written by nessa.

The second article came two weeks later when photographs surfaced of you skipping a charity gala hosted by your family’s company to attend a music festival instead. Someone had managed to capture a video of you perched on a stranger’s shoulders screaming the lyrics of bed chem with a drink in each hand. Your father canceled your credit cards for three days before eventually giving them back.

By April the articles had become routine. Apparently there was an entire section of the internet dedicated to tracking your poor decisions. You discovered this accidentally while procrastinating a structural design project worth thirty percent of your grade.

One particularly humiliating article had compiled every rumored relationship you’d been involved with since arriving at Stanford and presented them in chronological order. You would’ve found the entire thing funny if your parents weren’t threatening to disown you every other week.

Contrary to popular belief, you were actually a good student but the articles never mentioned that part. They never mentioned the nights spent hunched over drafting tables at three in the morning surrounded by empty energy drinks and half-finished models. They never mentioned the professors who liked you or the fact your grades were consistently good despite the chaos of your personal life. They certainly never mentioned that architecture was the first thing you’d ever truly loved.

Instead, they focused on the easier stories: Stanford’s Princess Photographed Nip-Slip or Rich Heiress Caught Buying Weed. Sex appeal and drugs always sold better than structural designs.

Your father paid the tuition bills every semester without complaint but you’ve never once gotten the impression he was proud of where that money was going. Architecture wasn’t the family business. It wasn’t useful. It wasn’t practical. It certainly wasn’t the future he’d spent your entire childhood envisioning.

That future belonged to your sister.

Maude graduated top of her class with a business degree from Harvard, completed every internship your father arranged, married a man your parents adored and somehow managed to produce twin girls who looked like they belonged in a luxury magazine spread.

Every Christmas she arrived with homemade cookies and thoughtful gifts while your father spent the entire evening telling anyone willing to listen how proud he was of her. She was elegant in a way you never managed to be, always wearing tasteful dresses and speaking softly. Even her mistakes seemed graceful.

You, on the other hand, showed up late and slightly hungover half the time. You didn’t wear tasteful ballgowns, you preferred mini skirts and tight tops, designer sunglasses and jewelry expensive enough to give your mother a headache whenever she saw the receipt. Your parents had spent half a million dollars on just your elementary schooling in hopes you would grow up to speak sweetly like your sister but to their horror, you cussed beautifully in both French and English.

If Maude was the daughter your parents proudly displayed to the world, you were the one they kept having to explain.

In many ways though, despite all your efforts to be different, you were your mother and father’s daughter. You inherited your fathers selfishness and pride and your mothers vanity and conceitedness. You liked the finer things life has to offer, you enjoyed being admired and getting your way. Beneath the rebellion and poor decision making, you were still very much their daughter.

Maybe that’s why the disappointment always felt so personal. Perhaps your father didn’t look at the articles and see some child spiraling. He looked at them and saw himself reflected back in all the worst ways. Unfortunately, none of that changes the fact you’re currently sneaking through your parents’ home at eight in the morning wearing another man’s hoodie.

You almost make it upstairs. In hindsight, that should’ve been your first clue something was wrong because nothing ever goes your way that easily.

The foyer stretches around you in all its usual ridiculous grandeur, imported marble beneath your feet, fresh flowers perched atop every available surface and a chandelier so expensive you once looked up the price out of curiosity and immediately wished you hadn't. Your mother changes the floral arrangements every week depending on the season and some designer she follows online. This week it's peonies, last week it was hydrangeas. You can't remember what came before that because unlike your mother, you have never particularly cared for what dead plant is sitting in the foyer.

The oversized hoodie hanging off your shoulders smells faintly of weed, expensive cologne and whatever detergent Wonbin’s housekeeper uses. Your heels dangle from two fingers, abandoned the moment you stepped through the front doors because marble is surprisingly loud at eight in the morning and the last thing you need is announcing your return to the entire household…

Fortunately for you, most of the staff won't start filtering in for another hour and your parents are rarely awake before nine unless business requires otherwise. At least that's what you're counting on.

While you’re currently reaping the consequences of your actions, last night had been worth it.

Objectively speaking, skipping your parents' dinner party had been a terrible decision. There had been investors there, family friends and according to your mother, the son of some executive she'd spent the better part of a month attempting to introduce you to.

Every conversation she'd started recently somehow circled back to him. Do you know he attended Columbia? Do you know he speaks four languages? Do you know his family owned this, invested in that and sat on the board of whatever company happened to be relevant that week? You'd stopped listening around conversation three.

So instead of attending dinner like a respectable daughter, you'd spent the evening in a dingy basement with your friends Maya and Harvey getting cross faded while some guy named Tyler attempted to DJ from an iPad. By midnight you'd forgotten the executive's son's name entirely, by two in the morning you were making out with Wonbin and by four you were in his bed getting deliciously eaten-out and remembering exactly why you kept going back.

The staircase is only a few feet away when a familiar voice cuts through the foyer.

"Stop."

You freeze mid step and curse under your breath. For one hopeful second you consider pretending not to hear him. Unfortunately your father is many things but stupid has never been one of them.

Slowly, you turn around and find your father sitting in one of the armchairs overlooking the foyer with one leg crossed neatly over the other and a crystal tumbler balanced in one hand. His Van Winkle ‘17 bourbon catches the morning sunlight streaming through the windows behind him. Well that’s not promising.

For a moment neither of you speaks. You simply stare at one another across the foyer, the silence stretching long enough to become uncomfortable. Then again, discomfort has always been something of a family tradition.

Your father has spent the better part of a week pretending you don’t exist. Ever since Stanford let out for summer and you returned home, your parents have adopted an almost impressive strategy of avoidance. Your mother suddenly finds herself very busy with charity functions and board meetings while your father buries himself in work, speaking to you only when absolutely necessary. At first you assumed they were calming down. Giving themselves time to cool off after another semester spent reading headlines about their youngest daughter embarrassing herself.

Your father finally breaks the silence. “Do you enjoy embarrassing our family name?” He asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Because at this point I’m struggling to come up with another explanation.”

Straight to the point. You say nothing in response. Partly because you know there’s no answer he would accept and partly because you’ve had this conversation so many times the script is practically memorized. He says you’ve become a disgrace, you remind him that nobody forced journalists to follow you around. He lectures. You argue. Neither of you listens.

It’s a remarkably efficient system.

His gaze lingers on you for another moment before he sets his glass down and rises from his chair. The movement is slow enough to feel deliberate and suddenly you’re reminded that despite the grey beginning to creep into his hair, your father remains an intimidating man when he wants to be.

He stops directly in front of you and wrinkles his nose. “I thought your mother and I told you to stop smoking.”

You sigh dramatically. “I wasn’t smoking.”

The lie hangs between you for all of half a second before both of you silently agree not to acknowledge it. Your father has caught you sneaking home at eight in the morning wearing another man’s hoodie. Neither of you is under the illusion that you’re winning any awards for honesty today.

“Do you know how many calls I’ve taken this month because of you?”

You shrug. “I imagine it surpasses twenty?” You supply dryly.

“Twenty-seven,” he says immediately.

You blink at the tone. Your father rarely raises his voice. Sadly, he’s always been at his most frightening when he’s calm.

“Twenty-seven calls. Eight from investors. Three from board members. One from your grandfather asking if I’d completely lost control of my household.”

His jaw tightens. “Do you know how humiliating that was?”

“Then stop answering.” You say.

For a moment your father simply stares at you. “Excuse me?”

You shrug. “Just an option.”

Your father sends a sharp glare in your direction before swiftly switching topics. “Where are you coming from?”

“Wonbin's."

You swear you see his eye twitch. Your father has hated Wonbin since the day he met him. According to him, he represents everything wrong with your generation. Too loud, too careless, too immature. The fact you’ve been sleeping with him on and off for nearly a year has only made things worse.

“Why do you insist on being that boy’s whore?”

The question hangs between you, ugly and entirely unexpected. For a second all you can do is stare at him. Not because the word itself is particularly shocking; you've spent years being called every variation of spoiled, reckless, promiscuous and ungrateful by people who have never met you a day in their lives but because somehow hearing it from him feels different…worse.

Maybe because throughout this entire conversation not once has he asked if you're okay. Not once has he asked where you've been emotionally these past few months, why you've suddenly become incapable of staying sober for longer than a weekend, why every bad decision somehow felt easier than sitting across from him at the dinner table.

Instead he's spoken about investors and headlines. About embarrassment. The entire conversation has revolved around damage control and standing here now you realize with startling clarity that your father isn't looking at you and seeing his daughter. He's looking at you and seeing a problem. A stain on a family name he's spent decades building.

Your therapist would probably have something annoyingly insightful to say about this moment. Something about attention-seeking behaviors and emotional neglect and the way children often spend their entire lives trying to earn affection from parents incapable of giving it. You can practically hear her voice now, asking why you continue to provoke them when you know how it ends. The answer has always been embarrassingly simple: some pathetic part of you keeps hoping they'll react differently. That one day your father will stop acting like a CEO long enough to become your father. That your mother will stop worrying about appearances long enough to notice you're drowning. That someone will ask why instead of immediately demanding that you stop.

Looking at him now, standing there with disappointment etched into every hard line of his face, you finally understand how stupid that hope was. He doesn't care why. He never has. As far as he's concerned, the only tragedy here is that people are talking.

