You were curled up on your bed, scrolling through your phone, windows cracked just enough to let the breeze and the hum of summer cicadas in. The world was quiet. Sleep felt distant.
And then came that knock—three short taps against the glass of your bedroom window.
You jolted upright, peering through the curtain.
There he was. Gibsie.
Grinning.
Wearing joggers, slides, and a hoodie that definitely hadn’t been washed recently. His hair was a mess, curls pointing in five different directions, and he looked like he hadn’t planned this out at all.
You cracked open the window. “Are you serious?”
He grinned wider. “I’m dead serious. Come on.”
“Where?”
“Out. Just… out. Don’t ask too many questions.”
“You look like a serial killer.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, you look like someone who needs to get outta their house. Let’s go.”
You didn’t even argue.
You grabbed your phone, keys, and pulled on the nearest pair of slides. By the time you stepped outside, the night had cooled and the breeze raised goosebumps across your arms.
Without a word, he peeled his hoodie over his head and tossed it at you. “You look like a goose.”
You slipped it on before replying. “I look adorable actually.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get in the car.”
Twenty minutes later, you pulled into an all-night gas station, its flickering fluorescent lights buzzing like they were barely clinging to life. There wasn’t another soul in sight.
“I need snacks,” he said, parking crookedly across two spaces. “And maybe a cig. My brain’s too loud.”
“Classy,” you teased, already hopping out.
Inside, you grabbed sour candy and a bottle of peach iced tea. He got a share-size bag of chips, a KitKat, and a pack of Marlboro Lights.
He caught your expression. “What? Don’t give me that look. I’m having a night, alright?”
Back in the car, you both climbed into the backseat, legs tangled, the windows slightly fogging in the sticky summer air.
He lit the cigarette first, leaning his head against the door, then passed it to you without saying anything.
You took a drag. It was harsh and dry and tasted like summer rebellion, like something you wouldn’t usually do, but it felt right here—with him.
Gibsie exhaled slowly, watching the smoke disappear.
“You ever feel like you’re on the edge of something and you don’t know if it’s good or bad?” he asked after a long silence.
You glanced at him, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, legs crossed on the seat. “Yeah. A lot.”
He nodded. “That’s me lately. Everything’s either about to fall apart or… I don’t know. Start.”
“Why’d you come to me?” you asked softly.
He looked at you, really looked. “Because you’re the only person who feels real when my brain won’t shut the fuck up.”