He tries to make small talk, but I'm not really in the mood.
"Hey, Mohamed, how was your therapy session?" he asks.
I just shrug and say, "It was fine."
Dad looks at me with concern and says, "You know you can talk to me if you need to, right?"
I nod but don't say anything else.
We arrive at the mall, and Dad asks if I want to get some food.
I snap at him, "I don't care!"
Munira and Dad look at me surprised by my outburst.
Dad says, "Okay, Mohamed. We'll go get some food and be back soon."
They leave me alone in the car while they go inside.
I watch them through the window as they walk away.
I feel bad for yelling at Dad, but I'm still trying to process everything that happened in therapy.
After a few minutes, Munira and Dad come back with bags of groceries and turkey sandwiches for all of us.
Dad hands me my food without saying a word.
I apologize to Dad for snapping at him and thank him for the sandwich.
We drive back home in silence.
At home, I sit on the living room couch, scrolling through my phone.
Munira dances beside me, recording a TikTok video.
She's wearing a pink shirt and black leggings.
She spins around and jumps up and down, singing along to the music.
She looks happy and carefree, like she's trying to forget about all the bad things that happened recently.
As she dances, I get a text from Kelly.
"Hey Mohamed, thanks for coming to my sister's funeral. It means a lot to me."
I reply, "You're welcome, Kelly. I'm still feeling numb since the school shooting."
Kelly texts back, "I know how you feel. Do you want to meet up at a restaurant and talk?"
I get up from the couch and grab my jacket.
"I'll be right there," I text Kelly.
I step outside, feeling the cool night air, and realize that maybe talking is the first step to healing.
I pull my jacket tighter as I walk down Main Street.
The storefronts are dark, but the neon sign of Joe's Diner flickers ahead.
Pink and blue shadows dance on the wet pavement.
Through the window, I see Kelly hunched over her phone in our usual corner booth.
Her red hair falls forward to hide her face.
My shoes squeak against the linoleum as I enter.
The bell above the door chimes, but Kelly doesn't look up.
The familiar smell of coffee and grilled onions fills the air, but my stomach churns with anxiety.
Kelly's fingers tap rapidly on her phone screen, her brow furrowed in concentration.
I slide into the booth across from her, and my throat feels tight.
She finally looks up, her eyes red and puffy.
"Hey, Mohamed," she whispers, her voice trembling.
I nod and clear my throat.
"How are you doing?"
Kelly shrugs and stares down at her phone again.
"I just keep thinking about Emma and Sarah."
Her shoulders start shaking, and I realize she's crying.
Without thinking, I get up and move to her side of the booth.
I put my arms around her and hold her close.
The other diners turn to stare, but I don't care.
I hold Kelly while she sobs into my shoulder.
The waitress approaches with menus, but she sees Kelly crying and quietly backs away.
After a few minutes, Kelly pulls away from me and wipes her eyes with a napkin.
"I'm sorry, Mohamed," she says, her voice still shaking.
"I just miss them so much."
I nod and give her a hug again.
"It's okay to cry," I say.
"We all need to grieve in our own way."
Kelly nods and smiles weakly.
The next day, I go to Blake's house.
We sit in his living room, sipping red wine.
On the TV, Sasha is talking about gun control and the school shooting.
She says we need to make changes to prevent this from happening again.
I ask Blake for more wine, and he pours me another glass.
Then we go out to the backyard pool.
We're both wearing facial masks and goggles, and we're still holding our wine glasses.
Blake lights up a joint, and we smoke it together, laughing and feeling high.
After swimming, I thank Blake for inviting me over.
He tells me I'm always welcome at his house.
I walk home and tell my mom I was at Blake's parents' mansion.
She nods and says, "Oh, that's nice."
We sit down to eat dinner together.
Munira is upstairs recording another TikTok dance.
My mom asks if she should take away Munira's phone, but I suggest downloading a spy app instead.
She agrees that's a good idea.
As we eat, my mom mentions that I can't stay home from school forever.
I argue that I don't want to go back yet, but she insists it's important not to fall behind and get into college.
