Somewhere Only We Know - 9. The Seasons Turn

The week after Riverbend felt like walking around with sunlight zipped under your jacket.

Nothing huge changed. School was still loud and crowded and smelled faintly of disinfectant and fries. Practices were still brutal. Homework still multiplied on every flat surface.

But there was a new hum under everything.

A good one.

Matt rode it hardest.

He leaned back in his chair more, tipping onto the back two legs like he wanted gravity to argue with him. He tapped his pencil against his notebook in random rhythms. He nudged Kitt’s shoulder every time he passed his desk, like he needed to physically confirm Kitt was still there.

At lunch he would drop his tray with a thud and say things like,

“Three seconds, dude. Three. That’s, like, time travel.”

Or,

“You actually murdered that last turn. It was criminal. I should report you.”

Or,

“You looked like a dolphin. A cool dolphin, not one of those creepy documentary ones.”

Kitt rolled his eyes every time.

But the warmth stayed lodged in his chest like a second heartbeat.

It was a good week. A rare one.

And rare things never lasted long in Lakehurst.

Not for them.

By the third week of October, the sky started looking tired.

Mornings came with a thin mist clinging to the grass. Afternoons felt shorter even when the clock disagreed. Leaves clogged the gutters in soggy piles of red and burnt orange. The air smelled like smoke and cold and something ending.

Football ramped up.

Swimming ramped up.

Teachers, in what had to be a secret group chat, decided Junior Year meant:

More tests.

More projects.

More essays that were all somehow due in the same forty-eight-hour window.

Kitt felt it like rocks added steadily to a backpack. Heavy, but familiar.

Matt felt it like static under his skin.

He showed up one morning in late October, dropped his backpack on the cafeteria table too hard, and sat down with a low groan.

“You okay?” Kitt asked.

Matt rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Long night.”

“Studying?”

“Yes. No. Sort of. Existing.” He blew out a breath. “I’m tired.”

He said it like a joke, but he looked… drained. Shadows smudged under his eyes, his usual bright energy dulled at the edges. Even his hair looked tired.

But he still smiled at Kitt.

Still bumped his knee under the table.

Still stole half his granola bar and declared it “reparations for emotional support services.”

Their routine looked the same from the outside.

The feeling under it didn’t.

Kitt started noticing the cracks in small things.

In English, Matt bounced his leg so hard the desk vibrated. It wasn’t his usual restless energy. It was sharper, wired. His fingers drummed against the page but his eyes skimmed without settling.

Kitt watched out of the corner of his eye until the movement was all he could see.

He reached over and, without thinking too hard about it, tapped his fingers once against Matt’s wrist. Barely a touch.

Matt’s knee stopped immediately.

He didn’t look over. Didn’t say anything. But the tension in his shoulders loosened just a fraction, and his breathing evened out.

Kitt turned back to his book and pretended he hadn’t memorized the exact shape of that change.

Swim practice ramped at the same time.

Coach Vega added more yardage, more sprint sets, more dryland circuits that left Kitt’s arms trembling when he tried to open doors afterward. The pool building felt even more like its own little climate: thick air, constant echo of water slapping and whistles blowing.

Kitt didn’t mind the physical exhaustion.

He minded the way time kept vanishing.

School. Swim. Homework. Collapse. Repeat.

Some nights Matt would still text—little check-ins, blurry photos of snacks, a dramatic still alive message at 11:47 p.m.—but the long late-night calls got shorter.

Some evenings they only traded three or four lines.

Some evenings they forgot to hit send at all.

They still met at the lockers most mornings. Still walked home when schedules allowed. Still stole time in the library or outside the gym.

But everything started getting cut into smaller pieces.

Like the day had been sliced by bells and whistles and deadlines, and whatever was left over belonged to them.

“It’s just busy,” Kitt told himself, one night over his open chemistry notebook.

The words didn’t completely land.

They felt thin. Like tracing paper.

On Thursday, the shift came from home instead of school.

Kitt walked into the kitchen after practice, hair dripping into the neck of his hoodie, shoulders aching in a pleasantly used way. His schedule was pinned on the corkboard by the fridge—practice times, meet days, big tests in red pen.

His father stood in front of it, glasses low on his nose, reading.