Something twists violently inside you then. Whatever hurt had initially flared in your chest curdles into something far uglier. Anger has always been easier to carry than disappointment. Anger doesn't leave you lying awake at night wondering what exactly is so fundamentally wrong with you that your own parents can’t seem to love you.

Your jaw tightens as you think about every riding competition he missed, every birthday dinner interrupted by business calls, every report card he'd glanced at before immediately asking why there wasn't another A within it. You think about the way your sister somehow learned to become exactly what they wanted while you've spent twenty-two years failing spectacularly at it. Most of all, you think about the fact that even now, standing in front of him after not coming home all night, he still hasn't asked if you're safe.

You let out a short laugh that sounds foreign even to your own ears. Your father frowns immediately. You shake your head and look away for a moment, suddenly afraid that if you meet his eyes too long he'll see exactly how much that question hurt you. Your pride won't allow that.

“I don't know,” you say finally, looking back at him. “Why are you my mother’s?”

For a moment your father simply stares at you.

You watch the realization cross his face before it morphs into pure rage. Most people never see your father angry, he’s too controlled for that. His entire career has been built on remaining calm in situations that would send lesser men into cardiac arrest. Billion-dollar acquisitions, hostile takeovers, public scandals, market crashes. None of it rattles him. While everyone else panics, your father simply adjusts his cufflinks and finds a solution.

You’ve always hated that about him. The way nothing seems capable of touching him, the way he can stand there completely composed while making everyone around him feel small. For the first time all morning, that composure cracks.

You see it all happen in real time and some deeply self-destructive part of you feels a vicious sense of satisfaction. Good, let him hurt too.

Your satisfaction lasts all of three seconds. You watch him reel his hand back and slap you clean across your cheek. One moment you’re standing there and the next your head snaps violently to the side as a sharp burst of pain explodes across your cheek as your father’s ring catches the skin just beneath your eye. The impact sends your heels tumbling from your hand and clattering across the marble floor while a startled gasp escapes your lips. For a second the entire foyer seems to tilt sideways around you.

For twenty-two years your father has been many things: demanding, critical, controlling, impossible to please yet he has never put his hands on you.

Your fingers rise shakily to your cheek as you stare at him in shock. He meets your gaze head on. He recovers first. “I have tried. Your mother and I have given you chance after chance after chance and yet every time I think you’ve finally hit rock bottom, you somehow find a shovel and keep digging.” He says, his voice devoid of emotion.

You remain frozen where you stand.

“I sent you to one of the best universities in the world. I paid for every opportunity imaginable. Every tutor, every school, every advantage. We have spent your entire life trying to give you a future and this is what you choose to do with it?” He laughs bitterly and drags a hand through his hair before beginning to pace across the foyer. “You spend your nights getting high with barbarians who contribute nothing to society, you parade yourself across every gossip site willing to pay for a photograph and then you stand here wondering why people no longer take you seriously.”

You swallow hard. The sting behind your eyes has nothing to do with the slap. “Are you not ashamed? Does any part of you feel embarrassed by the reputation that precedes you? Do you have any idea what people say when they hear your name now?” He demands.

You could tell him you’ve memorized every article and every comment section. You could tell him none of them have managed to come up with an insult you haven’t already said to yourself but you keep quiet, it wouldn’t change anything.

Your father exhales sharply before shaking his head as though he’s finally reached the end of whatever patience he’s been clinging to these past four months. When he speaks again, his voice is calm. “Go pack your things. You’re spending the summer with your grandmother.”

For a second you honestly think you’ve misheard him. Your grandmother lives halfway across the world up in the mountains where she doesn’t have reliable cell service. Your father turns away before you can form a response.

“I’m done,” he says quietly.

Then he walks away, disappearing down the hallway without another glance in your direction, leaving you standing alone in the middle of the foyer with your cheek throbbing, your heels scattered across the marble floor.

You aren’t entirely sure how long you stand there. Long enough for the reality of what just happened to begin sinking in. Your father slapped you. The thought repeats itself over and over in your head, each repetition somehow sounding just as ridiculous as the first. Your father slapped you.

The man who insisted physical discipline was for parents who possessed low IQ’s, the man who once threatened legal action against a boarding school after discovering a teacher had grabbed your arm too roughly during an argument. He slapped you.

“____?”

You turn your head to find Madeline emerging from the hallway near the kitchen, her expression stricken. For a moment neither of you speaks.

Maddie has worked for your family for nearly twenty years. Long enough to have helped raise both you and your sister. Long enough that some of your earliest memories involve her chasing you through the garden to put on your sunscreen while your mother attended meetings and your father worked late.

She’d taught you how to braid your hair, how to ride a bike. When you broke your wrist at ten years old, it had been Maddie sitting beside your hospital bed while your parents flew to Singapore.

The second she sees your face her own crumples. “Oh sweetheart.”

Maddie crosses the foyer in seconds and gathers you into her arms before you can protest. You bury your face against her shoulder and hate yourself a little for how quickly the tears come. “It’s alright,” she murmurs, rubbing a hand up and down your back.

Maddie waits until you’ve collected yourself enough to stand upright before gently steering you toward the staircase. One arm remains looped around your shoulders as she guides you upstairs. By the time you reach your bedroom your tears have mostly stopped. Maddie closes the door behind you before crossing the room and gently cupping your chin between her fingers. “Let me see.”

You sigh but allow her to tilt your face toward the light. “His ring caught you.” She says softly before pushing you to take a seat on your bed. Maddie disappears into your bathroom before returning a moment later with the first aid kit. She kneels in front of you, carefully dabbing antiseptic against the small cut beneath your eye.

You hiss at the sting and she blows some air on the area to soothe it a bit. “Sorry.”

You nod but stay mute and let her continue to clean you up. She says nothing for a little while after that, only places the used cotton aside and reaches back into the first aid kit for a bandaid. When she speaks again her voice is gentle in the way it always is right before she tells you something you don’t want to hear.

“You should apologize.”

Your eyes lift to hers immediately. “For what?”

Maddie presses her lips together as though choosing her words carefully. “Not because I think you’ve done anything wrong but because your father is angry and when your father gets angry, the fastest way to make him calm down is to give him something he wants.” She says quietly, smoothing the bandage between her fingers. 

A short humorless laugh escapes you. The suggestion itself feels insulting. Your father has never particularly cared whether an apology is sincere. He only cares that it restores order.

“I’m not apologizing for him hitting me.”

Maddie’s expression flickers at that. “That’s not what you should apologize for sweetheart.” She says softly.

You look away first. Maddie peels the backing off the bandaid and leans in closer. “Hold still.”

You do and she places the bandaid carefully over the cut beneath your eye before leaning back to inspect her work. Only then do you glance down at the wrapper and realize it’s baby pink with a tiny Hello Kitty face printed in the center.

For a moment you just stare at her. “Maddie.”

A small guilty smile tugs at her mouth. “It was the only one I could find.”

Despite everything, your mouth almost twitches. Maddie closes the first aid kit and sets it aside on the edge of your nightstand. When she looks back at you the trace of humor is gone from her face entirely. “I’ve never seen him that angry,” she says.

You lean back against the headboard and cross your arms loosely over your stomach, as though making yourself smaller might somehow make the conversation less irritating. “He’ll get over it.”

Maddie doesn’t answer. You frown. “He always gets over it.”

Again, you’re met with nothing in response. You lift your eyes to look at Maddie and find her looking at you worriedly. “I think he means it this time…about sending you away.”

You scoff before she even finishes her sentence.  “Please. I’m twenty-two years old. My father cannot dictate my summer plans.”

Maddie’s eyes linger on your face for a moment. There is no judgment there, only concern that makes you want to look away. You’ve already cried in front of her today. Your dignity is hanging on by a thread as it is.

“Maybe not but he can make things difficult.”

That, at least, is true. Your father has spent your entire life proving that wealth makes almost anything possible and almost everything miserable when properly weaponized. He can’t physically drag you onto a plane and hand-deliver you to your grandmother’s doorstep but he can cancel cards and freeze accounts.

Still, the very idea of him following through feels absurd. “He’s being dramatic,” you say.

Maddie lets out a small sigh and rises to her feet. “I’m going to start breakfast. You should try to eat something.” She says, smoothing a hand over the front of her dress.

You don’t answer and after a moment she leaves, pulling the door shut softly behind her.

You ease yourself further back on the bed until your shoulders hit the pillows and stare up at the ceiling.

The chandelier above you catches in the light and scatters faintly across the plaster. You used to count the reflections as a child when you couldn’t sleep, long before your room became a showroom of everything your mother thought a daughter’s bedroom ought to be. Designer furniture, tasteful wallpaper, shelves color-coordinated by someone else’s hand. There has always been something ironic about the fact that this is probably the most expensive room you will ever sleep in and also the loneliest.

Your eyes sting again.

It would be easier, you think, if your father had always been cruel then at least this morning could be filed away neatly alongside every other terrible thing he had ever done but that is not the shape of your relationship with him and that is what makes the whole thing feel so destabilizing.

Your father has been cold, certainly. Controlling in ways that have shaped the entire architecture of your life. Yet even at his worst there had always remained some line you believed he would not cross. Not because he was especially kind but because he was too proud, too convinced of his own superiority to behave like men who lacked discipline.

Apparently that assumption had been just another luxury you can no longer afford.

You press the heel of your hand against your eyes and turn your face into the pillow before the tears can slip free properly. They come anyway, quiet and humiliating, soaking into Egyptian cotton pillowcases your mother probably had monogrammed in Italy. You cry without making a sound.