After dinner, I sit with Munira in the living room and help her with her homework.
She seems distracted, so I ask if something's wrong.
She hesitates, then tells me she got her period two months ago but was scared to tell me.
I reassure her it's normal and she can always talk to me about anything.
We finish her homework together, and then she goes to bed.
My mind drifts back to Blake, and I text him about Munira getting her period.
He asks when it happened, and I reply, "Two months ago, she just didn't want to tell you."
After Munira goes to bed, I go to my room and open my laptop for a video call with Blake.
His face appears on the screen, looking tired but still smiling.
I can see the blue walls of his bedroom behind him.
He asks how I'm doing, and I tell him Mom is pushing me to go back to school.
His expression darkens, and he runs his fingers through his messy blonde hair.
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath.
I pick at a loose thread on my bedspread and ask about his own plans.
He tells me his parents offered to homeschool him so he can finish high school at home.
I admit I'm a little jealous that he gets to stay home while I have to go back to school eventually.
Suddenly, exhaustion hits me, and I decide it's time for bed.
Blake looks at me through the screen and says, "You know, you could always come over and study with me if you want."
I smile, feeling a bit of relief at the thought, and reply, "Yeah, that sounds nice. Maybe I will."
He nods, his eyes softening, and adds, "We can get through this together, Mohamed."
I stare at my dark laptop screen after ending the call.
My stomach churns at the thought of going back to school tomorrow.
I lie in bed, but sleep doesn't come easily.
I walk into school with Blake and Kelly, two weeks after the shooting.
The hallways are quiet, and everyone looks tense.
We see new signs on the walls for the "School Shooting Class."
In class, I have trouble focusing on the teacher.
My mind keeps drifting to Munira's secret and Blake's comforting words.
At lunch, I go outside to the schoolyard and look for Lyra, the girl with tattoos who sells drugs.
I find her in a secluded corner, smoking a cigarette.
She looks up at me and says, "What do you want?"
I ask her if she has any MDMA, and she nods.
I hand her some money, and she gives me a bag of pills.
She asks if I'm a cop, but I assure her I'm just a 17-year-old looking for a high.
After getting the pills from Lyra, I go back to class.
I slip three of them into my mouth and swallow them down.
The MDMA hits me during history class, and the fluorescent lights start dancing above my head.
I feel my skin tingling, and everything seems warm and perfect.
Mr. Peterson is talking about World War II, but his words become background noise.
I pull out my phone and text Sasha "need u rn" before stumbling out of the classroom and into the hallway.
The cold lockers feel amazing against my back as I slide down to the floor.
Sasha finds me there, her face morphing from a smile to concern when she sees my dilated pupils.
"You're completely zooted," she whispers, grabbing my arm and helping me up.
I giggle as she guides me through the empty corridors to her car.
The world sways pleasantly around me, and everything feels like a dream.
As the car door closes behind me, reality starts to blur, and I wonder if I'm losing myself.
Sasha's car swerves slightly as she speeds toward my house, casting worried glances at me while I slump against the window.
The world outside blurs into streaks of color, and I feel the rush of the wind against my face.
We pull up to my house, and Sasha helps me out of the car.
I stumble up the walkway, my feet feeling heavy and uncoordinated.
Inside, I stagger past my mom and Munira, who look at me with concern.
I mumble something about needing to use the bathroom and make my way upstairs.
The walls seem to tilt as I push open the bathroom door.
I almost knock over Mom's favorite vase but manage to catch it just in time.
Turning on the faucet, I splash cold water on my face, but it doesn't help clear my head.
Suddenly, Munira appears in the doorway, her eyes wide with worry.
"Are you okay?" she asks, taking a step back as I laugh too loudly.
I grip the sink for balance and try to reassure her that everything is fine.
She looks unconvinced, but I insist I'm okay.
I make my way to my bedroom and collapse onto the bed.
The room spins around me, and I feel a sense of detachment from my body.
I pull out my phone and send a few texts before passing out.
When I wake up, the MDMA is still lingering in my system.
