Somewhere Only We Know - 17. Invisible Threads Tighten

Riverbend settled into evening the way it always did—slowly, quietly, like a town trying to disappear into its own shadows. Kitt walked home from his shift with his hands tucked deep in his borrowed sweater, breath clouding in the cold. His hair was damp from dishwater, his fingers sore from scrubbing, and his stomach aching with the weight of everything he couldn’t fix yet.

The snow had thinned to a soft dusting, carried gently by the wind. Apartment windows glowed softly as he passed them, silhouettes moving behind curtains—families, couples, people with warmth and routine. He wondered if they were arguing about dinner or laughing over a show or settling children into bed. All those tiny pieces of normal life he had always taken for granted.

He climbed the staircase to the second floor, the metal railing cold beneath his palm. As he reached his door, he paused. For a second he imagined opening it to find Matt inside—sitting on the mattress, arms around his knees, face softening with relief the moment he saw him.

The ache that tore through him felt almost physical.

He unlocked the door slowly, exhaling into the quiet.

Nothing had changed.
Nothing ever did.

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, letting his forehead rest gently against the wood until the sting behind his eyes softened enough for him to move.

A knock came from above, faint but unmistakable—Mateo’s footfall on the ceiling as he moved around his room. Kitt could almost picture him: hair still damp from a shower, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, humming to himself as he zipped his bag for work.

Sometimes the tiniest sounds in this building were the only proof he wasn’t completely alone.

A moment later, footsteps echoed down the stairwell. Mateo appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a tilted smile as if he’d known exactly where to find him.

“You alive?” Mateo asked lightly, though his eyes held something gentler.

“Barely,” Kitt murmured.

“You look like it.” Mateo stepped inside without waiting, nudging the door closed. “Javier switched a shift. You’re on mornings all next week. Extra hours.”

Kitt blinked. “Really?”

Mateo shrugged. “Told you I’d ask. He complained, yelled at me about payroll, threw a spatula for dramatic effect… but he said yes.”

Kitt felt warmth spread through him so fast it almost hurt. “Mateo… thank you!”

Mateo grinned. “Don’t get too grateful. You’ll hate mornings. I know I do.”

He sauntered toward the tiny kitchenette, looking around the apartment with practiced curiosity. “You should eat something. You’re starting to fade in and out like a bad radio signal.”

Kitt smiled faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’re about one more shift away from passing out and letting me carry you home bridal-style, which—don’t get me wrong—I’d do, but it’d ruin my reputation. And my back.”

Kitt huffed a quiet laugh, the first soft sound he’d made since stepping inside. The warmth of it eased some of the tightness in his chest.

Mateo lingered a little too long in the doorway before heading back to the stairs. “Tomorrow,” he called softly. “Don’t be late.”

When the door shut, the quiet returned—gentler this time.

Kitt sat on the mattress, pulling his knees to his chest, letting his breath settle. He tried to picture next week. Extra hours meant another week of rent. Another week of food if he was careful. Maybe enough to buy gloves that didn’t have holes.

It wasn’t certainty, but it was something like stability. Something like hope.

His mind drifted—without permission—to Matt.

To Matt standing on cold bleachers screaming his name at swim meets.
To Matt’s ridiculous laughter echoing across their lake.
To Matt grabbing his wrist the night he cried into his shoulder and whispering, “Tell me what’s wrong. Don’t shut me out.”
To Matt’s hand brushing his hair out of his eyes like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

He curled tighter, pressing his face into his sleeve.

“I miss you,” he whispered into the fabric. “I really miss you.”

He didn’t know Matt was whispering the same words in another town.

. . .

Matt arrived home long after sunset, shoulders hunched, eyes burning from exhaustion and too many hours behind the wheel. The house smelled faintly of dinner his mother had saved for him, though the plate sat untouched on the counter. When he walked past the living room, he saw his father staring at the news but not watching it, his jaw locked, his posture stiff with the same pride that had blown his family apart.

Matt didn’t say a word.
He didn’t trust himself to.

