Page 80 of Blindside Me
And if this video presentation is a war of who can pretend better, I’m about to lose badly. Like crash-and-burn, tell-your-grandkids-about-it one day, badly.
How did I not realize they’d play the entire voiceover for the class? Sure, I figured the teacher would hear the parts about teamwork, but the personal stuff? The “what I learned about my partner” stuff? I thought that was just for the professor. I was tired and raw the night we recorded. I said some things. Some very personal things.
Definitely more personal than whatever Drew said.
Now, not only does he get to hear it, but everyone else does too. Fantastic.
My stomach churns when I click the first video slide, and my voice fills the room.
Oh God.Are they really hearing what I said about Drew?
Worse yet. Did I actually mean it?
I already know the answer.
I steal a glance at his jaw, clenched tightly. He’s glued to the screen, not even blinking. How is he so calm when I’m basically vibrating out of my skin? Why did I get so personal? Maybe the class will think I made it up for the grade. Maybe. But I know this is going to be one-sided. He might want me, sure, but that’s just lust. It’s always one-sided. He’s too composed for it to be anything else.
Drew stands there, unmoving, as the professor nods and hits play. My knees go full Jell-O. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, every nerve in my body screaming for escape. The room goes silent. I can hear my own breathing.
The video opens with shaky shots of Drew at practice. Bad lighting, weird angles, the whole thing looks like a home movie gone wrong. Every flaw reminds me that this was never supposed to be for anyone but the professor. I risk a side-eye at Drew. He’s still staring straight ahead, shoulders bunched, his right leg twitching. Weirdly, that helps. Maybe he’s freaking out a little, too.
As the video cuts between us, I notice something else in it. Honesty. Actual, raw honesty. Not like everyone else’s slick, over-edited projects.
His documentary hits the midpoint. That’s when the pressure talk starts. The one he knows by heart. That I know by heart. Athletes in slow motion, missing critical shots. One limps off the rink. Another chucks a water bottle in frustration. Drew’s voice comes in, calm and steady, “One mistake, and it’s over.”
A lump forms in my throat. I think about Drew’s life. The hours. The pressure. The way it must crush him. He’s laying himself bare, right here. His workaholic, fear-driven core. It’s more than I ever thought he’d ever say. More than I ever thought anyone would hear.
I fight the urge to grab his hand, hold it, and squeeze through the parts I know hurt him. The parts that hurt me.
I shift and scan the class. Some people are leaning in, eyes wide. Others are frozen, like they don’t know what to do with what they’re seeing. A girl in the back raises her eyebrows at her friend. They’re shocked. I’m shocked. I must be bright red.
My own voice yanks me back to the screen. High-pitched. Fast. “I escaped into cartoons, into stories where nothing fell apart. No mistakes, only heroes.” My childhood flashes by in messy snapshots. Cluttered rooms. Empty pizza boxes. Screaming matches over bills. Stuff I didn’t realize I’d shown, not until now. “The world never felt stable,” my voice says. I don’t dare to breathe. “But in animation, everything made sense. There were no surprises.”
My stomach lurches as I dig my fists into my thighs, willing my nerves to calm. This is way, way too much. What the hell was I thinking, saying all that?
I glance at Drew. He’s not looking at me, but he doesn’t have to. I can tell he’s surprised. Maybe even impressed. His eyes narrow, searching. He tugs at his sleeve. A tiny thrill hits me. So, yeah. This freaks him out, too.
My voice keeps going. Softer now. Honest in a way that makes my skin prickle. The class stirs. They weren’t expecting this. Neither was I.
The essay flips back to Drew. Still shots of sweat-soaked jerseys. Empty benches. Eyes buried in taped-up hands. “Doubt creeps in when you least expect it.” His words are sharp, controlled. “Pressure will break you if you let it.” Butunderneath, there’s something else. Real vulnerability. It steals my breath.
He fidgets. Adjusts his leg and then his sleeve. I can’t stop watching him. I can’t stop thinking about how I didn’t know he’d share so much. How I didn’t know he’d share it with me. How it knocks me flat. How he knocks me flat.
I hold my breath and stare at the screen. At this point, I don’t care what anyone thinks. It’s us in this room. Me. Him. Our secrets. Our fears. We’ve let them out, and now I’m raw and exposed, feeling a million things at once.
The footage is choppy, too bright, and too dark. Yet somehow, it makes more sense than anything we meant to say. As much as I wish I’d said less, there’s nothing I’d take back. Not a single word. Nothing I’d want him to take back, either. The screen switches to Drew. He’s leaning against a row of lockers, calm but cracked. Telling the world what no one thought he’d ever say. Telling the world everything.
My last clip ends with me saying, “Somewhere along the way, I stopped surviving and started wanting more.”
The screen shifts to Drew’s final slide: a plain black screen with white text. No frills. No distractions.
His voice plays one last time. “I spent my life thinking I was nothing if I wasn’t perfect. She made space for the parts I didn’t want anyone to see.”
Our secrets fill the room. My heart goes haywire, and I swear he can hear it. I shift, trying to calm it, like maybe he won’t notice. But who am I kidding? He has to see. He’s looking right at me.
His face fills the screen. Sweat-matted hair. Pained eyes. An exhaustion I can’t imagine, but somehow, I understand. It lingers there for what feels like years, like the world has paused to watch him and listen. The end. The end of everything. The end of me.
Blackness.