I sit on my bed and look at my laptop, which is open on the desk.
Kelly video chats me, and her face appears on the screen.
"Hey," she says, looking concerned.
I smile at her, still feeling the effects of the drugs.
She mentions a text I sent her while high and apologizes for not responding sooner.
I tell her it's okay and explain that I bought the MDMA from Lyra at lunch in the school parking lot.
Kelly asks how I'm feeling now, and I reply, "To be determined."
She tells me she's there for me if I need anything.
I ask if she wants to hang out later, and she jokes about bringing some oxy with her.
The next morning, I sit at the kitchen table with Munira and Dad.
Munira is mixing slime, and I'm eating cereal.
She asks me if Kelly is my girlfriend, but I deflect the question and ask about her slime.
She tells me it's pink and purple.
She asks again if Kelly is my girlfriend, and I tell her no.
She says I've never had a straight girl over before, but I tell her not to assume Kelly's orientation.
Dad chimes in, asking if Kelly and I will be in the living room later.
I joke that we'll have sex in my bedroom, but then clarify that we'll just watch a movie she picks.
We all laugh, and then the doorbell rings, signaling Kelly's arrival.
I open the door, and Kelly steps inside, her presence a reminder that healing is a journey we don't have to take alone.
Kelly and I settle onto the living room couch, debating what to watch.
She picks a nature documentary showing unlikely animal friendships.
I tease her about the choice, reminding her that I wanted to watch "Escape Room" instead.
Munira interrupts, proudly showing off her homemade slime.
Kelly chooses the blue slime to touch while I pick the red one.
As Kelly compliments Munira, asking about her age, her face suddenly falls when I mention she's thirteen.
She becomes distant, making an abrupt excuse to leave.
She hugs me quickly before rushing out to her car.
Munira enters my room, wearing fake glasses.
She looks at me and notices the earring I'm wearing.
"Mom, Dad, Mohamed is wearing an earring," she says, then turns to me.
"Where did you get that?"
I lie, "I found it on the ground."
She asks why I'm wearing it, and I tell her to tell Mom and Dad that Sasha is driving me to a party.
She insists on knowing why I'm wearing her earring.
I joke, "Why are you wearing fake glasses?"
She replies, "Fake glasses are trendy."
I finish getting ready while we argue.
I grab my jacket and walk out the door, leaving Munira in my room.
The night air is crisp as I step outside, my heart pounding with the anticipation of what lies ahead.
I step inside Blake's sauna room, and the steam makes everything hazy.
The air is thick with moisture, and I can feel it clinging to my skin.
We both sit shirtless on the wooden benches, our sweat-dampened hair plastered to our heads.
The steam envelops us, creating an intimate bubble of warmth.
Our conversation flows easily, like a gentle stream meandering through the landscape of our thoughts.
We debate about music, our voices rising and falling in a soothing melody.
Drake versus Kendrick Lamar, each of us passionately defending our favorite artist.
The steam swirls around us, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and mint, mingling with the faint hint of our sweat.
As we talk, I feel a sense of comfort with Blake that I've never experienced before.
It's as if the steam has washed away my inhibitions, leaving me feeling vulnerable yet liberated.
I confess to him how different I feel with him compared to anyone else in my life.
The words spill out of me like a confession, and Blake listens intently, his eyes locked onto mine. The conversation shifts gears as we delve into more intimate topics.
We talk about virginity, and I'm surprised to discover that neither of us has had sex before.
Blake shares his thoughts on waiting for love before losing his virginity, and his words touch a chord within me.
My heart races at the thought of being with someone who feels the same way about intimacy as I do.
As we continue talking, the steam creates a cocoon around us, shielding us from the outside world.
Time seems to stand still as we explore the depths of our desires and fears.
After leaving the sauna, Blake and I grab a couple of beers from his fridge.
The cool glass feels refreshing in my hand as we make our way out into the quiet streets of his town.
The night air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves.
We walk side by side, our footsteps echoing off the houses.
Suddenly, I turn on some music, and we start dancing in the middle of the street.