He climbed the stairs slowly, like someone carrying weights on every limb. His room felt colder than he remembered; maybe it was the emptiness, or maybe it was that the last time he had felt warmth here, Kitt had been lying next to him on the floor, whispering jokes into the dark.

Matt’s hands shook as he turned on his phone.

The wallpaper stared back at him—
a picture of him and Kitt at the lake, Kitt laughing with sun in his hair, Matt smiling stupidly at him rather than at the camera.

He’d changed it after visiting Riverbend.
He didn’t even remember doing it.
He just knew that he needed Kitt’s face somewhere he could see it.

He sank onto the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands.

He’d been so close.
So damn close.

Someone had seen Kitt.
Someone had talked to him.
Kitt had sat in that same booth just weeks ago—hungry, scared, lost.

Matt swallowed hard, blinking away the hot sting of tears. “Please,” he whispered into his palms. “Please be okay.”

He didn’t know that Kitt, at that exact moment, was staring at his own empty hands in a cold Riverbend apartment, trying to calculate how to survive another week.

He didn’t know that Kitt was only a street away from where he had searched earlier.

He didn’t know how close they had come to finding each other.

All he knew was the hollow ache in his chest, the weight of longing that felt too big for his ribs, and the bitter hope that now lived like a spark behind every breath.

. . .

In Riverbend, Kitt stood at his window, staring out at the street where snow was beginning to fall again. He watched a car turn the corner and vanish behind the diner sign.

He didn’t know whose car it was.
He didn’t know how close hope had come to brushing past him.
He didn’t know Matt had just left the same street, heart pounding, searching for him like a lifeline.

He only knew the cold would be harder tomorrow.
He only knew the hours would never be enough.
He only knew he had to try again.
Try harder.
Survive another week.

He pressed his forehead to the window, breath fogging the glass.

Matt whispered his name miles away.
Kitt whispered Matt’s in return without realizing it.

And the distance between them tightened—
thin, fragile, invisible—
pulling them closer to the moment everything would finally change.

. . .

The restaurant closed late that night, the kitchen a humid mix of steam, clattering pans, and tired laughter. Kitt moved slower than usual, every muscle aching from the extra shifts Mateo had convinced Javier to give him. When he finally hung up his apron, the exhaustion hit him all at once—heavy enough that he had to lean against the counter for a moment just to steady himself.

Mateo noticed immediately.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” Kitt said, but the word cracked down the middle.

Mateo frowned, wiping his hands on a towel. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“I have to,” Kitt whispered.

Mateo studied him for a long second, then nodded once—slowly, seriously. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you home.”

Kitt didn’t argue. He didn’t have the strength to.

They stepped outside into the cold night, their breaths clouding in soft puffs. The street was quiet, streetlamps flickering over patches of ice. Mateo walked close enough that their arms brushed occasionally, warm fabric against warm fabric, each touch sparking something confusing and too bright in Kitt’s chest.

Halfway up the stairwell, Kitt stumbled—not badly, just a small misstep—but Mateo caught his elbow instantly, firm and steady.

“Hey,” Mateo murmured, voice low and warm. “Slow down.”

Kitt exhaled shakily. “Sorry. I’m just… tired.”

“I know.” Mateo didn’t let go right away. His hand lingered, thumb brushing gently against Kitt’s sleeve. “C’mon. Sit for a minute.”

He steered Kitt to the small landing between floors where they’d talked before. The stairwell light buzzed softly overhead, casting warm gold over their faces as they sat side by side on the step.

Kitt leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, catching his breath. Mateo watched him—really watched him—eyes soft in a way that made Kitt’s heart trip unevenly.

“What?” Kitt asked, embarrassed.

Mateo shook his head with a faint smile. “Nothing. You just…” He exhaled, almost like a confession. “You don’t know how strong you are.”

Kitt blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t feel strong.”

“People who survive the hard way never do,” Mateo said gently. “But I see it. Every time you walk into work. Every time you say you’re okay even when you’re not. Every time you push through another day.”