“You’re out a lot,” his father said without turning.

Kitt paused, fingers tightening minutely on the strap of his bag.

“Swim season’s busy,” he said.

“Busy is one thing,” his father replied. “This looks like you’re hardly home at all. Less time for church. Less time for family. Less time for your studies.”

“It’s just this month,” Kitt said carefully. “It slows down later.”

His father’s eyes finally moved to him. Not angry. Just assessing.

“You said that last semester, too.”

The words weren’t harsh. They were quiet, almost mild. But they pressed against Kitt’s ribs anyway, heavy in a way noise never was.

“We all have responsibilities, Kitt. It’s important to keep your priorities straight. That’s all I’m saying.”

Kitt nodded, throat suddenly too tight for much else.

“Yes, sir.”

He took his bag upstairs and sat on the edge of his bed for a long time before he remembered to turn on his lamp.

Swimming.
Grades.
Church.
Expectations.

They all existed in the same narrow lane.

He wasn’t sure there was space for him in it.

He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Matt’s name.

He thought about Matt’s tired eyes that morning, the way he’d rubbed the back of his neck and said everything felt like too much.

Kitt set the phone down again.

He didn’t want to add weight to someone who already looked like he was carrying enough.

That weekend, Matt refused to let the week swallow them whole.

He practically ambushed Kitt outside school with a hand on his sleeve and an expression that was 80% mischief and 20% determination.

“Lake,” Matt said.

Kitt arched an eyebrow. “It’s October.”

“The water is probably so cold your soul will leave your body. I need to see it.”

“Why do you hate me?”

Matt grinned.

“I don’t. I love watching you suffer.”

“That’s worse.”

“You love me,” Matt said, so casually his brain clearly hadn’t checked with his mouth first.

Kitt choked on air, feet stuttering on the pavement.

“I—what?”

Matt’s ears went pink.

“I meant in a friendship way,” he spluttered. “Obviously. Calm down. Don’t make it weird.”

Kitt looked at the trail ahead until the trees stopped blurring.

“Well,” he said lightly, “in that case… unfortunately, yes.”

He heard, more than saw, the way Matt’s grin came back.

“Thought so.”

Matt bumped his shoulder.

Kitt bumped back.

The lake was a different creature in the cold.

The water had gone dark, almost slate-colored, and the breeze skimming across it cut straight through their sleeves. Leaves bobbed near the shore, spinning lazily in small ripples.

They sat on the edge of the dock, sneakers hanging over the side, their breath not quite fogging yet but close.

“Touch it,” Matt said.

“No.”

“Coward.”

“You touch it.”

“I’m not stupid.”

Kitt gave him a look.

“You literally came up with this idea.”

“That was Past Matt,” Matt said. “He was reckless. Present Matt values survival.”

Kitt snorted.

Matt flicked water at his shoe with the toe of his sneaker. Kitt shoved him. Matt flailed dramatically, pretending to almost fall in. Kitt’s heart actually shot into his throat.

“Matt!”

Matt burst out laughing, clutching his chest.

“Oh my God, your face.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Kitt rolled his eyes, but the ache in his chest had nothing to do with annoyance.

For thirty minutes, it felt exactly like summer again.

Like Riverbend. Like fourteen. Like something simple and bright and just theirs.

But as the sun sank and the sky cooled to a deeper blue, the air shifted.

Matt leaned back on his hands, watching the tiny waves break against the wood.

“Do you ever feel like we’re running out of time?” he asked suddenly.

Kitt stiffened.

“In what way?” he asked.

Matt shrugged, but it didn’t reach his shoulders.

“I don’t know. Everything’s moving so fast. Football. School. College stuff. People keep talking about ‘next year’ like life is just going to flip over all at once.”

He paused, picking at a splinter on the dock.

“And I keep thinking about… what doesn’t come with us.”

Kitt stared at the water.

“Not everything changes,” he said quietly.

Matt’s voice gentled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Not everything.”

Their knees brushed.

Neither of them moved away.

The moment balanced there, light as breath and heavy as stone, until the cold finally pushed them up.

On the walk home, Kitt’s chest ached in a way that wasn’t sharp.

Just… afraid.

Afraid of losing something he still didn’t know how to name.