Our bodies sway to the rhythm, and I feel a sense of freedom wash over me.
The beer loosens my inhibitions, and I let myself fully immerse in the moment.
As we continue dancing, our laughter fills the night air.
We drink more beer and wander aimlessly through the streets, enjoying each other's company.
Eventually, we make our way back to Blake's mansion.
We lie on his bedroom floor, facing each other with our legs intertwined.
The room is dimly lit, casting a warm glow over us. Blake looks at me with a serious expression and asks if I'm okay.
I assure him that I am, but he presses on, asking if there's anything I want to talk about.
I tell him that I'm fine for now and ask if he has anything on his mind.
He hesitates for a moment before opening up about his thoughts.
I listen intently as he shares his feelings with me.
Afterward, I ask him if there's anything he regrets not telling me before tonight.
He remains silent for a while, contemplating my question.
Finally, he responds with a simple "no."
I lean forward, my face inches away from his, and ask again if there's anything he wants to tell me before it gets too late.
He stares into my eyes for what feels like an eternity before finally answering, "No."
With that response hanging in the air between us, I close the distance and kiss him softly on the lips. He doesn't pull away; instead, he kisses me back with equal tenderness.
Our lips move in perfect harmony as we deepen our kiss.
It's as if time stands still around us, leaving only the two of us lost in this intimate moment.
Eventually, we break apart for a moment to catch our breath before moving together to Blake's bed.
We undress slowly in front of each other, taking in every detail of one another's bodies.
As we lie there, wrapped in each other's arms, Blake whispers, "I've never felt this close to anyone before."
I smile softly and reply, "Me neither, it's like everything else just fades away when I'm with you."
He nods, his voice barely audible as he admits, "I think I might be falling for you, Mohamed."
I wake up next to Blake, both of us naked.
The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow over his room.
I quietly get out of bed and gather my clothes from the floor.
Blake stirs but doesn't wake up.
I slip out of his room, closing the door behind me.
As I make my way through the silent halls of his mansion, I feel a mix of exhilaration and nausea.
I remember the night before and how we had s#x for the first time.
The memory sends a shiver down my spine.
I walk outside into the fresh morning air and vomit into his neighbor's plants.
The taste of bile lingers in my mouth as I continue walking away from Blake's house.
I walk into the kitchen, still feeling the effects of last night.
Mom and Munira are there, relief and concern on their faces.
"Where have you been?" my mom asks, her voice tense.
I lie, "I was at Sasha's."
She tells me that Sasha called looking for me.
Dad walks in, worry etched on his face.
"We thought something bad happened to you," he says.
I apologize and head to my room, but Mom calls me back.
"Where were you?" she demands to know the truth.
In my room, they confront me again.
I confess I was with Blake at his mansion, got drunk, and we had sex.
My mom asks if I was drunk; I admit it, defending my actions as typical teenage behavior.
After the tense breakfast confrontation about my night with Blake, I remain in the living room while my parents whisper in the kitchen.
My hands shake as I finally tell them I'm bisexual, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
Mom freezes mid-sentence, and Dad's coffee mug clinks against the counter.
Munira looks up from her phone, curious.
The silence stretches until Mom crosses the room and pulls me into a tight hug.
Dad joins, his arms wrapping around us both.
"You're our son," he says firmly.
"Nothing changes that."
Munira squeezes into the group hug, grinning.
"Does this mean Blake is your boyfriend now?" Munira asks, her eyes wide with curiosity.
I chuckle nervously, "I don't know, maybe? We haven't really talked about it."
Mom pulls back slightly, looking at me with a soft smile, "Well, when you're ready to introduce him properly, we'll be here."
I visit Sasha's house, entering her bedroom where she's busy with a campaign against gun violence and school shootings.
I apologize for not calling back, but then confront her about telling my parents I was at her place.
She explains that she was worried about me after seeing me high on MDMA at school.
She believes I haven't dealt with my issues properly and is frustrated with me.
As tension rises, Sasha bitterly tells me to go be with Blake.
