My Stepbrother, My Enemy {BL}-Chapter 254: How To Process The Guilt

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The morning after the Snow Ball, everything felt gray and heavy. It was one of those winter days where the light creeps through the curtains, making everything inside seem dull and worn out.

I hadn’t really slept at all, just lay on top of the covers staring up at the ceiling fan as it spun in slow circles, replaying that courtyard scene over and over in my mind: Ethan’s face twisting into a mix of betrayal and exhaustion, Adrien getting punched, the snow falling like it was trying to cover up what had just happened. Each time I shut my eyes, the images became sharper, so I kept them open until my vision blurred, and the room felt like it was moving around me. 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

When the house finally started to wake up. Mom’s footsteps on the stairs and the distant clinking of coffee mugs, I locked my bedroom door. It was just a quiet click, but it felt louder in the silence.

I really didn’t want to talk or explain anything, and I definitely didn’t want anyone looking at me with that concerned expression adults wear when they know something’s wrong but don’t know how to help.

Mom knocked around noon. "Noah? Sweetheart, you okay in there?"

I stayed curled up on my bed, hugging my knees to my chest, staring at the wall with a single crack running from the ceiling to the baseboard, like someone had tried to draw a straight line but gave up halfway.

"I’m fine," I called back, my voice flat enough that I hardly believed it myself.

There was a pause. "You sure? You didn’t come down for breakfast. Or dinner last night."

"I’m not hungry."

Another pause, this one longer. "Keith’s worried too. He said—"

"I just need some space, Mom. Please."

She didn’t push. She never really did when I sounded like this. I could hear her footsteps retreating, and the house fell back into its usual quiet. I spent the rest of the weekend in my room, mindlessly scrolling through the same three apps, checking my phone every ten minutes even though I knew it wouldn’t help.

No messages from Ethan and not a word from Adrien. It felt like they both decided at the exact same moment that reaching out would only make things worse. Maybe they were right.

Monday morning at Brookstone High felt like stepping into someone else’s life after a long time. The hallways still had a bit of the Snow Ball magic paper snowflakes awkwardly taped to lockers, a few glitter specks stuck to the floor, but the magic had faded overnight, leaving everything feeling just ordinary and slightly sticky.

I kept my head down, hoodie up, trying to move through the crowd unnoticed.

Of course, Ethan was there. I spotted him first in the cafeteria at lunch, sitting at the usual table with some basketball players, laughing at something one of them said. His laugh didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was close enough to fool most people.

When we accidentally locked eyes across the room, he didn’t glare or look away dramatically. He just gave me a small, polite nod, like someone you used to be friends with but aren’t anymore. That hurt more than avoiding me would have.

I tried anyway. After fifth period, when the hallway cleared out a bit, I caught him at his locker. "Ethan."

He paused, hand on the locker door, then slowly closed it. When he turned around, his expression was cautious, almost gentle. "Hey."

"Can we talk? Just for a minute?"

He let out a breath through his nose, his shoulders drooping slightly. "I don’t think I can do this right now, Noah."

The words weren’t harsh. They were quiet and final, like he’d already rehearsed this conversation in his head and come to the safest conclusion: no conversation at all.

I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He gave me another small nod, almost apologetic, and walked away, his backpack slung over one shoulder, disappearing into the sea of students heading to their next class.

Adrien was different. He didn’t hover like he used to, not teasing comments in the hall, no smirk when we crossed paths, no casual shoulder bump that had once meant everything.

He kept his distance like he was giving me what I asked for, but I could see the tension in him...the flex of his jaw when someone said my name, the way his fingers tapped anxiously against his thigh during study hall, but he never crossed that invisible line he’d drawn.

By the end of the day, I was fed up. I found him in the corridor near the art wing, the place quiet except for the faint scent of acrylic paint drifting in from the open doorways. I grabbed his sleeve gently and pulled him into an alcove between two bulletin boards.

"Why aren’t you saying anything?" I asked, my voice low and tired.

Adrien looked down at me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face like he was trying to commit it to memory. "You said you needed space."

"That doesn’t mean disappear."

He let out a small, humorless breath. "I’m not fucking disappearing. I’m just processing the fact that you’d rather have no one than chose me."

That stung and my throat tightened. "That’s not fair."

"Maybe not," he shrugged, the movement small and weary. "But it’s true."

We stood there in the dim light coming through the frosted window at the end of the hall, neither of us willing to look away first, until the bell rang and broke the moment.

Later that afternoon, I overheard Ethan in the parking lot. He was leaning against his truck, phone pressed against his ear, his voice low but sharp enough to be heard in the cold air.

"No, I’m not dropping it. The handwriting doesn’t match. I don’t care what the report says... Yeah, the detective. Exactly. If he knows something—"

When he saw me by the bike racks, he ended the call abruptly. Our eyes met for half a second, just long enough for me to see the determination still burning beneath the hurt, and then he climbed into the truck and drove off without looking back. Even heartbroken and angry, he was still chasing answers. Alone.

The realization twisted something deep in my chest. He hadn’t given up on the truth, just on me.

When I got home, the house felt smaller than ever, like the walls had crept closer overnight. Adrien was in the kitchen rinsing a coffee mug at the sink when I walked in. We passed each other in the narrow space between the island and the counter, too close, too much history and both paused.

He spoke first, his voice soft enough I almost missed it. "I meant what I said."

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the fridge door. "That’s the problem."

"I won’t apologize for loving you."

"I didn’t ask you to."

"Then what do you want from me?"

The question hung there, simple and devastating. I felt my voice crack before I even opened my mouth. "I want it to stop hurting."

Silence stretched between us, thick and painful. Adrien moved a bit closer but stopped just short of touching me.

"You think it doesn’t hurt me?" he asked quietly.

I shook my head, feeling overwhelmed, tears burning behind my eyes again. "I can’t breathe in this house. I need to leave."

The words slipped out before I could stop them, raw and honest. And that was the turning point.

That night, I packed a small duffel with jeans, a couple of hoodies, my charger, and the book I’d been pretending to read for weeks. I didn’t ask for permission or leave a note. I just moved through the dark hallway like a ghost, pausing for a moment outside Adrien’s door.

Light glowed under the crack. I could hear the faint scratch of his pen against paper, probably sketching something he’d never show anyone. My hand hovered over the knob. I wanted to knock. I wanted to say something that would fix everything.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I took out my phone in the foyer and texted Gigi.

Me: Can I stay with you?

Her reply came almost immediately.

Gigi 💅🏾: Obviously. Get over here. Door’s unlocked. Bring snacks if you want bonus points.

I slipped out into the night without looking back.

The walk to Gigi’s wasn’t long, but the cold made it feel endless. Snow started falling again, light, lazy flakes that melted the moment they hit my skin. By the time I reached her porch, the front light was on, warm and yellow against the dark.

I stood there for a minute, duffel at my feet, staring at the familiar wreath on the door and the little ceramic snowman she’d put out every December since we were thirteen.

I didn’t cry, not yet at least. But I felt the exhaustion settle into my bones like it was finally allowed to stop pretending. I could collapse here. I could breathe here. At least for tonight.

I picked up my bag, climbed the steps, and pushed the door open to the smell of cinnamon and Gigi’s terrible singing coming from the kitchen. For the first time in what felt a damn decade, the tightness in my chest loosened just enough to let some air in.