The weeks after that went fast in the way only tired weeks know how to go.

Wake. School. Practice. Homework. Sleep. Repeat.

The days were full, but Kitt didn’t always feel inside them.

He woke to an alarm that always felt ten minutes too early, no matter the time he set.

He floated through classes with notes filled, assignments turned in, a fog sitting behind his eyes.

He swam until his muscles shook, left the pool with water clinging to his hair and the echo of Coach Vega’s whistle lodged behind his ears.

At night, he sat at his desk and stared at equations or essay prompts that blurred together into one long line of “don’t mess this up.”

Matt’s schedule looked the same, just painted with different colors.

Early-morning weight training. Classes. Film sessions. Practice. Studying at the dining table and his sister yelling into her phone upstairs.

They still found each other in the hallways. Still carved out slivers of time.

But there were more days where those slivers didn’t line up.

One afternoon, they walked down the main hall together, both heading toward opposite wings.

Matt’s textbook stack was threatening to avalanche.

“Math is going to kill me,” Matt said. “Tell my story.”

“You don’t have a story,” Kitt said. “You have missing homework.”

Matt clutched his chest in fake betrayal.

“You’re so cold. I’m suffering and you’re—” he waved a hand at Kitt “—like a walking GPA.”

“Do your work,” Kitt said, trying not to smile.

“I liked you better when you felt bad for me.”

“That never happened.”

They reached the split where Kitt turned left for chemistry and Matt turned right for history.

Matt walked backwards a few steps, still facing him.

“Lake this weekend?” he asked.

Kitt thought about his planner, the red circle around Monday’s big test, his father’s voice weaved into every note.

“Maybe Saturday,” he said. “I have to study.”

Matt groaned softly.

“Fine,” he said. “I guess I support your brain or whatever. But only because I benefit from your notes.”

Kitt shook his head, lips curving up despite the knot in his stomach.

Then they turned away from each other, pulled in different directions by different bells.

They were still fine.

Just… not untouched.

Kitt felt the distance most on the nights he would’ve been on the phone with Matt.

He’d close his notebook, stretch his sore shoulders, and realize there were no hours left. The day had already dissolved.

Sometimes his thumb hovered over past messages just to prove they existed. That this wasn’t a dream he’d invented for himself.

Then he locked his phone, turned out the light, and told himself he was being dramatic.

They were just busy.

That was allowed.

On a cold Friday, Matt had an away game in a town an hour east. The team left right after school, helmets clattering as they loaded the bus. The sky had that clear, brittle look that meant the night would be freezing under the stadium lights.

Kitt had written the game time in the corner of his planner.

He’d circled it once. Then, after getting his latest progress report, he’d gone back and drawn a thin line through it.

His father came home that afternoon holding a printed sheet.

“What’s this B-minus in chemistry?” he asked.

Kitt’s stomach dipped.

“It’s just one quiz,” he said. “We have a unit test soon. I’ll bring it up.”

“Universities don’t look at quizzes,” his father said, eyes on the page. “They look at the pattern. Junior year is important. This isn’t the time to relax.”

“I’m not relaxing,” Kitt said quietly.

His father folded the paper, set it on the counter.

“No games tonight,” he said. “No outings. You’ll stay in and review. You know what’s expected of you.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t slam anything. He just left the room.

Somehow, that made it land heavier.

Kitt went upstairs and opened his notebook. The words swam. He stared at the same paragraph for ten full minutes, reading nothing.

His brain wasn’t in his room.

It was in a stadium an hour away, under harsh white lights, watching Matt in a helmet and pads, eyes sharp, calling plays. It was in the stands, wrapped in a blanket, searching for the number on Matt’s jersey every snap.

His phone buzzed once, face down on the desk.

He didn’t look right away.

When he finally did, it was a picture from the sideline—Matt with his helmet tilted back, cheeks pink from the cold, hair sweat-damp and wild. The caption read:

Wish you were here. Stadium hot dogs are tragic, I need your judgment.

Kitt’s chest tightened and softened at the same time.

His fingers hovered over the keys before he typed:

Sorry. Dad wants me to study. How’s the game?

A few minutes passed. Then:

Cold. Loud. I’ll call you after?

Kitt glanced at his closed bedroom door, hearing the faint sound of the TV downstairs, his father’s voice rising occasionally with commentary.