I sit in Kelly's parked car outside the mall, venting about Sasha's harsh comments.
Kelly listens patiently, explaining how fear from the shooting affects everyone differently.
When I apologize for dumping my problems on her, she opens up about Sarah, describing her sister's quiet nature and unexpected humor.
The intimacy of the moment draws us closer until Kelly kisses me, her hand warm against my neck.
I kiss back instinctively, but she pulls away, citing her emotional state.
I sprint away from Kelly's car, my heart pounding in my chest.
The darkness of the evening seems to swallow me whole as I race through the streets, desperate to get home.
The lights of the houses blur together, and the sounds of the city become a distant hum.
Finally, I burst through the front door, gasping for breath.
I run up the stairs two at a time, not stopping until I collapse onto my bed.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out with trembling hands.
I need something to distract me from the turmoil inside.
I open Instagram and scroll through my feed, but nothing catches my attention.
Then I see Blake's profile picture - his bright blue eyes and chiseled features staring back at me.
I click on his latest post, a video of him doing deadlifts at the gym.
His muscles ripple beneath his skin as he lifts the heavy weight, his face set in a determined expression.
Sweat glistens on his forehead, and his hair is messy from the exertion. The comments section is filled with messages from girls at school, all vying for his attention.
They compliment his physique and flirt shamelessly, but Blake responds to each one patiently and politely.
As I gently shake his shoulder, a moment of panic grips me when he doesn't respond immediately, but relief floods in as he stirs and reassures me with a sleepy smile that he's just unwinding.
As I watch him respond to each message, I can't help but think about our night together.
The way our bodies moved in sync, the way he held me close and whispered sweet nothings in my ear.
It felt so natural, so right.
I never expected to feel this way about anyone, let alone someone like Blake.
I arrive at Blake's mansion after school, searching for him.
I find him in the sauna, sitting on the wooden bench with his eyes closed.
Music plays softly in the background, and the air is thick with steam.
I approach him cautiously, not wanting to startle him.
As I get closer, I notice that he's completely still, his chest barely rising with each breath.
Panic sets in as I shake him gently, calling out his name.
He doesn't respond, and my heart begins to race.
I shake him harder, screaming his name until he finally opens his eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asks groggily.
I'm relieved to see that he's okay but also shaken by the thought of losing him.
"You were unresponsive," I explain, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I thought you were dead."
Blake sits up and rubs his eyes, looking around the room as if trying to remember where he is.
"I was just sleeping," he says softly.
"I didn't mean to scare you."
I nod, still trying to calm myself down.
"Okay," I say quietly.
"But next time, please wake up when I call your name."
Blake smiles weakly and reaches out to touch my face.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. We move from the sauna to Blake's bedroom, both of us still shaken from the incident earlier.
We sit on his bed facing each other, our legs crossed and hands clasped together.
Blake breaks the silence first, his voice filled with concern.
"Do you hate me?" he asks softly.
I shake my head, "No, I could never hate you."
He sighs in relief and squeezes my hand gently.
"Good," he says, "because I don't think I could handle that."
I smile weakly and lean forward to kiss him lightly on the lips.
"I'm not going anywhere," I promise.
He smiles back, his eyes shining with happiness.
"Me neither," he replies.
We sit in silence for a moment, enjoying each other's company.
Then Blake speaks up again, his voice filled with uncertainty.
"Do you regret it?" he asks softly.
I look at him curiously, not understanding what he means.
"Regret what?"
I ask.
He hesitates before answering, "Us. Last night. Do you regret it?"
I shake my head firmly, "No," I say confidently.
"I don't regret anything."
He nods slowly, looking relieved once again.
"Good," he says quietly.
"Because I don't regret it either."
We sit in silence for another moment before I speak up again.
"But what about our friendship?" I ask nervously.
"Do you think it will change now?"
Blake looks at me thoughtfully before answering, "I don't know," he admits honestly.
"But I hope not. You're my best friend, Mohamed. I couldn't imagine losing you."
I nod in agreement, feeling the same way about him.
"We'll figure it out together," I say reassuringly.