Kitt swallowed hard, throat tight. “You don’t know everything I’ve done.”

Mateo leaned back slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed on Kitt—steady, warm, reading him like a language he already understood. “Then tell me.”

Kitt hesitated.

He couldn’t tell him everything.
Not the family.
Not the fight.
Not the window or the snow or the pieces of his phone on the floor.

But he could tell him this:

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

Mateo’s expression softened instantly. “I know.”

Kitt looked down at his hands, ashamed of the tremor in them. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Or how long I can keep this up.”

Mateo’s voice dropped into something quieter. “You’re not alone, Kitt.”

Kitt looked up.

Mateo was closer than he’d realized—too close, maybe. Their knees touched, and Mateo’s shoulder brushed his. His face was inches away, eyes dark and steady and warm in a way that made Kitt’s breath catch.

The stairwell felt suddenly smaller.
Warmer.
Like the air had thickened around them.

“Kitt,” Mateo said softly, “tell me if I’m reading this wrong.”

Kitt’s pulse hammered. He didn’t know what Mateo meant exactly, but he knew how the moment felt—charged, trembling, the kind of closeness he hadn’t felt since Matt… since before everything fell apart.

“I—” Kitt started, but the word caught in his throat.

Mateo’s hand lifted slowly, carefully, like he was giving Kitt enough time to pull away. He brushed a strand of hair from Kitt’s forehead, fingers barely touching him. The warmth of that touch sent a shock through Kitt’s chest.

Their faces drifted closer.
A breath apart.
A heartbeat away from something neither of them quite named.

Kitt felt Mateo’s breath on his cheek, warm and soft, the stairwell buzzing faintly above them.

Then—

A single, fractured thought cut through him.

Matt.

Kitt flinched—not visibly, but enough that the air shifted. Mateo felt it instantly. He pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing in a brief flicker of realization.

“Not ready?” Mateo asked quietly.

Kitt shook his head, voice trembling. “I… I don’t know.”

Mateo nodded once—slow, gentle, understanding in a way that didn’t make Kitt feel guilty for hesitating.

“Okay,” Mateo murmured. “We go at your pace. Or not at all. Whatever you need.”

Kitt closed his eyes, relief and confusion and sorrow all tangled beneath his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Mateo touched his shoulder lightly, reassuring. “Don’t apologize,” he said softly. “Just… breathe.”

They sat there a moment longer, letting the rushing heartbeat between them settle back into something calmer, softer.

When they finally stood, Mateo walked Kitt the rest of the way to his door. He paused there, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable but warm.

“You know where I am,” Mateo said. “If you need anything.”

Kitt nodded.

“Goodnight, Kitt.”

“Goodnight, Mateo.”

The door clicked shut, and Kitt leaned back against it, hands shaking—not from fear, but from the way the world kept shifting under his feet, pulling him in two different directions.

Upstairs, Mateo stood on the landing for a long moment, running a hand through his hair.

He hadn’t meant for it to get that close. But he also couldn’t pretend he hadn’t felt something there.

Neither of them knew how to navigate it yet.

But the line had blurred.
And the night felt different because of it.

. . .

The next morning hit Kitt harder than any before.

He woke feeling like someone had packed sand behind his eyes and poured lead into his limbs. His throat was dry, his head foggy, and a faint chill clung to his skin despite the blanket pulled to his chin. When he tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness washed over him so strong he had to grip the mattress until the room came back into focus.

He swallowed, steadying himself.

“I don’t have time for this,” he whispered to no one, because being sick wasn’t an option—not in his life, not now.

He dressed slowly, breathing through the heaviness in his chest. Then he stepped into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. As he headed down the stairs toward the ground floor, his vision warped again. His foot slipped on the edge of a step and his knee gave out just enough to scare him.

“Hey—whoa—”

Mateo’s voice came from above, sharp with alarm.

Kitt looked up to see him descending from the third floor, hoodie unzipped, hair damp from a shower, keys jingling loosely in his hand. Mateo’s casual morning expression vanished instantly when he saw Kitt gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Kitt,” Mateo said, already closing the distance. “You don’t look okay.”