Maybe text, he wrote back. It’s late.

Okay. I’ll spam you with my greatness, Matt answered.

Kitt smiled in spite of everything, set the phone aside, and tried again to focus on bonding and electron geometry.

He didn’t see the rest until close to midnight.

A blurry shot of the field.

A screenshot of the scoreboard.

A selfie with eye black smeared across Matt’s cheek, chin tipped up, grin huge.

WE WON!!!!

Kitt swallowed around the lump in his throat.

I’m proud of you, he wrote.

The reply came almost immediately.

Not as proud as I am of you, genius. go sleep, you’re probably studying in your dreams

Kitt lay back on his pillow, phone still in his hand, staring up into the dark.

The distance wasn’t big.

But it was there.

The next week made it harder to pretend he didn’t feel it.

Matt missed one of their walks home because Coach Reynolds called an extra film session.

Another day, Kitt stayed late to make up a lab. By the time he left the science wing, the field lights were already dark and the parking lot was half-empty.

On Tuesday, they sat across from each other at lunch with their notebooks open, both hunched over.

“Is this what adulthood is?” Matt muttered. “Eating fries over graph paper?”

“Probably,” Kitt said, solving for x.

“That’s horrifying.”

“It’s practical.”

“You’re practical,” Matt grumbled.

Kitt smiled without looking up. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

Matt caught his eye for a second, something fond flickering there before he dropped his gaze back to his worksheet.

They were still them.

They were just… tired versions.

On a foggy Wednesday, Matt waited by Kitt’s locker after school, head tipped back against the metal, eyes closed.

“Sleeping standing up now?” Kitt asked.

Matt opened one eye.

“Hibernating,” he said. “It’s a sophisticated process.”

“Football bears don’t hibernate.”

“This one does.”

Kitt shut his locker and adjusted his backpack.

“You okay?” he asked.

Matt let his head thunk once, softly, against the metal.

“Coach says a scout might be at the next home game,” he said.

“That’s good,” Kitt said. “Right?”

Matt made a complicated face.

“Yeah. It’s… good. It’s just more pressure. Like, if I mess up, I’m wasting some big imaginary opportunity. If I don’t mess up, then I have to think about actually doing this in college, and then leaving, and then—” He stopped himself with a sharp exhale. “My brain’s noisy.”

Kitt watched him for a moment.

“Do you still want it?” he asked quietly. “Football, I mean. Scholarships. The whole thing.”

Matt stared at the ceiling tiles as if the answer might be spelled out up there.

“I used to,” he said. “Easy yes. Lately it’s more like… maybe. If it means leaving—”

He bit the rest off like it had sharp edges.

Kitt’s heartbeat stuttered.

“Whatever you choose,” Kitt said, voice soft but steady, “you won’t be alone.”

Matt’s eyes dropped back to his.

“Yeah?” he asked, almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” Kitt said.

Something in Matt’s face eased. Not completely. But enough.

“Thanks,” he said. “I kind of needed to hear that.”

They walked out together, their steps slow. The air had teeth now, the kind of cold that snuck into your sleeves.

They didn’t talk much on the way home.

But the silence didn’t feel empty.

It felt shared.

At home, Kitt’s father started hovering in small, precise ways.

“Are you done with your homework?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you reviewed your notes?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t forget morning reading.”

“I won’t.”

One evening, Kitt walked into the kitchen with his phone in his hand, scrolling through a homework photo Matt had sent. His father glanced up from the table and let his gaze slide to the screen.

“You’re texting Matthew a lot,” he observed.

Kitt’s fingers tightened involuntarily.

“We have a group project,” he said. “We’re coordinating.”

It wasn’t completely untrue. They did have a project. The group part was shakier.

His father hummed.

“Don’t let socializing get in the way of what matters,” he said.

“I won’t.”

His father went back to his book. The conversation was over as quickly as it had begun, but Kitt stood in the doorway for another beat, heart hammering for no logical reason.

It hit him, then, how much he’d begun to edit his own day before he spoke. To say “we” instead of “Matt and I.” To leave out details that felt harmless but heavy.

It didn’t feel like lying.

It felt like survival. Smoothing edges before anyone could catch on them.

