Academically Yours (Jayfer)

Chapter 9
Jayjay’s POV

The city outside the van windows blurred past like static — all lights and glass and movement.

But inside me, everything was still.

I hadn’t spoken a word to Keifer since the incident.
I sat by the window. He sat on the aisle.
Between us was an ocean of silence I had no interest in crossing.

When we finally arrived at the hotel, I didn’t wait. I grabbed my suitcase, stormed ahead, and snatched the keycard from the front desk the second our names were called.

Room 714. One room. Two beds.
Seven days.

Keifer caught up to me by the elevator, hands in his pockets, looking like he was about to say something.

I pressed the button before he could.

The room was too clean. Too quiet.

I unpacked mechanically, ignoring him as he lingered awkwardly near the second bed.

When I opened my laptop and sat at the small desk by the window, I could feel his eyes on me.

He tried again.

“Jay.”

I didn’t turn around.

“Jay, I’m sorry.”

Still, I said nothing.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said. “About what I said. You are smart. Smarter than me, even. You just… don’t let up. And I get jealous. And I say things I shouldn’t.”

I turned slowly.

“You’re jealous?” I said flatly. “Why? Because I work for everything you get handed without trying?”

He flinched. Didn’t respond. Just nodded.

I stood up. “You don’t get to play humble now, Keifer. You’re the one who said it.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I hate that I did.”

For a moment, we just stood there.

Then I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk.”

And I meant it.

I changed into my hoodie, tied my hair up, and sat back at the desk — head down, fingers typing furiously.

Hours passed.

He didn’t say another word.

He just sat on the other bed, notebook open, sketching silently — the scratching of his pencil the only sound in the room.

I didn’t look.

I wouldn’t look.

I couldn’t care.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Around midnight, my screen blurred again. My thoughts tangled. My hands shook slightly as I pressed them against my temples.

I hadn’t eaten dinner. Hadn’t even taken a proper breath.

Still not enough. Never enough.

Behind me, there was a small sound. Movement.

Then a quiet thump.

I turned and saw a small packet placed at the edge of my desk — crackers and an energy bar.

“Didn’t know what you’d like,” Keifer said. “So I guessed.”

I didn’t touch it. Not at first.

But the gesture stayed.

Even after I turned back to work, even after he turned off the lights and laid back in bed — silent again — the crackers stayed.

I didn’t say thank you.

But I didn’t throw them away either.

Later that night, when the room was quiet and the only sound was Keifer’s breathing, I opened my writing doc again.

“The Ones Who Never Slept”
Tonight’s entry came in fragments. Disconnected. But raw.

“He said it like it was true.
And the worst part is, part of her believed it.
But belief is a strange thing. Sometimes, it changes when no one is looking.

Sometimes, silence speaks louder than apologies.

And sometimes, a quiet offering on a desk says:

I see you. Even when I hurt you.”

I stopped. Closed the laptop gently.

And — just once — glanced over my shoulder at the boy sleeping in the other bed.

Still an enemy. Still unbearable.

But maybe not just that.

Not tonight.