“I’m fine,” Kitt muttered, breath catching in a way that betrayed him.

Mateo reached him in two steps and cupped his elbow, steady but gentle. “You’re white as the damn snow outside.”

“It’s just… a long week.”

“It’s barely eight in the morning.”

Kitt didn’t respond. He simply lowered his head, swallowing another dizzy ripple.

Mateo exhaled through his nose, firm but not unkind. “Come on. Up.”

Before Kitt could argue, Mateo turned him back up the stairs—toward the second floor, toward Kitt’s own door—and guided him inside with a hand on his arm. Kitt tried not to lean on him, but it happened anyway, his body betraying the truth he didn’t want to admit.

Mateo steered him to the mattress. “Sit.”

Kitt obeyed. He couldn’t do anything else.

Mateo moved around the kitchenette like he owned it, rummaging for a glass, filling it at the sink, grabbing the small pack of painkillers from his bag. Kitt watched him through the haze, chest tightening at the strange, sudden comfort of not being alone in the room.

“Here,” Mateo said, pressing the glass into his hands. “Slow sips. Don’t puke on me.”

Even sick, Kitt managed a quiet huff of a laugh.

Mateo sat beside him, close but not imposing. He watched Kitt’s trembling hands, the shadows under his eyes, the faint shiver he couldn’t quite hide.

“You’ve been running yourself into the ground,” Mateo said softly. “I told you this would happen.”

“I need the hours,” Kitt whispered.

“I know. But you also need a pulse.”

Kitt looked down, ashamed. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Mateo’s voice softened. “I’m not worried about me.”

Before Kitt could respond, a gentle knock sounded on the door—soft, familiar, followed by Harbor’s muffled bark.

Kitt’s eyes widened a little. “Tom.”

Mateo blinked, startled. “Tom? As in… Tom Tom? Professor Tom? Dog Tom?”

Kitt nodded faintly.

Mateo’s brows furrowed. “Okay, hold on. Why does some random middle-aged professor know where you live?”

Kitt swallowed. “He helped me. On my first week here. I… kind of lied and told him I was nineteen and where I live. And he… sort of became someone who checks on me.”

Mateo stared at him, unreadable for a long moment.

Then he sighed, pushed to his feet, and muttered, “This boy is collecting mentors like Pokémon.”

He opened the door.

Tom stood on the landing, snow still dusting his shoulders, Harbor wagging eagerly beside him. His gaze passed quickly over Mateo—surprised but polite—before landing on Kitt slumped on the mattress.

Concern flickered over his face.

“Kitt,” Tom said softly, stepping inside with Harbor trotting beside him. “You look unwell.”

Kitt tried to straighten, embarrassed. “I’m okay. Just tired.”

Tom glanced at Mateo, then back at Kitt, reading the truth easily. “Exhaustion like that isn’t something to ignore. You need warmth, fluids, and food.”

“I’ll make sure he rests,” Mateo said. “But he’s stubborn as hell.”

“I can help,” Tom said simply. “I have ingredients downstairs. I can make a broth—light but nourishing.”

“You don’t have to,” Kitt whispered, overwhelmed.

“I know,” Tom said. “But you need it.”

Mateo watched Tom for a long second, evaluating him—this older man with kind eyes, gentle hands, and a presence soft enough not to threaten but solid enough to fill the room.

Then Mateo nodded once. “I’ll stay with him while you cook.”

“Thank you,” Tom replied.

He stepped out again, Harbor following, the door gliding shut behind them.

The room settled into quiet.

Mateo returned to the edge of the mattress, lowering himself beside Kitt with a sigh. “Okay. Seriously. What is it about you that makes older men want to adopt you and younger guys want to…?” He waved a hand vaguely. “You know.”

Kitt flushed weakly. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Mateo said, nudging him lightly with his shoulder, “you’re not doing any of that until you can stand without wobbling, so don’t get ideas.”