Blake smiles and pulls me into a hug, holding me tightly against his chest. As we embrace, I can feel his heart beating rapidly against my cheek.
It's clear that he's just as nervous about this new development in our relationship as I am. But despite the uncertainty surrounding us, one thing is certain - we both want to be together.
After a few moments of embracing each other tightly, Blake finally pulls away and looks at me with a serious expression on his face.
"So," he says softly, "what does this mean for us?"
I take a deep breath and try to gather my thoughts before answering him honestly.
"I don't know," I admit truthfully.
"But I do know that I want to be with you."
Blake nods slowly and smiles slightly at my response.
"I want to be with you too," he says quietly.
Still sitting on Blake's bed, I watch his face light up with excitement as I suggest making our relationship official.
He asks me about my sexuality, and I explain that I'm bisexual.
I'm relieved to see him nod enthusiastically in response.
The conversation shifts as Blake nervously mentions wanting to return to football.
His hands fidget with the bedsheet as he talks, betraying his fear.
But I admire his courage in facing it head-on.
To lighten the mood, I grab his phone from the nightstand and open the delivery app.
Blake tenses for a moment until he realizes what I'm doing.
I select our favorite flavors - strawberry-vanilla for me, chocolate-vanilla for him.
I scroll through the toppings menu, and Blake leans against my shoulder to see.
We pick our favorites - chocolate sprinkles and caramel sauce for his, rainbow sprinkles and hot fudge for mine.
When I suggest adding whipped cream on top of both, Blake grins mischievously.
"Go all out since we're celebrating," he says, winking at me.
The total comes out to thirty dollars, making us both wince.
But Blake insists on paying, so I let him have his way.
As we wait for the delivery guy to arrive, we lie back on the bed with our shoulders touching.
Blake turns his head to look at me, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Do you think people will understand us?" he asks quietly.
I shrug, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "I don't know, but I think as long as we understand each other, that's what matters."
I shift closer to him on the bed, our shoulders still pressed together.
The afternoon sunlight filters in through the window, casting a warm glow over his worried face.
His question hangs in the air between us, but I don't say anything else.
I just turn towards him, my heart pounding in my chest.
Blake's hands are trembling slightly as he holds his phone, the ice cream order still on the screen.
I reach up to touch his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under my fingertips.
Our eyes meet for a brief moment before I close the distance between us, pressing my lips gently against his.
He tenses up at first, but then relaxes into the kiss.
I sit in Henry Johnson's office with my parents, recounting the events of the school shooting and my struggles with numbness and sadness.
As I speak, tears stream down my face, and I mention my new relationship with Blake Simmons.
I explain how we hid together during the shooting and now spend time at his mansion.
Henry asks about my feelings, and I admit to feeling both sad and happy.
I express confusion over Emma Newton's actions and gratitude for surviving, though moving on remains difficult.
Henry leans forward, his expression gentle yet probing.
"Do you think your relationship with Blake is helping you process everything?" he asks softly.
I nod, wiping my eyes. "Yeah, being with him makes it easier to face the day."
I sit on the metal bleachers watching Blake run drills with the football team.
His confident stance as team captain makes me smile, especially when he catches my eye and waves.
When he blows me an air kiss, whispers ripple through the crowd of students.
I sit on the bleachers watching Blake run drills with the football team.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a CNN notification.
The screen shows photos of the victims from our high school shooting.
Half the students and teachers were killed, and there's a picture of Emma Newton, the shooter.
She has short brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile.
She was 22 years old when she s#t up our school last month.
Tears fill my eyes as I stare at the photos.
Blake jogs over, noticing my distress. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asks, concern etched on his face.
I swallow hard, showing him the screen. "It's the news... they just released more details about the shooting."
His expression shifts from worry to anger as he glances at the photos. "I can't believe they're still plastering her face everywhere."
He gently takes my hand, pulling me up.
"Let's get out of here for a while," he whispers.
We walk away from the football field, leaving the school behind.
We stroll through the park, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.
Blake is quiet, his shoulders tense and his jaw clenched.
