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The Undoing

THE IDES OF MARCH – PART V

In the last installment of The Ides of March…

I woke to the smell of toast and the sound of my parents debating the difference between “golden brown” and “almost burnt.” The sun was barely up—that pale winter light bleeding slow across the walls—and Drew’s side of the bed was empty. Still warm.

I sat up slowly, ran a hand through my hair, and listened. Voices downstairs. Footsteps. Laughter. Life moving forward like nothing had changed. But something had.

I pulled on a hoodie and padded barefoot down the hall. My body was sore in the quiet way that follows too much tension and not enough sleep. My head was clearer than I wanted it to be.

In the kitchen, Drew was at the stove. His hair was damp from a shower. His sleeves were pushed up. And he was laughing at something Dad said about college coffee versus real coffee. Leah sat at the table, eyes on her phone, mug in one hand, foot bouncing like she was already halfway to being late for something.

I leaned against the doorframe and watched him. The way he moved. The way he smiled. The way he looked like nothing was different at all. But then he glanced up—just once—and saw me. And his smile changed. Subtle. Barely there. But I felt it. Because I knew what it meant. Because only I knew what it meant. Because I could still feel his hand wrapped around mine on the porch like a promise. And now… I had to decide what to do with it.

I was halfway back to my room when I heard the creak behind me. Drew’s footsteps. Barely audible, but I felt them before I heard them. I kept walking. He followed. I opened the door to my room and let it fall shut behind him without looking back.

“I just came to grab my charger,” I said.

“I know.”

I turned around. He was standing in the same place he’d stood the night before—hoodie on now, hair still damp, but the same boy who’d tangled himself around me like I was something he wanted. Something he chose. Except now… he looked like he didn’t know what he was allowed to want.

We stood there for a minute, neither of us speaking. Just breathing. Then I said it. Soft. Measured. Like I’d been waiting all morning to ask.

“What are we doing?”