You remain sprawled across the center of your bed in Wonbin’s hoodie with your makeup smeared, your cheek aching and the chandelier light drifting lazily across the ceiling above you.

You don’t leave your room for the rest of the day.

Two days later your father proves just how serious he was.

By then the bruise blooming beneath your eye has faded enough to be mostly hidden beneath concealer though the cut his ring left behind still stings faintly whenever you wash your face. You have avoided him almost as skillfully as he has avoided you. The two of you move through the estate like opposing dignitaries forced to share a country neither particularly likes, speaking only through closed doors and staff members too well-trained to show discomfort.

It’s easier that way.

If you don’t have to look at him then you don’t have to think too hard about what happened in the foyer. More importantly, if he continues pretending you are invisible then you’re free to believe Maddie was wrong. Free to tell yourself that the threat had only been that, a threat.

So by Thursday afternoon you’re stretched out beside the pool in a black and gold bikini and oversized sunglasses shielding your eyes while you tan.

One of the pool boys is skimming leaves from the far end, though his attention has drifted in your direction often enough that the task is taking significantly longer than necessary. You notice every time and he notices you noticing. It’s the sort of harmless game you’ve always been good at, boredom dressed up as flirtation.

Your martini glass sweats on the side table beside you. Somewhere nearby, speakers hidden in the landscaping play your curated playlist. You hear footsteps approach across the stone patio. You don’t lift your head. Your mother clears her throat first.

You push your sunglasses up slightly and find both of your parents standing a few feet away. Your father has his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers despite the heat while your mother looks as elegant and disapproving as ever in some linen set. Together they cast a long shadow over your lounge chair.

You reach for your drink and take a sip before setting it back down. “I’m trying to tan,” you say.

Your mother’s gaze drops pointedly to your bikini. “Clearly.”

Before you can respond, she bends to snatch up the towel lying at the end of your chair and tosses it toward you. It lands across your stomach in a heap. You stare at it for a second before sighing and draping it properly over yourself because arguing about modesty in ninety-degree weather feels beneath even you.

“Nick will be here in fifteen minutes,” your mother says.

You blink once behind your sunglasses. “Okay?”

“Maddie has packed your bags.” Her tone remains maddeningly calm. “You should go upstairs and change.”

For a second the words do not quite register. Packed your bags…change…Nick. You sit up a little straighter and pull the sunglasses off entirely. “I leave for Greece in two days. Harvey and Maya are meeting me there Sunday.”

Your father answers this time. “You’re not going to Greece.”

For one stupid second you simply stare at him, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Waiting for the part where he clarifies that he means not unless you apologize or that he bumped your flight because he’s in need of the jet the day you’re meant to leave for Mykonos. Some evidence that this is still a theoretical punishment rather than what it actually sounds like.

Nothing comes. “No,” you say.

Your father exhales quietly through his nose. “Go upstairs and get dressed.”

You’re on your feet before you fully realize you’ve moved, the towel sliding from your lap and pooling forgotten beside the chair. “No. Absolutely not!”

Your mother’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly. Your father’s does not change at all, which is somehow worse. You look at your mother first because despite everything some deeply humiliating part of you still expects rescue to come from the softer parent. “Mom!”

She only folds her arms. “If you don’t want to freeze on the jet, I would suggest changing.”

The finality of it hits you all at once then. He actually did it. Somewhere in the last forty-eight hours your father turned one sentence spoken in anger into a fully executable plan and never once felt the need to consult you.

“You cannot be serious.”

Your father meets your gaze evenly. “I have never been more serious.”

Without another word you brush past them and head for the house, bare feet slapping against the hot stone, you swing the back doors open hard enough that one of the hinges rattles. The cool air inside hits your damp skin immediately but does nothing to calm the heat rising beneath it. You hold on to your anger all the way through the breakfast room and into the main hall where the first thing you see is one of the footmen dragging a suitcase toward the front drive.

For a moment you stop short, staring at the familiar cream-colored luggage set disappearing toward the front doors. It’s one thing to hear a punishment spoken out loud, it’s another to watch it become real.

“Maddie!?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intend.

She appears a second later near the base of the staircase, already moving toward you before you can say anything else. One look at your face and her own floods with sympathy.

“What’s going on? Why are my bags outside?” You demand, even though by now you know exactly what is going on. 

Maddie reaches for your hands automatically. “Your father made arrangements for you to stay with your grandmother for the summer.”

You stare at her. The words should not still be capable of shocking you and yet somehow they are. “No! No Maddie, he can’t do this!” Your fingers tighten painfully around hers.

Her face softens further and suddenly you hate that too, hate the pity of it. “Sweetheart–”

“Don’t,” you snap, already shaking your head. “Please don’t do that.”

Maddie glances toward the foyer where staff continue moving in and out with your things. The discretion of the household has always been one of its more valuable assets but even discretion cannot disguise what this is: you are being sent away. Everyone knows it yet everyone will pretend not to.

You feel the tears coming before they fall and turn your head sharply, furious with yourself for crying again. “You have to talk to him.”

Maddie stays quiet.

“Maddie!”

“Your father won’t listen to me.”

“He listens to you more than he listens to me!” You beg.

“That doesn’t mean he’ll change his mind.” She reminds you softly.

You pull your hands free then because the gentleness of her grip suddenly feels unbearable. “I don’t need time away. This is insane! I have plans! I’m supposed to be in Mykonos in two days! Harvey already booked the villa, Maya booked us reservations, I–”

Maddie wipes at the tears slipping down your face with the side of her thumb the same way she used to when you were little and that nearly undoes you completely. “Maybe some time away is exactly what you need.”

The betrayal of it lands harder than it should. You stare at her as though she has become briefly unrecognizable. “Maddie…?”

Her expression breaks a little. “Go upstairs. I laid out clothes for the flight on your bed.”

For a moment you consider refusing. You are twenty-two years old. You could walk right back through the kitchen, out the side gate, into some waiting car that takes you anywhere but here. You could call Maya, Harvey or even Wonbin. You could break something expensive. Force your father to look at you long enough to understand that whatever satisfaction he hopes to derive from this, he will not get it quietly.

Instead you do nothing because the terrible thing about power is that when it’s real, you can feel its weight and implications. You know how this ends if you make a scene. Your father has had twenty-two years to learn precisely how to win against you. So you nod once and retreat to your room.

The next hour passes in fragments.

At some point you are upstairs pulling on soft grey sweats and a cashmere zip-up Maddie laid neatly across the duvet. At some point you scrub the last of your makeup away and collect your personal items to keep in your carryon. At some point Maddie passes you your passport and reminds you not to forget your charger. By the time Nick loads the final suitcase into the trunk, your mind has gone strangely blank.

The drive to the airfield passes in near silence. Nick, wisely, does not attempt conversation. You sit in the backseat with your arms folded tightly across yourself and watch the city fall away through tinted glass. Your phone rests uselessly in your lap. There are messages from Maya in the group chat about bikinis and dinner plans in Greece, two missed calls from Wonbin you have no interest in returning and an email from Stanford about course registration. All of it belongs to a life that, as of an hour ago, no longer seems entirely yours.

The private terminal is quiet and efficient. Someone takes your handbag, someone else offers you water, the pilot greets you by name. You say nothing to any of them. By the time you climb the stairs into the jet you feel less like a person and more like cargo.

Inside the cabin everything is cream leather and chilled air. You sink into the seat nearest the window and curl slightly toward it before anyone can attempt conversation. One of the flight attendants asks if you’d like something to eat. You shake your head. Another offers champagne with takeoff, you ask for an ambien instead.

As the jet lifts from the tarmac you keep your eyes fixed on the window.

It occurs to you with sudden bitter clarity that this is probably exactly how your father wanted it done: quickly and cleanly. The efficiency of it all makes your chest ache more than any screaming match might have. At least a fight would’ve implied you were still worth engaging with.

You don’t realize you’ve started crying again until a tear slips sideways into your mouth.

Sometime after takeoff, once the plane has leveled and your phone manages to claw its way back into a few uneven bars of service, it begins vibrating in your hand. The screen lights up with Harvey’s name.

For a moment you consider declining it but against your judgment, you answer.

“Hey!” Music thumps faintly in the background on her end. “Maya and I are finalizing clubs for Saturday. She wants one with a beach view and I said that sounds tacky but now I’m looking at photos and maybe tacky is fine in Mykonos. Also did you ever find your white Pucci set? Because if not I–”

“I’m not coming.”

The words leave your mouth flatly. There’s a brief pause. “...what?”

You look out the window. Clouds drift endlessly beyond the glass. “My father is sending me to Korea.”

Another beat of silence, longer this time. “What do you mean sending you to Korea? What’s in Korea?”

“My grandmother’s estate. My punishment for the summer.”

Harvey’s confusion immediately turns into outrage. “For what!?”

You let out a short laugh. “Bruised his ego beyond repair this time.”

That’s what finally does it. Not the flight, not the goodbye you never got to say. It’s Harvey’s horrified silence on the other end of the line. Your mouth trembles so you press the heel of your hand hard against your lips.

“What happened?”

For a second you consider lying, something vague and glamorous and easy to laugh off later. Family drama, my father’s being insane, you know how he is but the words stall in your throat. When you speak, your voice barely sounds like your own.

“He slapped me.”

Harvey goes completely silent then you hear a rustle on her end. When she speaks again her voice is farther from the phone. “Maya’s here.”

