What if He Knew: Chapter One - The Weight of Oxygen

Sometimes the loudest thing in a room is the secret you aren’t telling. For Boston, every night drive and every shared cup of coffee with Finn is a masterclass in internal composure. They’ve been "Boston and Finn" since they were kids—a duo defined by shared history and an easy, platonic rhythm. But lately, the rhythm is off. Between the neon glow of a late-night diner and the suffocating memory of a quiet Friday night, Boston is realizing that "tired" is no longer a big enough word to cover the truth. How do you keep breathing when the person you love is the one taking all the air?

Chapter One 

Boston 

The Weight of Oxygen

The neon sign of the corner diner is missing the 'E,' so it just pulses DIN R in a rhythmic, nauseating pink against the dashboard. I’ve been staring at it for three minutes, timing my breathing to the flicker. It’s a distraction, a way to keep my thoughts from drifting six inches to the left, where Finn is currently vibrating with an energy I haven't been able to match in weeks.

The Jeep smells like him. It always does, a mix of high-end woodsmoke cologne, stale French fries, and the faint, metallic scent of the garage where he spends forty hours a week. It’s a smell that used to mean safety. Now, it just feels like a trap. Every time I inhale, I’m reminded of exactly how close we are and exactly how far I am from ever being able to tell him why my hands are shaking.

Beside me, Finn is singing. He’s not even good at it, he’s off-key and loud, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in a frantic, happy rhythm. He looks effortless. That’s the word for Finn. He moves through the world like it was built specifically for him, never doubting his place in it, never wondering if the person sitting next to him is secretly mourning a friendship that hasn’t even ended yet.

“You’re quiet tonight, B,” Finn says.

The song ends, and he shifts the Jeep into park with a finality that makes my stomach roll. He doesn’t look away; he just leans his head back against the headrest, grinning at me. There’s a smudge of grease on his jaw, right along the bone, and his hair is a disaster of golden-brown curls that he’s been running his hands through all day.

I want to reach out and wipe the smudge away. My pulse thrums in my fingertips, a physical ache that demands I touch him. I can almost feel the heat of his skin, the slight roughness of the grease. I have to clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms just to stay still.

“Just tired,” I lie.

The word is smooth. It’s a practiced shield I’ve been carrying since the eleventh grade, a universal excuse for why I’m not laughing at his jokes or why I’m staring out the window like the sidewalk holds the answers to my life. I’ve said it so many times it doesn't even taste like a lie anymore. It’s just the price of admission for staying in his life.

“Liar,” he huffs, but it’s fond. He reaches over and shoves my shoulder, a rough, brotherly gesture that makes my skin burn beneath my shirt. “You’re thinking again. I can hear the gears grinding from here, Bos. It’s loud. Distracting. Stop it. Coffee first, existential crisis later.”

He hops out of the car before I can respond, slamming the door with a loud thwack that echoes in the empty lot. I watch him walk toward the diner entrance. He walks like he owns the pavement, his gait loose and confident. He doesn't know that every time he touches me, I have to mentally reconstruct my entire personality so I don’t fall apart. He doesn't know that "tired" actually means I spent the last three hours wondering what he’d do if I kissed him.

I stay in the car for a moment longer, letting the silence settle. This is the "What If" that haunts me. What if he knew? What if I reached out and didn’t stop at his shoulder? What if I let the truth spill out right here on the cracked vinyl seats?

The air would change. I know it would. It wouldn't be this easy, comfortable oxygen we share. It would be heavy. It would be thick with the kind of silence that you can’t come back from.

I think about the bakery Eli mentioned in that other life, for us, it was the old pier. Last summer, we sat out there until three in the morning, legs dangling over the edge of the wood, sharing a sleeve of saltines and a lukewarm soda. Finn had been talking about some girl he’d met at a bar, and I’d sat there, nodding, feeling my heart being slow-roasted in my chest. He’d turned to me, his face illuminated by the moonlight, and said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Bos. You’re the only person who actually gets me.”

I’d smiled. I’d told him he was stuck with me.

And it was the most honest thing I’d ever said, even if it felt like a death sentence.

I finally pull myself out of the Jeep, my boots hitting the asphalt with a dull thud. The humidity is thick tonight, clinging to my skin like a second layer of clothes. I follow him into the diner, the bell above the door chiming a greeting that feels too cheerful for how I’m feeling.

The diner is nearly empty. Just a trucker in the corner and the low hum of the refrigerator units. Finn is already slid into our usual booth, the one with the tear in the red vinyl that he always picks at when he’s bored. He’s already ordered. I know this because the waitress is already walking away, and Finn is looking at me with that expectant, bright-eyed expression that usually makes me feel like I’m home.

Tonight, it just makes me feel like I’m standing on a trapdoor.

“Black coffee, breakfast sandwich, no tomato,” Finn says, tapping his fingers on the table. “I saved you the trouble of speaking. You looked like it was going to be an ordeal.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, sliding into the seat opposite him.

I pick up the glass sugar shaker and start turning it in my hands, watching the white grains slide back and forth, back and forth. It’s better than looking at him. If I look at him, I’ll see the way the fluorescent lights catch the amber in his eyes. I’ll see the way he chews on the corner of his lip when he’s thinking. I’ll see everything I’m not allowed to have.

“Talk to me, man,” Finn says, his voice dropping the playful edge. He leans forward, his elbows on the table. “Seriously. You’ve been weird since Friday. And don’t give me the ‘tired’ thing again. I know what tiredness looks like on you. This isn't it.”

Friday.

The night we stayed up watching horror movies at his place. The night the power went out during a storm, and we’d ended up huddled on the couch under a single scratchy wool blanket. He’d fallen asleep with his shoulder pressed against mine, his breathing deep and even, and I’d sat there for two hours, terrified to move, terrified that if I shifted even an inch, I’d accidentally reveal the way my heart was screaming his name.

I’d watched the shadows of the rain on the wall and thought about how easy it would be to just lean my head on his. To let the "Best Friend" label slide off and see what was underneath.

But I didn't. I stayed frozen. I stayed the "Best Friend."

“I’m fine, Finn,” I say, finally meeting his eyes. It’s a mistake. The concern there is so genuine it hurts. It’s the kind of concern that only comes from years of shared history, from a bond that I’m currently sabotaging with every secret I keep.

“You’re not,” he says, his brow furrowing. “You’re somewhere else. I feel like I’m sitting here with a ghost.”

I want to tell him. The words are right there, stinging the back of my throat like acid. I’m not a ghost, Finn. I’m just a man who’s been in love with you since we were fifteen, and I don’t know how to stop.

Instead, I just tighten my grip on the sugar shaker until my knuckles turn white.

“Just a lot on my mind,” I say softly.

The waitress arrives with the coffee, the steam rising between us like a curtain. Finn doesn’t look away. He’s still watching me, searching for the crack in the armor he’s known for a decade. He’s looking for his best friend, and I’m just trying to make sure he doesn't find the person I’ve actually become.

Because if he finds him, everything ends. And I’m not ready to say goodbye to the only world I’ve ever known.

What if he knew?

The question isn't a ghost anymore. It’s the air in the room. And I’m starting to think I’m the only one who can’t breathe.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: January 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix