Kole's Turn

It's hours past midnight when Kole finally speaks.

The storm outside has softened to a whisper, just distant raindrops tapping against the glass, but the quiet between them is louder than ever.

Jackson sits on the floor by the bed, legs stretched out, his head resting back against the edge of the mattress. He's in sweatpants and a hoodie, stripped down and worn out-like he's shed every layer of fame. Of anger. Of pride.

Kole stands by the window, arms crossed, shoulders tight like he's holding himself together with force alone. His voice, when it comes, is rough and too honest.

"You asked why I left journalism."

Jackson doesn't move, doesn't interrupt. Just listens.

"I was good," Kole starts, a bitter smile curving on his lips. "Top of my class, internships lined up, people calling me a rising star. But then I started pitching the wrong stories. Queer stories. About abuse. About hypocrisy in the industry. About things nobody wanted printed."

He turns around. His eyes look hollow in the low light. "They told me I was too 'emotional.' That I had an agenda. One editor said, 'No one cares about faggot drama, Kole. Write something people actually read.'"

Jackson's jaw clenches, but still-he stays quiet.

"And I did it. I swallowed it. Smiled. Played the game. Until I couldn't anymore. Until I went home."

He walks toward the bed, sits down opposite Jackson on the floor.

"My dad found one of my early articles. The one about queer teens and suicide. He read it during dinner. Said I was embarrassing him. Said I was asking to get killed. My mom just... looked away."

Kole shrugs, too casually, like he's trying not to shatter under the memory.

"I packed my bags that night. Told them I was moving to L.A. Never looked back."

Jackson watches him, heart thudding.

"But I never healed from it. Not really. I just... started doing things that made me feel in control. I chased stories like they were adrenaline hits. Slept around to prove I didn't need anyone. Said yes to this PR contract because I thought-why not? Be wanted for once. Even if it's fake."

Silence.

Then:

"You're the first person I've told all this to," Kole whispers.

Jackson leans forward, hands resting on his knees. "You don't have to be reckless to be worthy."

Kole's throat bobs. He looks away, blinking fast.

"I don't know how to be anything else."

Jackson reaches out. Not to pull him close. Not to kiss him. Just to hold his hand. Palm to palm.

"You don't have to know right now," he says softly. "You just have to try."

And Kole does something he rarely allows himself to do.

He lets someone hold the broken pieces without pretending they're whole.