Chapter 119: The Box and the Big Questions
Jon's Perspective
The hum of the car engine was the only sound filling the silence as I made my way home. It wasn't loud—just a low, steady vibration beneath the seat and the steering wheel. But it was enough to drown out the constant churn of thoughts trying to take over my brain. Thoughts I didn't feel like dealing with. Thoughts I'd been pushing off.
Sam.
College applications.
The future.
It's strange how some realizations sneak up on you. You think you've got time. You think you're prepared. And then all of a sudden, it's real. Immediate. Like flipping a switch. Sam's a senior. I'm a junior. That one-year difference never seemed like a big deal before. But now? Now it feels like a canyon opening up between us. A giant unknown I can't see across.
This time next year, she'll be off somewhere—probably some out-of-state campus with big libraries and tiny dorm rooms, carrying around new notebooks and overpriced lattes and plans. Real plans. Plans for her life.
And I'll still be here.
Same town. Same house. Same routine.
High school. Football practice. Family dinners where Gloria cries over telenovelas like someone in the TV owes her money. Ghost batting at shadows or stalking invisible monsters in the hallway.
And me? Not going to college after graduation. By choice.
A decision I made months ago, quietly and without ceremony. Not out loud to anyone, not even to Sam. I hadn't needed to say it—I just knew. College wasn't for me. The idea of lectures and dorm rooms and degrees felt like trying on clothes that didn't fit. I wasn't going to force it just because it was expected.
I thought I was okay with that. Confident, even.
But now that Sam's staring down college applications and personal essays and dreams with zip codes, that decision doesn't feel so simple anymore. Now it has a face.
Hers.
And it's a little harder to breathe.
A tight, itchy kind of feeling crawled up my spine as I turned into our driveway. That kind of pressure you can't stretch out or shake off. Like something in your chest knows there's a countdown and you can't stop it. I parked the car, turned off the engine, and just sat there, hands still on the wheel.
I told myself: We'll figure it out.
But I didn't believe it.
Not completely.
Because figuring it out meant closing distance that didn't even exist yet. It meant pretending that texts and weekend visits and promises were enough. But how often do those promises actually hold up when real life hits?
The world's full of stories that started with "we'll figure it out" and ended with silence.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and glanced at the back seat. That's when I saw it again—the cat tower. The one I thought Ghost would love. The one he sniffed once like it was cursed and then promptly ignored, as if I'd insulted him by trying. Now it just sat there, bulky and awkward, a fuzzy monument to rejection.
Looking at it, I suddenly felt weirdly called out. Like the thing was mocking me.
Not everything you offer is wanted.
Not everything goes the way you planned.
I stared at it for a while. Too long, probably. Eventually, I climbed out, popped open the back door, and hauled the thing out of the car. It wasn't light, and its shape made it an absolute nightmare to carry. I muttered curses under my breath as I awkwardly navigated the front steps and tried not to bump into anything on my way upstairs.
My plan was simple: fold it back into the box it came in. Maybe list it online. Or better yet, let Manny turn it into one of his weird art projects that probably says something deep about lost youth or climate change.
But as I stepped into my room, I stopped cold.
Ghost was there.
Inside the box.
Not in one of his usual spots. Not on his spot on the bed.
Nope. Just the box. The packaging. The thing I was about to toss.
And he looked perfectly content.
Flopped on his side, legs splayed, tail flicking lazily over the edge like he was claiming the entire cardboard kingdom for himself. He looked up at me with those smug, unbothered eyes that said, Took you long enough, human.
"You hate the tower," I muttered, still catching my breath. "But you like the box."
He yawned in response. Not even a graceful one—just a giant, toothy yawn followed by a dramatic stretch and a slow, deliberate shift that said, This is mine now.
I tried moving him. Twice. He hissed once, swatted at my hand the second time, then let out the kind of purr that sounded more like judgment than affection.
So I gave up. Flopped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling. Arms stretched wide. Mind spinning.
Ghost didn't care about status or intentions or future plans. He didn't want the fancy thing I picked out with good intentions. He wanted comfort. He wanted simplicity. He wanted a box.
And me? I didn't know what I wanted. Not really.
I couldn't plan the future—not the kind that felt solid, anyway. I couldn't put my feelings into neat compartments or tape them shut like a box of regrets. But maybe I could do something small. Something that mattered right now. Like picking up the new cat tower from Ron tomorrow—the one Ghost will actually like. The one that is crafted with care and effort.
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
A choice. A gesture.
Sam wasn't gone yet.
She hadn't packed her bags or said goodbye.
We still had time.
Time to be here. To be us.
And for tonight, Ghost had a box.
And I had a cat who didn't care about the future, just the comfort of cardboard.
Maybe, for now, that was enough.