We stop by a bench, and he sits down, patting the spot next to him.
I join him, and he rests his head on my shoulder.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the distant chirping of birds.
Finally, Blake speaks softly. "I hate seeing her face everywhere."
He squeezes my hand, and I nod in understanding.
The sun casts long shadows across the grass as we sit in silence.
My heart pounds, and I can feel my anger and helplessness rising to the surface.
I clench my fists, staring at the ground.
Blake notices my tension and gently places his hand over mine, squeezing it reassuringly.
I look up at him, seeing his own frustration mirrored in his eyes.
We sit quietly for a while, the birds chirping around us.
Blake breaks the silence, his voice low. "Do you ever wonder why she did it?"
I nod slowly, the question gnawing at me. "Every day... but I don't think we'll ever really know."
He sighs, looking out at the horizon. "Maybe understanding her isn't as important as figuring out how we move forward."
I lean closer to him, whispering, "Let's focus on what we can control together."
He nods, his hand still holding mine.
The sun dips lower, casting a warm orange glow over the park.
Blake stands up and offers me his hand, helping me up.
We walk back to his house, hand in hand, the silence between us filled with determination.
Two weeks after seeing Emma's photo, Blake and I walk hand in hand to the school auditorium.
The hallways are empty, and the only sound is the echo of our footsteps on the polished floor.
We reach the auditorium doors, and Blake pushes them open.
The room is filled with students, teachers, and parents.
At the front of the room, a large canvas covered by a cloth stands on an easel.
The art students who created it huddle around it nervously.
Sasha, my best friend and one of the artists, catches my eye and gives me a small smile.
Blake and I find a seat near the back of the room.
The principal steps up to the microphone and clears his throat.
"Welcome everyone to today's special event. As you know, our school has been through a lot in the past few months. We've lost friends, classmates, and teachers. Today, we come together to honor their memory."
He pauses for a moment before continuing.
"The art students have worked tirelessly to create this memorial portrait. It's a beautiful tribute to those we've lost. So, without further ado, please join me in unveiling this incredible piece of art."
The room falls silent as everyone waits with anticipation.
The principal nods to Sasha, who steps forward and pulls off the cloth covering the canvas. The room erupts into gasps and whispers as everyone takes in the portrait.
It's a large canvas with dozens of faces painted on it - students and teachers who were killed in the shooting.
Blake squeezes my hand tightly as we gaze at the portrait.
I see Sarah Thorne's face among them, her bright smile captured perfectly on canvas.
Tears well up in my eyes as I look at her face one last time.
Blake stands up and pulls me into a hug.
We hold each other tightly, knowing that while the pain remains, so does our resolve to remember and rebuild.
I walk with Blake, hand in hand, toward our first class of the day.
The hallway is bustling with students rushing to their next destination.
Kelly and Sasha catch up to us, falling into step beside Blake and me.
We all pause at the water fountain, where Sasha adjusts her backpack and Kelly checks her phone.
As we approach our shared English class, I can't help but think about the memorial portrait's faces still etched in my mind.
Blake squeezes my hand once more before letting it go to take his seat.
I slide into my desk, sandwiched between Kelly and Sasha.
The bell rings, and as the teacher begins the lesson, I realize that today marks the start of something new.
I pull out my notebook and my favorite blue pen, ready to take notes.
The teacher, Ms. Rodriguez, writes "Character Development in The Great Gatsby" on the whiteboard.
For the first time since the shooting, I actually want to participate in class.
Ms. Rodriguez looks around the room, her eyes settling on me.
"Can anyone tell me how Nick Carraway changes throughout the novel?"
My hand rises before I can stop it.
Blake catches my eye from across the room and gives me an encouraging nod.
I take a deep breath and start explaining my answer.
My voice grows stronger with each word.
Kelly squeezes my arm supportively as I finish speaking.
Sasha leans over, whispering, "That was amazing. I knew you had it in you."
I smile, feeling a warmth I haven't felt in a long time. "Thanks, Sasha. It feels good to finally speak up again."
