Frequencies of Us Chapter 15: I’m Sorry

Mateo POV

I’m in the hall, the air thick with sweat and noise, lockers slamming all around me. My hands are shoved in my hoodie pockets, shoulders tight, because I’m still suspended—still off the track—and it’s eating me up inside. My chest’s burning, hot and heavy, since yesterday—running with Noah, laughing, crashing on the grass, his shoulder warm against mine. His voice—“You’re not what I expected”—keeps replaying, soft and shaky, messing with my head. My stomach flips, quick and dumb, and I shake it off, hard, because I don’t get it—don’t get him, don’t get why he’s sticking around.

I’m halfway to the exit, head down, when they come—Ryan and his jock pack, stomping up behind me, voices loud and mean. “Track’s done, fairy,” Ryan sneers, shoving my shoulder hard, making me stumble. My fists clench, nails digging in, and I spin, heart slamming, ready to swing. “What’d you say?” I growl, stepping in, my voice rough, scratched from holding it all in.

He laughs, sharp and nasty, his buddies closing in—big, sweaty, grinning like wolves. “Heard you’re out,” he says, smirking, “no more running, huh? Guess fairies don’t fly.” My chest locks up, heat rushing up my neck, and my hands shake, itching to smash that look off his face. I step closer, jaw tight, “Say it again,” daring him, my breath loud and ragged, because I’m done—done with this, done with them.

Then I hear it—footsteps, quick, squeaking on the tile—and Noah’s there, pushing through, skinny and awkward, his jacket flapping. “Back off,” he says, voice firm but shaky, planting himself between me and Ryan. His eyes flick to mine—dark, steady—and my stomach drops, cold and fast, because he’s here, stepping in, like he thinks I can’t handle it.

“What’re you doing?” I snap, shoving him back, hard, my hands slamming his chest. He stumbles, catching himself, and my face burns, hot and sweaty, because I don’t need this—don’t need him playing hero. “I don’t need saving!” I yell, voice bouncing off the lockers, loud and raw, and my chest’s heaving, anger spilling out, mixing with something else—warm, confusing, digging in deep.

Ryan laughs louder, “Aw, your boyfriend’s cute,” and the others join in, jeering, circling us like dogs. My fists ball tighter, shaking bad, and I lunge at him—“Shut up!”—but Noah grabs my arm, quick, pulling me back. “Don’t,” he mutters, low, his grip tight, and my skin buzzes where he’s touching, hot and sharp, flipping my gut upside down.

I yank free, hard, glaring at him—his eyes wide, caught—and my heart’s slamming, wild and loud. “Stay out of it,” I hiss, shoving past him, shoulder bumping his again, and storm down the hall, legs moving fast, needing air, needing out. My chest’s tight, breath short, and my head’s spinning—Ryan’s taunts, Noah’s voice, that touch—crashing together, loud and messy. I slam the exit door open, the cold hitting me hard, slapping my face, but it doesn’t cool the heat in my chest, the ache I can’t shake.

I’m outside, pacing the lot, gravel crunching under my sneakers, my hands fidgeting, pulling at my hoodie strings. My face is still hot, my throat tight, and I kick a rock, hard, sending it skittering across the asphalt. “Boyfriend,” Ryan said, and my stomach twists, cold and warm at once, because it’s dumb—it’s not true—but Noah stepping in, his voice firm, keeps cutting through, sticking with me. My chest aches, mad and confused, because I didn’t want him there, didn’t want him seeing me like that, but he stayed, and it’s messing me up.

I slump against the wall, elbows on my knees, staring at the ground, my breath puffing white in the chill. My hands shake, restless, and I mutter, “Stupid,” under my breath, mad at him, mad at me, because I shoved him—hard—and he didn’t deserve it, not really. My gut twists, sour and heavy, and I see his face—wide eyes, shaky grin—flashing from the track, the gym, now here, piling up, pulling me in. My heart’s thumping, loud in my ears, and I don’t know what it means—don’t want to know—but it’s there, real, digging deep.

I pull my phone out, slow, fingers cold and clumsy, and open our texts—empty, nothing since yesterday’s “He’s not done with you,” that creepy car still haunting me. My chest tightens, guilt creeping in, because I yelled, shoved, and he just took it. My thumb hovers, shaky, and I type—“Didn’t mean it”—short, simple, but my heart jumps, banging against my ribs, because it’s out, it’s real. I hit send, fast, before I can stop, and the whoosh cuts through the quiet, loud and sharp. My hands grip the phone, sweaty, and my breath’s stuck, waiting, because I don’t know what he’ll say, if he’ll even answer.

The lot’s quiet—just wind, a car humming far off—and my legs bounce, jittery, needing to move. My head’s buzzing—Ryan’s laugh, Noah’s voice, that shove—and I stand fast, pacing again, kicking gravel, trying to shake it off. My phone stays silent, heavy in my pocket, and my chest aches, torn between wanting him to text back and hoping he doesn’t, because I don’t know what I’m doing, what this is. I stop, leaning on the wall, wiping sweat off my forehead with a shaky hand, and my eyes flick to the school—dark, still, but it feels alive, watching.

The air’s cold, biting my face, and I shove my hands deeper, shoulders hunching, trying to settle my heart, slow it down. My head’s loud—his grip on my arm, “Don’t,” soft and steady—and my gut flips, warm and dumb, because I didn’t want him to let go, not really. I mutter, “Idiot,” mad at myself, but it’s soft, fading, because it’s not just him—it’s me, caught up, stuck on him. My phone’s still quiet, and my chest tightens, waiting, scared he’s done, scared he’s not.

Then I hear it—a low rumble, engine growling, cutting through the wind. My head snaps up, heart slamming, and my eyes dart to the lot—headlights, dim but growing, bouncing slow across the asphalt. My hands grip the wall, knuckles white, and my breath stops, stuck in my throat. The rumble gets louder—tires crunching, steady—and my legs tense, ready to bolt. The lights swing my way, bright and sharp, pinning me against the wall, and my stomach drops, icy and fast, because it’s them—again—that laugh, that car, back for me.

A shadow moves—quick, dark—inside, and my heart locks up, wild and loud. My phone buzzes, sudden and sharp, and I yank it out, hands shaking bad—unknown number, one line: “You can’t run from this.” My blood turns cold, ice in my veins, and the car stops—engine idling, lights blinding—yards away, waiting. A hand shoots out, quick, tossing something small and black onto the ground—thud, rolling—and my breath catches, choking me. The laugh comes again—low, warped, right in my ears—and the car peels off, tires squealing, leaving dust and darkness, but it’s not gone, not over, and I’m alone, caught, with something waiting at my feet.