Kitt managed a faint smile.

Mateo’s tone softened. “Now rest. We’ll figure out the rest when you’re conscious.”

Mateo settled back beside him, softer now, steady in a way that felt like a quiet anchor. Kitt let his eyes drift shut for a moment, overwhelmed by the fragile safety in this small, dim room—the warmth from Mateo’s shoulder near his, the memory of Tom’s gentle voice, Harbor’s tail thumping once before he left. For the first time in a long while, Kitt didn’t feel like he was falling alone.

But across state lines, another boy was unraveling.

. . .

In Lakehurst, Matt slammed his locker shut hard enough that the metallic echo vibrated down the hallway. A few teammates looked over, startled, but no one said anything. Matt’s anger these days wasn’t loud — it was quiet, coiled, the kind that hummed beneath his skin like a live wire pulled too tight.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Riverbend.

He couldn’t stop replaying the waitress’s words.

Another boy.
Blond.
Lost.
Sitting at the same booth.

Maybe him.
Maybe Kitt.

For a moment, hope had flared so sharply it hurt — but it died just as quickly when he remembered she’d said it happened weeks ago. Weeks. Kitt could be anywhere by now. Gone deeper into Riverbend. Gone beyond it. Gone somewhere Matt couldn’t reach.

And his father — gentle, reasonable, steady — still didn’t understand why Matt was falling apart.

“What if he’s hurt?” Matt had asked the night before, voice cracking despite how hard he’d tried to hold it in.

His father hadn’t even looked up from the news. “Matt… I know you’re worried,” Mr. Everest had said quietly. “But this isn’t something you should be in the middle of, son. Whatever’s going on in that house… it’s not our place to interfere.”

Matt had walked away before the grief in his chest swallowed him whole.

Now, standing at his locker, the pressure was back — a physical ache, like his ribs were too tight to hold everything he was feeling. Coach Harding approached, cautious.

“Matt,” he said gently, “you missed a read during drills. Everything okay?”

Matt forced his jaw to unclench. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

The coach didn’t buy it. “Doesn’t look fine.”

Matt shut his locker a bit more softly this time. “I just need air.”

“Son—” the coach began.

“I’m fine,” Matt repeated, quieter but firmer.

Coach Harding hesitated, then stepped back, worry etched deep across his face. But Matt didn’t see any of it. He didn’t see anything except Kitt alone in that diner — the image burned into him, haunting him.

He walked out of the building, cold air biting at his skin. His steps were fast, determined, almost reckless.

He wasn’t giving up.
He wasn’t slowing down.
He would drive back to Riverbend.
He would search every block.
Every street.
Every store.
Every diner.
Every place they had walked together.

He didn’t care if he had to skip practice.
Didn’t care if he had to skip class.
Didn’t care if he had to lie to his parents.
Didn’t care if his father disagreed.

He would find him.
Even if it hurt.
Even if it broke something in him.
Even if it changed everything else.

He whispered Kitt’s name into the cold, brittle air.

And somewhere in a small second-floor apartment in Riverbend, wrapped in blankets and drifting in and out of uneasy sleep, Kitt shivered — as if some fragile thread between them had trembled from far away.

. . .

Tom’s soup filled Kitt’s apartment with a soft, savory warmth that made the cold morning feel less merciless. Kitt managed half a bowl before his stomach warned him to slow down. Mateo watched every bite like a hawk, arms crossed and eyebrows permanently tightened with suspicion.

“You eat slower than a squirrel with stage fright,” Mateo muttered.

“I’ll throw the bowl at you,” Kitt mumbled back.

That tiny spark of banter eased something between them — not a fix, not a solution, but a thread of normalcy he hadn’t felt in weeks.

Tom left soon after, promising to check in again that evening, Harbor giving one last lick to Kitt’s hand before trotting after him. And when the door closed, the apartment fell quiet again, the kind of quiet that pressed around Kitt like a second skin.

Mateo stayed until Kitt drifted into a half-sleep, then slipped out with a soft, “Yell if you need anything. I’ll hear you. The floorboards here are basically paper.”