A second later Maya’s voice cuts in, sharp with disbelief. “Your father did what?”

You stare out at the clouds. “You heard me.”

“No, I heard the word I just want to make sure I’m understanding them correctly before I say something that gets me put on a watchlist.” Maya says.

Despite everything, you laugh. Harvey must hear it because her tone turns gentler. “Baby.”

“It’s fine,” you say automatically.

Both of them scoff at once.

“It is very much not fine,” Maya says.

“Where are you right now?” Harvey asks.

“Somewhere over the pacific.”

“He sent you away already!? What the hell is wrong with him?” Maya mutters.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “I genuinely don’t know anymore.”

For a little while they do most of the talking. Harvey slips into asking practical questions: did you eat? Do you have your charger? Did Maddie pack enough clothes? Maya interrupts every few seconds with far less practical but significantly more entertaining commentary. A comment she makes about ordering a hit on your father pulls a laugh at you.

The conversation drifts after that. They ask where exactly in Korea you’re going and you explain as much as you know. Your family owns homes all over the world because apparently obscene wealth loses all meaning if it isn’t geographically diversified. Your grandmother just happened to claim the Korea estate for herself years ago.

Back when she still sat on the board, she used to travel constantly for work. Your family’s company had sponsors and business interests in South Korea which meant she was in and out of the country often enough to fall in love with it somewhere along the way. First the cities, then the food and according to some gossip through the grapevine even some of the men. By the time she retired, she claimed the massive estate tucked deep in the countryside.

“It sounds kind of beautiful,” Harvey says.

“It sounds desolate,” you reply.

Maya hums. “Maybe it can be both.”

The three of you proceed to stay on call for another two hours before you decide to call it. “If you’re still there in a week, Harvey and I are sending a jet.” Maya says.

You smile despite yourself. “And when we get you back, there will be fresh limoncello, a beach and at least three men to worship the ground you walk on.” She continues.

“Only three?” you murmur.

“Don’t push it.”

The call ends a few minutes later and after that the rest of the flight passes in a blur. You doze at some point without meaning to and wake only when the wheels touch down in Seoul. From there the transition is so smooth it barely feels real. A driver is already waiting for you when you step through arrivals. He takes your luggage without being asked, bows politely and ushers you into the backseat of a dark sedan.

The drive from the city to your grandmother’s estate takes nearly three hours.

At first there are glass towers and traffic and enough motion outside the windows to keep you distracted but gradually Seoul gives way to quieter roads then long stretches of mountains. You spend most of the drive with your cheek pressed against the cool glass, too exhausted to think properly and too angry to sleep.

By the time the car turns through a set of iron gates, the sun has completely set. The estate reveals itself in pieces. First the long private drive curving up through manicured trees then the house itself, large enough to feel almost ridiculous even by your family’s standards.

The driver pulls to a stop in the circular driveway. You find your grandmother already standing outside waiting. She opens her arms before you’ve fully stepped out of the car and you go to her without thinking. The hug is brief but firm.

When she pulls back she doesn’t ask whether the flight was alright, she doesn’t ask about the cut below your left eye. She doesn’t ask a single question about home. “Your room is upstairs, second door on the left,” she says simply. “Dinner is in thirty minutes so go freshen up.”

You nod, appreciative of the simplicity of her words. As you turn toward the house she adds, “I invited my new gardener to stay for dinner as thanks for all his hard work today.”

You barely spare the comment a thought. “Okay.”

Upstairs, your room is large and neat and somehow already contains enough of your things to make your father’s efficiency feel sinister all over again. You shower quickly, change into the first decent thing you can find and stare at yourself in the mirror for a long moment before finally heading back downstairs.

When you make it to the last step, your eyes catch sight of an auburn haired male coming in through the open back door form where you assume holds the garden. He must be the gardener. His hair is lightly damp at the ends and his sleeves are pushed up to his forearms. There’s dirt smudged faintly along one wrist and his t-shirt clings to his body, making you briefly jealous of how tiny his waist appears. He looks up when he hears you and offers a polite smile.

You cock your head to the side as you stand on the last step. Well, things just got interesting. He inclines his head slightly in greeting before disappearing down the hallway without a word and you find yourself watching him go a beat longer than necessary before making your way toward the dining room. 

At least you’ll have some delicious eye candy while lounging out back. Maybe he can even be a replacement for Wonbin for the time being. You pluck your napkin and smirk to yourself as you begin plotting on the unsuspecting man. You catalog bikinis you hope Maddie packed. Maybe the string set from White Fox? The pale yellow one with the ridiculous gold hardware if she really loves you. If not, your black one would do. Men usually prefer black. It’s easier to imagine taking off.

You smooth your napkin across your lap and glance toward the doorway just as he reappears. Only this time he isn’t alone.

A little boy rests half-asleep against his chest, one arm looped lazily around his neck while the other clutches a hardcover book to his small body. He looks no older than five or six. For a second your brain stalls trying to make sense of the image in front of you.

The child is dressed neatly, his dark hair mussed slightly from sleep and the book in his hand appears to have some sort of bug printed across the front. The man adjusts him more securely on his hip as he steps into the room and whatever mildly entertaining fantasy you’d started building for yourself collapses almost instantly.

You pray to God that’s his younger sibling. There is simply no other explanation that feels reasonable. The man looks too young. Young enough that the idea of him being someone’s father seems almost laughable. He moves to the seat across from you and just as he starts to settle, the little boy lifts his head sleepily from his shoulder.

“Daddy,” he says, voice soft from whatever nap he clearly got dragged out of. “Can we go to the library tomorrow? I was reading about how Monarch Butterflies are an endangered species now, I’d like to know why.”

Your brows rise before you can stop them. “Daddy?”

The word leaves your mouth with enough disbelief attached to it that the man’s expression shifts immediately. Not offended per se but faintly sheepish that makes it obvious the reaction is to your tone rather than the title itself. He adjusts the child more securely against him and clears his throat.

You stare at him for another second. “Aren’t you a little young to be a father?”

Your grandmother swats the back of your head as she passes by carrying a small glass of milk toward the child.

“Ow!” You yelp.

“That was rude,” she says sharply, setting the milk down in front of him.

You rub the back of your head and send her an irritated look she doesn’t bother acknowledging. Across the table, the man clears his throat.

“I had him young,” he says simply. No elaboration nor attempt to make the situation less awkward for your benefit. You slump back in your seat with a quiet sigh.

The seemingly only fuckable guy in this fuckass town is a father, go figure.

The little boy sits up straighter now, quiet again, one small hand wrapped around his glass while your grandmother murmurs something to him in a softer tone than the one she’d just used on you. You watch the exchange without meaning to and decide up close he is undeniably cute, which is unfortunate because you have never been particularly good with children. Your sister’s twins have spent the last two years proving that you lack whatever instinct other women seem born possessing. Babies cry when you hold them, toddlers run in the opposite direction when you appear in their line of sight. This one appears more polite than most but you don’t trust it.

As the staff begins bringing out dinner, you look toward the nearest one. “Can I get a bottle of wine?”

The woman barely has time to turn before your grandmother cuts in. “Do not under any circumstances serve her alcohol.”

Your eye twitches. You should have accepted that stupid champagne on the flight. For one long second you consider arguing. It’s not like you particularly need the wine but rather the principle of being denied it in front of strangers irritates you beyond reason. Unfortunately, the mountain of emotional energy required to pick a fight over alcohol after being exiled to South Korea feels higher than you’re currently willing to spend.

Across the table the little boy is staring at you now, almost curiously. You stare back at him for a moment before grimacing slightly. “Um…hello…?”

He immediately bows his head politely before looking away again so fast it’s a shock he doesn’t get whiplash. Behind him, his father glances over at you with the faintest hint of apology in his expression. “Minyoung can be shy,” he explains.

You say nothing and drag your gaze back to Minyoung only to find he’s already turned his attention back to the book he carried in with him, flipping it open with careful little hands. He holds it up with much effort and points to something on the page. “Daddy, this one says the jewel beetle can see colors people can’t. Isn’t that cool?”

The man looks down and his expression softens as he glances between the page and his son’s face. “That is cool but no books at the dining table, remember?”

Minyoung pouts immediately. It’s not bratty the way most children seem to weaponize disappointment, a small downturn of his mouth as he looks reluctantly at the book in his hands and then back at his fathers face as though hoping the rule might somehow bend for him.

The man only lifts his brows. After a second, Minyoung closes the book with visible reluctance and sets it beside his plate.

You watch the whole exchange for a moment before saying, “You should cry next time.”

Both of them look at you. You lift one shoulder and reach for your water. “Or at least drag the pout out a little longer he’d probably give in eventually. Fathers tend to.”

For a second the only response you get is silence. Anton just stares at you as though you’ve said something genuinely deranged. Across from him, Minyoung tilts his head slightly, confusion written all over his small face as he tries to decide whether you’re offering actual advice or just talking because you enjoy hearing yourself do it.

Your grandmother, tired of your antics, folds her napkin neatly across her lap before turning toward the man beside her. “Anton, this is my granddaughter. The one I told you about. She’ll be staying with me for the summer. You’ll have to excuse her lack of manners.”

Anton. So the gardener has a name.

He looks up at that and offers you another one of those polite smiles. “It’s nice to meet you.”

It is, unfortunately, the kind of polite smile people use when they are trying very hard to be cordial while privately reserving judgment.

You nod in his direction. “Sup.”

Anton’s mouth twitches in amusement. “Well,” your grandmother says, lifting her own glass. “Let’s eat.”

Minyoung stays tucked against Anton’s side for another moment before finally sitting up properly once food appears in front of him, his earlier sleepiness apparently forgotten. Anton thanks one of the cooks quietly when she sets down another dish near his elbow, then cuts Minyoung’s food into smaller pieces before touching his own.

You look away and take in the room. The quiet is the first thing you notice, there are no cars honking outside, no distant sirens, no muffled bass from some house party three streets over, no familiar Californian noise bleeding in through open windows. Beyond the walls of this estate there is nothing but trees and darkness.

More than that, there is no one here who belongs to you. No Harvey or Maya to talk you down or talk you into something worse. No friends to sneak into your room with gossip and Grey Goose. No Wonbin to supply you with weed and satisfy your voracious sexual appetite. All you have is this house and seemingly, the three others occupying the seats.

Four months of mountain air and forced sobriety. You lower your fork and stare down at your plate.

You are so fucked.

They came bearing gifts: bagels and watery hot chocolate stolen from the dining hall. “We saw you moving in,” Anton had explained quickly, voice tumbling over itself. “Thought maybe you could use some help.”

Then Sohee, grinning, lifted the plate in his hands and added, “Plus, we saw you at the frat party last night. Figured you’d need food.”

Manon gasped like they were saviors then shoved you aside to grab the first bagel and announced right then and there that the four of you were friends now. You could only laugh, stepping back to let them in, not realizing you’d just opened the door to the rest of your life.

From that morning on, the four of you were impossible to untangle. What was meant to be a favor quickly became a habit; Anton and Sohee were always at your door and Manon always let them in.

Friday nights meant football games where you painted your faces in sloppy stripes and screamed yourselves raw from the bleachers, even though you didn’t understand half the rules, just that your school was winning and that was enough.

Saturdays were for swim meets with posters in hand watching Anton slice through the water and touch the wall first every single time. His cheeks always burned when you swore he’d be captain next year, shrugging off the praise even as pride bloomed in his chest.

Sohee had his concerts. The three of you filed into the auditorium with flowers clutched tight, screaming every time he had a solo until the choir director threatened to throw you out. You would struggle to keep in your laughs for the rest of the night.

And then there was ballet (Manon’s bright idea), an elective she convinced you to take, neglecting to mention you’d be performing on stage three times that semester but Anton and Sohee showed up anyway, front row with phones raised high, clapping politely like you were professionals. Without fail, they always took you and Manon out to dinner afterward because they knew how hungry you’d be.

When November came around and the semester started to come to a close, you pushed tables together in the dorm lounge for Friendsgiving, each of you bringing something from home. Anton and Sohee taught you about their Korean traditions, Manon brought a mix of her Ghanaian and Swiss dishes and you explained yours between laughter while food was passed around. It felt like home.

They felt like home.

By December there was a tiny Christmas tree you and Anton decorated while Manon and Sohee strung lights around your room. You exchanged cheap gifts wrapped in too much tape and cards scribbled with words that mattered more than the presents themselves. When you all went away for the holidays, you kept in touch, making plans for what the spring semester would hold.

When spring finally rolled around, it didn’t feel quite as terrifying as fall had. New York was no longer something you were surviving but somewhere you were beginning to belong to.

You built your schedules together over late-night takeout the first week, promising to meet for lunch between classes and somehow you all ended up in the same section of English 102.

You were the only one who treated it like it mattered, you figured it was the English major in you. Manon used it as an extra hour of watching shows, Sohee half the time scribbled choreography notes in the margins or finished homework for music theory and to give Anton credit, he at least paid attention…even if you sometimes caught him doodling staff lines in the corners of his notebook.

It was a small class, tucked into one of the older buildings and the professor had a habit of asking open-ended questions that usually went unanswered but you liked her. She had a soft spot for fiction and a drawer full of chocolate she passed around during presentations.

The second semester moved faster than the first. There were fewer homesick nights and more impromptu trips to Chinatown; more movie nights in the dorm lounge with popcorn that always burned; more inside jokes scribbled onto whiteboards in the dorm halls; more of Anton sitting cross-legged on your bed with his guitar asking you to read his lyrics out loud just to hear how they sounded coming from someone else.

It’s the last week of classes and Sohee and Manon both opted to skip, completely over the school year while you decided to go, Anton tagged along so you wouldn’t be alone. The classroom is only half full and students are lounging around studying for their last finals.

You’re in the front row with Anton beside you, passing the time with a game of tic-tac-toe in the margin of his notebook until your professor claps her hands together. “Alright,” she calls, smiling at the groans she knows are coming. “Time to go over your last assignment of the semester and don’t worry, it’s not an essay.”

She reaches for a stack on her desk and lifts a small box of envelopes. “I want you all to write a letter. It can be to yourself, to a classmate, to anyone who’s made an impression on you during your freshman year. Seal it up, give it to me and I’ll send them back to you…two years after you graduate.”

You pout at the catch, two years? You glance at Anton expecting a joke but he’s sitting unusually still. His pencil, the one he always chews on, is balanced between his fingers frozen mid-tap against his notebook. You nudge him. “Earth to Anton?”

He blinks out of whatever world he drifted into and awkwardly laughs. “Yeah? Sorry…just thinking about who to write to.”

“Yourself,” you say easily, already reaching for the envelope your professor is passing down the row.

He hums noncommittingly and reaches for an envelope, turning it over in his hands slowly.

You don’t waste time and start writing immediately. You sign and date the corner of your lined paper and start spilling little pieces of who you think you’ll become. You ask future-you about the bestseller you hope you’ll write, ask if you officially move to New York, you add a line about Manon wondering if the two of you really commit to living together postgrad. Then you steal a peak at Anton who still seems to be lost in thought before hesitantly writing: I hope we stay close.

You don’t think much of it, it’s a throwaway sentiment. When you finish, you look up and see Anton still hasn’t written a single word. His notebook is blank, still untouched almost like he’s afraid to write.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He startles again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m—I’m fine.”

He clears his throat, flips open his notebook and finally starts writing but not in his usual messy handwriting, rather slower and neater. You can’t see a single line of what he writes and you don’t try to. It feels…private.

When the lecture is over, your professor calls out. “Alright, pass them forward!”

You lick your envelope, seal it closed and hand it off. Anton hesitates for a moment before sealing his and slides it into the pile with everyone else’s. As you pack your bag, you say, “Kinda weird to think we’ll get these back in what…five years?”

He hums softly. “Feels so far.”

You don’t notice the way he looks at the envelopes as your professor tucks the box under her arm. You don’t notice the way his fingers flex like he’s itching to pull his back out. Once you make it outside Anton bumps your shoulder playfully as you walk. “Lunch?” he asks.

You smile and loop arms with him. “Obviously.”

You don’t think about the letters again.

Present Day

“Happy birthday to you~”

You stir awake to the faint sound of someone humming low and off-key in your ear. For a split second, you think it’s Manon, already back from whatever glamorous event she’s working in Paris this week but when you blink your eyes open, it’s your boyfriend Jake sitting at the edge of your bed, hair messy, still shirtless and holding a cupcake with a crooked candle stuck in the middle.

“Happy birthday to you…” he sings softly, dragging out the tune like he’s trying not to laugh at himself. When you groan and drag the blanket over your head, he nudges your leg gently with his knee. “Nope. Come on, you have to listen.”

You groan and roll onto your back covering your eyes with both hands. “Jake, it’s too early for this.”

“It’s nine,” he says through a laugh before going back to singing.

You peek at him between your fingers and see his proud smile and you don’t have the heart to argue. When he finishes, he leans over to kiss your forehead then whispers, “Happy birthday, pretty girl,” before offering you the cupcake.

You sit up, eyes still heavy with sleep, hair a mess and voice rough. “Where’d you even get a cupcake?”

He tilts his head towards your door “Bodega downstairs. I told them it was your birthday and he insisted on giving me the biggest one.”

You smile despite yourself and bite into the cupcake. A few crumbs fall causing Jake to brush crumbs from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. There’s something so intimate about it you glance away for a second, suddenly aware of the quiet apartment around you. Manon’s job as a social media coordinator for a global beauty brand has her in Europe more often than in the apartment you’ve shared since graduation. You barely see her these days except for late-night FaceTimes and the rare occasions when she’s home.

And Jake…well, Jake has slowly filled the leftover space.

You met him last spring at a mutual friend’s housewarming party; soft-spoken, polite, a little awkward but in a cute way. He works in Manhattan as a business analyst, wears button-downs even on weekends and chips in towards your rent on months you’re behind. He’s the kind of guy your parents hoped you end up with.

“So,” he says, settling beside you, his knee bumping yours. “What does the birthday girl want to do today?”

You shrug. “I work today, remember? Manuscript review.”

He frowns. “Are they seriously making you work on your birthday?”

“That’s the life of an editorial assistant,” you joke, nudging him. “Also, I really don’t mind. It’s kind of relaxing.”

He doesn’t look convinced but he wraps an arm around your shoulders anyway, pulling you into his side. You let yourself fall against him, warm and comfortable, your cheek resting on his chest. Your life isn’t perfect, you’re two years out of graduation, living with a best friend who’s never home, working a job that’s adjacent to the dreams you once wished on stars for but it’s safe and Jake has become part of that.

He kisses the top of your head. “Well, my parents want to take us out tonight. They reserved that Italian place you love downtown. They’re excited to celebrate with you.”

Your stomach flips. Jake’s parents adore you, they treat you like you’re already part of the family. His mother meal preps for you and his father forwards you articles about “the best books to read in your twenties,” because he thought you’d appreciate it as an aspiring author.

It should make you happy but somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny voice reminds you of a ghost from your past, someone you thought would be your forever. You shove the thought away. Jake is watching you, fingers still drawing circles on your knee, waiting for your reaction. You force a smile. “That sounds…nice.”

He beams at you. “Great! The reservation is for six pm.”

Jake takes your plate from you and sets it aside on your nightstand before crawling back toward you on the bed, his knee sinking into the mattress beside your hip.

“You know,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek gingerly, “you look really, really beautiful right now.”

You huff a sleepy laugh. “I look like a raccoon.”

He dips down to kiss the tip of your nose. “A beautiful raccoon.”

You swat his chest but he only laughs, leaning in to kiss you properly this time. His lips move against yours with a fervour that leaves you breathless. His hand slides to the back of your head, his thumb grazing the curve of your jaw as his ring presses coolly against your skin. You gasp and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

“____,” he groans against your lips, his voice filled with need.

You nod, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He pulls back just barely, lips brushing yours as he whispers, “Let me spoil you today.”

“Jake…” you start but he kisses the rest of your sentence away, smiling against your mouth.

His hands trail down your sides, fingertips tracing lazy lines over your hips. You shiver and he notices. “Come here,” he breathes, shifting suddenly. Before you can question it, his arms scoop under your thighs and back, lifting you effortlessly off the bed. You gasp, arms flying around his shoulders. “Jake!”

“What?” he teases, carrying you toward the bathroom with ridiculous ease.

“Put me down!”

He laughs and shakes his head. “No.”

You try to glare at him but it’s impossible when he’s looking at you like this: totally in love. He nudges the bathroom door open with his foot, sets you gently against the counter and presses another kiss to your forehead. “Shower with me?”

His fingers toy with the hem of your sleep shirt, waiting for your answer. You breathe out a tiny laugh. “Are you trying to make us both late?”

He smirks. “Maybe.”

“Well…” you slide your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, “I guess we can be a little late.”

His grin turns boyish and triumphant. “Have I ever told you I love you?”

You laugh in response as he turns on the water, steam already curling through the room. You kiss him again, slow, sweet and a little dizzying. He smiles into it, hands tightening at your hips. For a few minutes, nothing exists except the heat of the room, his lips on yours and the familiar comfort of being held exactly how you want to be held. Eventually, he pulls back, brushing a thumb along your jaw one last time. “Okay,” he breathes, trying and failing to look composed, “we should actually get ready now.”

You nod but neither of you move until he leans in for one more soft kiss, barely a brush of lips, gentle enough to make your chest tighten. The two of you take turns washing the other off before exiting the shower to finish getting ready.

You brush your teeth beside him while he wipes steam from the mirror. It’s a familiar routine: him toweling off his hair while you lean over the counter to apply moisturizer. His overnight bag sits in the corner, small and a little pathetic-looking, holding only a few shirts and a toothbrush. He’s mentioned wanting a drawer here more than once, half-joking, half-hopeful. You always deflect with something logical like, “You don’t sleep over enough,” and he laughs it off but the truth sits heavy in your chest even now.

The last person who ever had space in your dresser…the last person whose hoodies lived on your chair, whose shirts were folded next to yours, whose medals hung on your desk when his dorm ran out of space…

You shut the thought down before it forms completely.

Jake buttons his shirt next to you, humming softly as he tucks it into his slacks and you force your heartbeat back into the present. “You look beautiful,” he says, straightening your collar with both hands and kissing your cheek. “Ready?”

You nod, stepping into your shoes while he slings his bag over his shoulder. A moment later, he takes your hand gently, squeezing once and the two of you head out the door together.

By the time you make it to the office, the day slips into its usual rhythm. You spend most of the afternoon hunched over your desk, flipping pages and scribbling notes in the quiet hum of the office. It’s not glamorous, not what you used to imagine when you thought about becoming a writer but it’s close enough to feel like you’re still reaching for it. Close enough to keep you here.

At some point, your coworker swings by with a quick, “Happy birthday,” dropping a mini chocolate bar onto your desk before disappearing again. You thank her, a little surprised, turning it over in your fingers before setting it aside.

You check your phone more than you mean to.

A text from Manon, some blurry photo from a rooftop in Paris, miss you, birthday girl!!! followed by a string of hearts.

Another from Jake: Can’t wait for tonight. What kind of cake do you like?

You purse your lips at the question before typing something back but your fingers hover for a second longer than they should before you lock your phone and flip back to the manuscript in front of you.

By the time five o’clock rolls around, you’re gathering your things, slipping your notebook into your bag, the weight of the day settling into your bones. The city greets you with its usual hum: taxis blaring, people rushing, the air thick with late afternoon heat as you make your way down into the subway.

The train ride home is familiar. You stand wedged between strangers, one hand wrapped around the pole as the car lurches forward. You watch your reflection flicker in the window between stops, your mind drifting in and out of nothingness.

By the time you step back into your apartment, the silence greets you again. You move through it easily, showering quickly, changing into something nicer, smoothing out the details until you look like someone who has her life exactly where it’s supposed to be.

At exactly six, your phone buzzes.

jake <3: I’m outside.

You grab your bag, take one last look at yourself in the mirror then head downstairs. Jake is leaning against his car when you step out, a bouquet of flowers in one hand. He straightens the second he sees you, his entire face lighting up. “Wow,” he breathes. “You look…wow.”

You laugh, walking toward him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoes, stepping forward to kiss you softly before handing you the flowers. “Happy birthday.”

“They’re beautiful,” you say, genuinely touched as you bring them closer.

“Wait,” he says quickly, reaching into his pocket. “I have one more thing.”

You blink as he pulls out a small, familiar red box. Your stomach dips slightly. “Jake…”

“Just open it,” he insists, smiling.

You hesitate for half a second before flipping it open. Inside sits a delicate gold Cartier bracelet, the light catching against it in a way that makes it sparkle. It’s beautiful no doubt about it but also unmistakably expensive.

For a moment, you don’t say anything. “Do you like it?” he asks, watching your face carefully.

You blink, forcing yourself back into the moment. “Yeah! Yeah, it’s…it’s really beautiful.”

“I saw it and thought of you, something you could wear every day.” He says, stepping closer. “Here, let me.” He adds gently, taking it from the box. “

You hold out your wrist and he fastens it carefully, his fingers brushing your skin as he adjusts it into place. He beams, clearly satisfied, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before opening the passenger door for you. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

Dinner goes by smoothly.

His parents greet you like they always do, his mother pulling you into a hug, his father smiling warmly as he asks about work, about writing, about everything you’ve been up to. The restaurant glows softly around you, low lights and quiet chatter filling the space as wine is poured and plates are passed. Conversation flows naturally. You laugh when you’re supposed to, answer questions easily, slip into the rhythm of it all like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

And then—

“Well, I was just telling Jake the other day…it won’t be long before we’re celebrating something even bigger, will it?”  His mother says, setting her glass down with a small smile, her eyes flicking between the two of you.

Your hand stills in his and Jake lets out a small, awkward laugh. “Mom…”

“What? You two are so good together. Anyone can see that.”  She says lightly.

His father chuckles. “Don’t mind her, she’s still upset that your brother eloped.” He turns to face you, “you’re already part of the family, hun.”

You nod automatically, the word family settling somewhere in your chest in a way that feels heavier than it should. “That’s sweet,” you say.

Jake squeezes your hand under the table in reassurance, like this is something good…something to be happy about and it is, it should be.

This is what people want, isn’t it? Warm dinners, parents who already look at you like you belong. A boyfriend who plans ahead, who shows up early with flowers and expensive gifts.

You used to think you wanted this. You still think you do. So why does it feel like you’re sitting just slightly outside of your own life, watching it happen instead of fully living it? You smile when Jake’s mom asks you another question, nodding along, answering without really hearing yourself. The conversation flows around you but your thoughts have already drifted somewhere quieter, somewhere harder to look at.

This isn’t how you imagined twenty-three.

You thought it would be louder, messier. Late nights that bled into early mornings, candles stuck into a store-bought cake at midnight because someone forgot to plan ahead. You thought there would be party-city decorations taped unevenly to the walls, balloons already starting to deflate.

You thought there would be handwritten cards, messy, rushed and filled with inside jokes. Cards that meant more than the gifts themselves.

You’ve spent so long telling yourself this is what you wanted: a life that makes sense, a relationship that feels safe, a future that doesn’t come with question marks attached and now that you’re sitting in the middle of it, surrounded by everything you once thought would make you feel whole, all you can focus on is the quiet, unsettling feeling that something is off.

That maybe wanting something for so long doesn’t mean it’s right when it finally finds you.

Jake squeezes your hand gently, grounding you just enough to pull you back into the moment. “Everything okay?” he asks, his voice low.

You nod too quickly, offering him a smile that feels convincing enough. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

And you almost believe it.

Nothing here is wrong. There’s nothing to point to, nothing to explain why your chest feels this tight, why your thoughts keep drifting just out of reach, why you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something you can’t quite name. So you let the conversation pull you back in, let yourself laugh when you’re supposed to, respond when spoken to, slip back into place like you’ve done all night but the feeling doesn’t go away.

It lingers, a persistent question you’re not ready to answer: why does something you’ve wanted for so long feel so unfamiliar now that you have it?

NYU sophomore year

You don’t realize what time it is until it’s already too late.

Your laptop screen is the only light in the common room, the rest of the floor is quiet. Your fingers move quickly over your keyboard, words spilling out faster than you can second guess them, the story in your head finally taking shape.

Manon had been there at some point, curled up on the couch scrolling through her phone but you barely noticed when she got up. Sohee had said something about grabbing water, or maybe snacks before disappearing. Anton had been sitting across from you, half-watching whatever you were writing, half-doodling in the margins of his notebook. You don’t remember when he left either.

You’re too deep in your fictive world to notice how all your friends have slowly abandoned you until a voice cuts through. “Yo.”

You glance up to see Anton leaning against the doorway, hair slightly messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up his arms. “I think I left my captain’s hoodie in your room,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Can you come check? I don’t wanna just go in there if you’re not—”

“Oh, yeah,” you say immediately, already pushing your chair back. “It’s probably on my desk.”

You follow him down the hall, still half in your story and unaware of the date and time. When you reach your door he lets you walk in first. The second the door opens you’re met with confetti to the face.

“Surprise!”

You jump so hard you almost drop your phone. Streamers fly into your line of vision, balloons bobbing against the ceiling as Manon and Sohee burst out from either side of your room, laughing as they shout over each other. “Happy birthday!”

You blink, completely stunned, your brain scrambling to catch up as you take in the decorations strung haphazardly across your walls, the pile of half-inflated balloons in the corner, the cheap plastic banner taped slightly crooked above your bed.

“Oh my gosh! What!? when did you??” You laugh breathless, pressing a hand to your chest.

“We’ve been planning this all week,” Manon says proudly, already reaching for you, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you lightly.

“You were too busy ignoring us, writing your little stories to notice,” Sohee adds, grinning.

“I was not ignoring you!” you protest, laughing as you turn in a slow circle, taking everything in.

Up close, the details start to settle. You notice the fairy lights, finally. They’re strung the same way you always keep them but now they’re lined with polaroids of tiny moments clipped between the wires. You step closer without thinking and reach up to examine one between your fingers.

There’s one from your latest group trip to China town, Sohee had taken it after you had all gotten matcha at a new cafe. There’s another of  you asleep on Anton’s lap, you think it’s from midterms week. One of Anton, taken from further away standing by the pool, hair still wet, turning toward the camera like he didn’t realize he was being watched and then one of all four of you, squeezed together in your dorm room, slightly blurry but unmistakably yours.

“You guys…” you start but your voice trails off.

Behind you, a match strikes. You turn just as Anton leans over a small cake, carefully lighting each candle one by one, tongue pressing lightly against his cheek. The flicker of the flames catches in his eyes as he straightens then he starts to sing. “Happy birthday to you…”

Sohee joins in almost immediately, louder and off-key on purpose and Manon follows right after. Anton steps closer as he sings, holding the cake out toward you, the candles casting a soft light across his face. He’s smiling as he reaches the end. “…happy birthday to you.”

The song ends with laughter and clapping, Sohee whooping loudly while Manon squeezes your arm. Anton just nods toward the candles. “Make a wish.”

For a second, everything fades and all you can think about is this moment, the three people standing around you, the way it feels to be surrounded by something this loving. You wish, simply, that it never changes. That the four of you stay like this, that this…whatever this is, lasts.

You blow out the candles.

“Okay! Cut the cake I’m hungry.” Sohee cheers immediately.

Anton disappears for a second, setting the cake down to grab plates and a plastic knife. When he comes back, he hands you the first slice. You glance down at it, then back up at him. “Wait…this is my favorite!”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “You mentioned it once.”

“When?” You ask.

“During Sohee’s birthday. You were complaining about the flavor.” He says, already cutting another slice.

You let out a scoff, shaking your head. “I was not complaining.”

“You were,” Sohee calls from across the room.

You playfully roll your eyes, “yeah well who wants an ice cream cake for their birthday? You can eat ice cream whenever!”

Anton huffs a quiet laugh, handing out the rest of the plates. Manon grabs your arm again before you can think too hard about it, pulling you toward the center of the room. “No more talking. We’re dancing.”

Before you can respond, Sohee is pushing something into your hands, a flimsy plastic sash that reads BIRTHDAY GIRL in glittery letters and Manon is already placing a slightly crooked tiara on your head.

You go along with it, laughing as she spins you around, the tiara slipping slightly and the sash twisting awkwardly across your chest. At some point, you catch Anton watching you from across the room. He’s leaning back against your desk, arms crossed loosely, a half-smile playing at his lips like he’s trying not to laugh at you.

You don’t linger on it. You let yourself get lost in the music and the company of your friends. Grateful to have a found family.

After your birthday, things don’t change. At least not much…not really.

The four of you still move through campus like a unit, still fall into the same routines, the same late-night hangouts and shared meals and crowded study sessions. You still end up in each other’s rooms, still spend weekends bouncing between games and practices and whatever last-minute plans Manon decides are non-negotiable.

Somewhere in the middle of it all though, something shifts…between you and a certain chestnut haired swim captain.

Anton ends up in your room more often, stretched across your bed with his head propped against your pillow while you sit cross-legged beside him, laptop balanced on your thighs. At first there’s always space between you, enough to pretend nothing’s different.

Until there isn’t.

Until one night you realize you're laying down now, shoulder pressed against his, your arm brushing his every time you move, neither of you shifting away. Until another night turns into you curled slightly into his side, his hoodie bunched under your cheek, his breathing slow and steady beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

No one says anything about it.

Lunches start happening without the others. At first it’s accidental, running into each other after his swim practice, both of you starving, deciding to grab something quick before your next class but then it becomes a habit. “Just us,” he’ll say, like it doesn’t mean anything. As if it’s not becoming something.

You wander through the city together, ducking into small places you find on a whim, sharing fries, trading bites, talking about everything and nothing all at once. He listens when you ramble about your stories, asks questions like he actually cares about the plot and fictional worlds you build. You start saving things to tell him.

You don’t realize you’re doing it until it’s impossible to ignore. Late nights turn into later ones. Text messages that stretch past midnight, then one, then two, until your phone is the last thing you see before you fall asleep and the first thing you reach for when you wake up. Your 8AM classes become harder to sit through, your focus slipping in and out because you’re thinking about something he said hours ago, replaying it without meaning to.

“Why are you smiling at your phone like that?” Manon asks once, eyeing you from across the room.

“I’m not,” you say too quickly, locking your screen.

She hums unconvinced but lets it go. You start doing that more than you’d like to admit, shrugging things off, brushing past questions, lying to your friends…to yourself.

You tell yourself it’s nothing, that when you choose to sit next to him instead of across from him, when your knees brush under the table and neither of you move that it’s platonic. You tell yourself that when people start to notice.

“You two are always together,” Sohee says one night, not accusing, just observant.

“We’re literally all always together,” you shoot back, a little too fast. Manon glances between the two of you, something knowing flickering across her face before she looks away.

You laugh it off. You tell yourself it’s easier that way because nothing happens. There are no confessions, no grand moments you can point to and say that’s where it changed. No one crosses a line that can’t be uncrossed. If anything, the two of you become experts at hovering just beneath it, circling something unspoken and pretending it isn’t there.

You let it, whatever it is, exist in that in-between space. Until it’s everywhere. Until it’s the first person you look for in a room and the last person you say goodnight to. Until it’s his hoodie thrown over your chair, his water bottle sitting next to yours, his name lighting up your phone more than anyone else’s.

It's not until you're packing up to go home for summer break do you realize the cold hard truth: you've fallen for Anton Lee and you have no idea what to do about it.

Present Day

It’s been a week since your birthday and dinner with Jake’s parents. Manon is back, the apartment finally feeling like itself. She has music low in the background as she sits cross-legged on the living room floor with her laptop open, clips from Paris flashing across the screen as she edits.

You’re in your room, standing in front of your mirror, finishing your makeup while Jake lingers behind you. Today is date night. He’s already ready, button-down crisp, sleeves rolled slightly and watch fastened neatly at his wrist. He’s been watching you for the past few minutes, leaning against your dresser patiently waiting on you. “You almost done?” he asks.

“Almost…two seconds.” You say, leaning in to swipe mascara across your lashes. 

“Mm,” he hums, pushing himself off the dresser. You don’t notice when he starts moving around your room, his attention drifting to the little things you’ve left out, your books stacked unevenly on your desk, the loose papers of your novel you edit at night, the memory box that sits in between your bed and night stand.

It’s tucked just slightly out of place, the lid not fully closed from the last time you went through it. Jake pauses, glancing toward you for a second before crouching down, curiosity getting the better of him. You’re still focused on your reflection when he lifts the lid.

Jake smiles faintly when he finds the box filled with letters and polaroid. He starts flipping through the pictures one by one; Manon mid-laugh, Sohee mewing at the camera, a blurry shot of what looks like a dorm hallway. He keeps shuffling through them until he comes across a picture of you and a man he’s never seen before.

“Babe. Who’s this?”  He calls, turning the photo slightly in his hand. 

You turn just enough to see what he’s holding and your stomach drops. It’s you after Anton’s swim comp wrapped in his captain's hoodie while he stands beside you, medal hanging from his neck and arm slung loosely around your shoulders.