The last Saturday of November arrived under a sky the color of dishwater.

Clouds hung low, the air hovering between rain and snow. Kitt tugged his hoodie tighter around himself as he waited outside Matt’s house, breath coming in faint puffs.

They’d planned a study day. Matt had declared it “Operation Saving My GPA,” and Kitt had agreed mostly because he wanted to sit at Matt’s dining table with too many snacks around them and pretend school wasn’t slowly eating them alive.

The front door burst open with Matt’s usual lack of subtlety.

“Dude, you will not believe the amount of snacks I—”

He stopped short when he saw Kitt hugging himself, shoulders tucked in against the cold.

“You freezing?” Matt asked.

“A little,” Kitt admitted.

Matt didn’t think about it. He just stepped forward and slung an arm around Kitt’s shoulders, pulling him close, the movement so thoughtless it felt like habit.

“There,” he said. “Shared misery.”

Kitt’s inhale caught.

He could feel heat radiating off Matt’s side, could smell detergent and whatever body wash Matt used that always lingered too long in the locker room.

“You’re ridiculous,” Kitt said, but his voice came out softer than he intended.

They walked up the driveway like that, pressed together. Too close. Too warm. Too something.

Matt didn’t let go until they were inside.

Matt’s house felt louder than usual in contrast to the gray outside.

His sister was pacing upstairs on the phone, laughing too loudly. The TV murmured from the kitchen where their mother had a cooking show on.

“You made it,” Matt’s mom said when she saw Kitt. “Good. Maybe you can drill some sense into this one.”

She ruffled Matt’s hair. He ducked away, spluttering.

“I am sense.”

“You are noise,” she shot back warmly.

Kitt smiled, toes relaxing in his shoes. The chaos that used to overwhelm him had become familiar, almost comforting.

They spread their books and notebooks across the dining table. Matt unveiled a ridiculous snack spread—chips, cookies, grapes, pretzels, three different kinds of candy—and declared it “brain fuel.”

“You’re going to get sugar poisoning,” Kitt said.

“It’s called strategic carbohydrate loading,” Matt replied, stuffing chips into his mouth. “Athlete science.”

“You barely passed biology.”

“That’s hurtful.”

They worked.

Matt complained dramatically about parabolas. Kitt drew neat little graphs and tried to explain step by step. Matt got half of them wrong on purpose just to see Kitt roll his eyes. Kitt threatened to leave at least twice. He never did.

At some point, Matt stretched his arm across the table to grab a pencil and his fingers brushed the back of Kitt’s hand.

They both stilled.

Just for a second.

Long enough for Kitt’s skin to prickle. Long enough for Matt’s breath to hitch.

Then Matt cleared his throat, grabbed the pencil, and went back to his worksheet like the entire planet hadn’t just shifted a fraction of an inch.

Kitt stared at his own handwriting until the lines blurred, trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The afternoon slid on like that—light, warm, full of quiet almosts.

By evening, the first lazy snowflakes drifted down outside the window, disappearing as soon as they hit the ground.

Matt walked him out, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, breath curling faintly in the air.

“Today was good,” Matt said, voice softer than it had been all day.

“Yeah,” Kitt agreed. “Really good.”

A beat passed, quiet and full.

“I’m glad we’re okay,” Matt added, staring at some point near Kitt’s shoulder. “After… everything. You know. This year. The bus. Practices. The, uh… missed stuff.”

Kitt’s chest pinched.

“Me too,” he said.

Snow fell more steadily now, tiny white flecks catching in Matt’s hair.

“Hey,” Matt said suddenly, eyes snapping back to his. “Don’t drift away from me, okay?”

The words were simple. The way he said them wasn’t.

Kitt swallowed, the back of his throat burning.

“I won’t,” he whispered.

“Promise?” Matt asked.

Kitt nodded once. “Promise.”

They stood there under the thin snowfall, sharing a small, lingering smile that felt like its own kind of oath.

Then they backed away in opposite directions, crossing to their separate driveways. Porch lights flicked on almost in sync, washing the street in warm yellow.

From the outside, they were just two boys going home on a winter evening.

From the inside, they were clinging to something neither of them fully understood yet.

Neither knew that promise would be tested sooner than they thought.