Kitt didn’t know if he dreamed or simply drifted, but at one point he thought he heard Matt’s voice — distant, muffled, calling his name across some impossible stretch of space. When he woke, chest tight, the room was empty again and snow was beginning to gather outside the window.

He pulled the blankets tighter around himself.

He didn’t know how he’d survive another week.
But morning would come again.
And he’d stand up again.

He always did.

. . .

In Lakehurst, Matt wasn’t falling apart in the ways people expected.
It wasn’t explosive.
It wasn’t dramatic.

It was subtle — small mistakes, tiny lapses, things only someone who knew him well would notice.

Coach Harding did.

“Everest,” he said after practice one day, “your timing was off in drills. That’s not like you.”

Matt muttered, “I’m fine,” even though he knew he wasn’t. His mind drifted at the worst moments — one second focused on a passing route, the next staring at the empty bleachers, wondering if Kitt was still alive.

But here was the thing about Matt:

When he slipped, even a little, his instinct wasn’t to give up.
It was to work harder.

So the next morning, he was up before dawn, running drills alone on the frosted field.
He threw until his shoulder burned.
He sprinted until his lungs clawed at his ribs.
He repeated the plays he messed up until the movements were muscle memory again.

By the end of the week, he was sharper.
More precise.
More driven.
More desperate.

Coach Harding saw the change and hesitated on the sideline, weighing worry against admiration.

He’d never seen a kid work this hard on his own.

Not like this.

“Everest,” he said quietly one afternoon, “whatever’s going on… don’t let it eat you alive.”

Matt only nodded.

He studied at night the same way — relentless, methodical, shoving information into his brain because slipping wasn’t an option.
He needed that scholarship.
He needed that future.
He needed to become the version of himself he’d once promised Kitt he would be.

But when the house got quiet — when his parents went to bed and the lights dimmed — he opened his laptop.

Riverbend news articles.
Local forums.
Lost-person threads.
Community posts.
Diner reviews.
Police blotters.
Anything with a blond boy around seventeen.

Most nights, the screen stayed empty of answers.

But he kept searching anyway.
He couldn’t not search.

And every night, before he shut the laptop, he whispered Kitt’s name into the silent room — soft, steady, aching.

Not as a prayer.
Not as a hope.
But as a promise.

. . .

Meanwhile, in Riverbend, evening crept into Kitt’s apartment like a cold draft. The warmth from Tom’s soup faded, and exhaustion returned in slow, dull waves. He sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the few coins he had left from last night’s pay.

Kitt sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the few crumpled bills left in his pocket. Rent was coming again soon. Food was already running thin. His shifts were barely enough to keep him above water, and the exhaustion pressed deeper every day.

Something had to give.
He didn’t know what.
He didn’t know how.

Tom’s soup had helped him feel human again, but reality settled just as quickly the moment the bowl was empty: kindness didn’t buy groceries. Warmth didn’t pay rent.

And every time his thoughts drifted toward the things desperate boys did in desperate places, his stomach turned with guilt and fear in equal measure. He didn’t want that life. He didn’t want to become someone he wouldn’t recognize in the mirror.

But the pressure kept tightening, a quiet ache he couldn’t outrun.

He lay back slowly, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the heater struggling against the cold. Somewhere above him, Mateo moved around his kitchen — footsteps soft, music playing low through thin apartment walls — a reminder that life went on around him in ways he was barely managing to keep up with.

Kitt closed his eyes.

He needed a plan.
He needed a way forward.
He needed… anything that didn’t require him to break another piece of himself.

Kitt exhaled shakily.

Two different worlds — Lakehurst and Riverbend — pulled at the same invisible thread.
Two boys, miles apart, hurt in the same shape.

Both pushing themselves.
Both holding on.

Both breaking in slow, quiet ways neither of them could see.

But the story was still turning.
And something — someone — was about to enter Kitt’s world who would shift the balance again.

The crack before the change.

The hush before the next hit.

The moment before the world tilts again.