After English class, I linger in the empty classroom, gathering my books slowly.
Blake waits by the door, watching me with a mix of pride and concern.
As I finally stand up, he approaches me.
"Hey, you did great in there," he says softly.
I nod, feeling a strange mix of emotions.
It's been so long since I've spoken up in class that it feels both exhilarating and terrifying.
"I know. It's just... weird."
Blake looks at me quizzically.
"Weird?"
I sigh, trying to find the right words.
"It's just that for so long, no one expected anything from me. And now... now everyone is listening."
Blake takes a step closer to me, but I involuntarily tense up.
He notices and steps back slightly, giving me space.
"I'm sorry," he says gently.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"No, it's not you," I say quickly.
"It's just... everything is still so new."
Blake nods understandingly.
"I get it. It's going to take time."
I look down at my hands as they shake slightly while zipping my backpack.
Blake reaches out and gently takes my hand in his, trying to calm me down. But without thinking, I pull away from him.
The moment I do, I regret it.
Blake's eyes widen in surprise and hurt.
"Sorry," I say quickly.
"I didn't mean to... it's just..."
Blake shakes his head and steps back further.
"It's okay. I get it."
"I'm sorry, Blake," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He gives me a small, reassuring smile. "You don't have to apologize. Just know I'm here when you're ready."
I nod, grateful for his understanding. "Thanks, Blake. I really appreciate it."
I gather my books slowly, trying to avoid Blake's concerned gaze.
The classroom empties, leaving behind scattered papers and empty desks.
Blake stands by the door, patient and still.
Finally, I zip my backpack and approach him.
"I'm sorry," I say again, reaching for his hand this time.
To my surprise, he doesn't flinch as our fingers interlock.
The hallway stretches before us, sunlight streaming through windows.
Together, we step out of the classroom, our footsteps echoing in sync.
I lean against my locker, watching as students file into their next period classes.
The bell rings, and I know I should head to calculus, but I can't bring myself to move.
Blake walks down the hall, his eyes fixed on me.
When he reaches my locker, I grab his wrist and pull him close.
"Let's ditch calculus," I whisper in his ear.
He looks at me, surprised, then glances at his watch.
"I don't know. We have a quiz today."
I press my body against his, feeling his warmth seep through our clothes.
"We deserve a break after everything," I say softly.
The hallway empties as the final bell rings.
Blake hesitates, looking around nervously.
"Where would we go?"
I smile mischievously.
"There's this coffee shop downtown. No one will recognize us there."
Blake raises an eyebrow.
"And what's so special about this coffee shop?"
"They have fresh cinnamon rolls every morning," I reply, knowing Blake's weakness for sweets.
His eyes widen slightly, and I can see the resistance in his eyes start to fade.
"Okay, fine," he says finally, nodding.
We slip out the side door, leaving calculus and the weight of expectations behind.
I lead Blake down the empty sidewalk, our hands clasped together.
The morning sun casts long shadows behind us as we make our way off school grounds.
We pass by the convenience store where some teachers grab coffee before class.
Blake's palm is sweaty against mine, and he keeps glancing over his shoulder nervously.
When we reach the crosswalk by Miller Street, Blake pulls me to a stop.
"Let's take the long way," he says quietly.
"Behind the library. We can avoid the main road."
I nod in agreement, and we turn left, following the path that leads behind the library.
Our footsteps echo off the brick walls as we hurry along.
Finally, we duck through an alleyway that opens up onto the bustling downtown street.
The scent of cinnamon and freedom fills the air as we step into the coffee shop, leaving everything else behind.
We settle into a corner booth, our knees touching under the small table.
The cinnamon roll we're sharing sits between us, steam rising from its glazed surface.
Outside the window, people hurry past, none of them students we know.
Blake tears off a piece of the pastry, his fingers sticky with icing.
The coffee shop's indie music plays softly overhead as we lean closer together in our private moment.
When a barista walks by, Blake tenses briefly but then relaxes, remembering we're safe here.
We exchange a knowing glance, savoring the sweetness of our stolen freedom.