You move before you can think about it. “Jake!” you cross the room quickly, faster than you mean to, snatching the photo and the box from his hands in one motion. “Why are you going through my stuff!?”

Jake blinks, thrown off, hands lifting slightly in defense. “Woah! I wasn’t…I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Well, it is,” you say, a little sharper than you intended, already setting the box aside like putting distance between it and him will fix something.

Jake exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…I’m sorry. I just…I saw it and I got curious.”

You don’t respond right away, turning back to your mirror. Jake watches you for a second then asks. “Who is he?”

Your grip tightens around your makeup brush. “No one,” you say coldly.

Jake lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “He doesn’t look like no one.”

You don’t answer. “Is he an ex?” he presses.

You cringe before you can stop yourself. “Can you just…drop it please? I said it’s nothing, Jake.”

He frowns, something frustrated flickering across his face now. “I’ve told you about all my exes. Why are you hiding this?” He says, a little more pointed.

You open your mouth and then close it because what are you supposed to say? Anton wasn’t an ex but he also wasn’t someone who meant nothing. Whatever it was that the two of you shared existed in the realm of what if’s and dreams.

“I’m not hiding anything,” you say finally but it comes out weaker than you intend.

Jake studies you, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Then explain it.”

You let out a quiet breath and set your makeup brush down. “There’s nothing to explain. He was just…someone from school.”

“Just someone?” Jake echoes, glancing toward the box you shoved aside. “You’re clearly wearing his hoodie and he’s got his arm around you like…like that’s normal!”

“It was normal. We were friends.” You snap, more defensive now.

The word hangs there, thin and unconvincing, even to your own ears. Jake doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression shifting from confusion to frustration like he’s trying to understand what you’re not saying just as much as what you are.

“Okay. I’m just gonna be blunt.” he says after a moment. Your stomach drops. “Do you have feelings for him?”

You freeze for half a second, your reflection staring back at you in the mirror, eyes just a little too wide, lips parted like you might actually answer him honestly and for the briefest moment, you consider it. You consider turning around, saying I don’t know or it’s complicated or something real but the truth is messy. The truth doesn’t make sense. The truth would ruin the life you’ve built these two years away from Anton so instead you laugh.

It comes out light and dismissive. “That’s…not even possible,” you say, shaking your head as you turn back to the mirror, picking up your makeup brush. “You can’t have feelings for someone you never even dated. That’s just…” you shrug slightly, meeting his eyes through the reflection, “...dumb.”

Even as it leaves your mouth, something inside you recoils. Still, you don’t take it back. You let the lie sit there between you. You add it to the long list of lies you’ve told. Jake watches you for a few seconds longer, trying to decide if he believes you or not. His gaze lingers, searching your face for any signs of hesitation. You don’t give him anything.

Eventually, he exhales. “…okay,” he says quietly.

He glances at his watch then back at you. “We should go. We’re gonna miss our reservation.”

You nod quickly, grateful for the out. “Yeah.”

You set your brush down and reach for your bag before following him out. You catch Manon’s eyes on your way out and there’s no doubt she heard your conversation. The frown she gives you on your exit speaks volumes.

NYU junior year

You don’t remember who pulled who into the room first. All you know is the music is louder out there but here it’s quieter. Anton’s mouth is already on yours, wasting no time the second the door shuts behind you.

The kiss is messy and rushed. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s backing you up, hands firm at your waist as you stumble together, bumping into the edge of the bed. You laugh softly against his lips, breathless. “The door’s not even locked,” you murmur, glancing over his shoulder for half a second. “Someone could walk in.”

Anton doesn’t pull away, if anything he leans in closer, mouth dragging from your lips to your jaw then lower. “Let them,” he murmurs against your skin like the idea doesn’t bother him at all.

You huff out a quiet laugh, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging lightly just to hear the soft exhale it pulls from him. “You’re insane.”

“Insane about you.” He rebuttals.

His hands skim up your sides as your back hits the mattress as he follows you down and lays his body weight atop you. The room tilts slightly as you turn your head. The window is cracked open just enough to let the cool night air slip in, you can see the city lights flickering somewhere in the distance and all you can think about is how different this is. How far this feels from where you were just a few months ago.

Over the summer, you’d convinced yourself distance would fix it. Back home, surrounded by everything that came before NYU, it was easier to pretend. Easier to ignore the way your phone lit up with his name, easier to let texts sit unanswered a little longer than they should then a little longer after that. You told yourself it was space, that it was necessary. That whatever had started to grow between you at the end of sophomore year would fade if you just…stopped feeding it.

For a while, it almost worked. By the time you came back in the fall, you thought maybe the awkwardness would carry over, that things would feel different but Anton didn’t act like anything had changed. He showed up the same way he always did. Bright smiles, casual touches, sitting a little too close like he always had so you followed his lead.

You laughed like nothing had happened and slipped back into your routines. You ignored the way your chest tightened every time your hands brushed or when he said your name with reverence. You were able to keep it up until December.

The four of you had stumbled into a crowded frat house on a Thursday night. You’d gotten separated from Manon and Sohee somewhere between the kitchen and the stairs, weaving your way through strangers until you ended up by the makeshift bar.

You got to work on making yourself a drink when one of the football players approached you. It started the way those things always do: small talk, a drink pressed into your hand, someone leaning a little closer to hear you over the music.

There was no pressure behind it, no second layer to peel back and analyze. You took a sip of your drink and batted your lashes up at him. You opened your mouth to ask if he wanted to go somewhere more private only to be stopped by a hand wrapping around your waist.

Your entire body reacted before your mind had a chance to catch up, breath catching sharply. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. You knew the weight of his hand, the way his thumb slips under your shirt and rubs slow circles along your v-line.

“Hey baby,” he said over your shoulder.

You malfunctioned at the pet name while the footballer glanced between the two of you, something in his expression shifting. “Oh…are you…?”

“Yes,” Anton said, cutting in before he could finish.

You turned then, finally looking at him, your brows pulled together in confusion. You opened your mouth to question it, to push back but he was already moving. His grip wasn’t tight but it was possessive enough that you followed without thinking, letting him guide you through the crowd towards an empty hallway.

“Anton what was that!?”

He shrugged before letting you go. “I didn’t like it.”

You stared at him, trying to understand what that meant. “Didn’t like what?”

He clenched his jaw before responding. “All of it. The way he was flirting with you, looking at you. I didn’t like it.”

Your breath caught yet again but you tried to compose yourself. “Okay…but that doesn’t mean you can just…what, pretend I’m your girlfriend?” You said slowly, trying to keep your voice steady.

He huffed a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head like you were missing the point. “Why are we still doing this?” he asked suddenly.

Your stomach dropped. “Doing what?”

“This,” he said gesturing vaguely between you, frustration bleeding through. “Pretending like nothing’s here.”

You blinked, your thoughts scrambling to catch up.

“I gave you space. All summer I let you pull away and I didn’t push, I didn’t ask questions and when we got back, I played along. I acted like it was fine.”

The words hit harder than they should. Maybe it was because he was right. You did feel it, you had always felt it. You had just been better at pretending you didn’t.

“Anton…” you started but it came out quieter than you intended.

He stepped closer closing the distance just enough to make your breath catch again but he didn't touch you. “When are we going to stop acting like this is nothing?” he had asked.

That night ended the way it probably shouldn’t have. With your back pressed against the cold tile of a frat house bathroom, your hands tangled in his hair as you kissed him like you were trying to make up for every moment you didn’t.

You’re pulled back to the present when Anton’s mouth dips lower and he leaves open mouthed kisses across your stomach. You sigh at the feeling of his tongue dragging across your skin before letting your right hand drop to his head to tug at his hair, relishing in the whimpers he releases.

You smirk at the hold you have on him, literally and metaphorically. You tug a bit harder when he leaves a kiss below your navel right above the button of your mini skirt. Before he can go any further, you tilt his head up to look you in your eyes.

You take delight in the way he obeys but your satisfaction is snubbed out by the reminder of what led the two of you to this room. “Who was that girl?”

Anton’s brows lift slightly like he genuinely has no idea what you’re talking about. “What girl?” he asks, voice calm.

You narrow your eyes at him, unimpressed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he presses, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

You let out a quiet scoff, your hand slipping from his hair as he shifts, sliding off you and settling beside you on the bed. The sudden space between you feels wrong immediately. You turn toward him without thinking and climb right back into his space, swinging a leg over his lap to straddle him. His hands automatically go to grip your waist and pull you in closer, bucking his hips a bit.

“I’m talking about the girl downstairs. The one who was following you like a lost puppy.” You say more direct now.

Anton exhales softly through his nose and grips your hips a bit tighter. “She wasn’t following me like a puppy,” he says, still playing it off.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Really?”

He shrugs but he doesn’t look away from you. “She’s no one.”

“That’s not what it looked like.” Your fingers press a little more firmly into his shoulder from frustration and jealousy.

“Why do you care?” he asks quietly, rolling his hips below you to create friction. You falter for half a second from the weight behind the question and your growing arousal.

“I don’t,” you say quickly, your gaze flicking away for just a moment before returning to him. “I’m just asking.”

He hums unconvinced, his right hand sliding a little higher on your hips, holding you there a bit more firmly now. “She’s just some girl Sohee was trying to set me up with,” he says, watching your face carefully.

Your expression tightens before you can stop it, something like a scowl flickering across your face as your fingers curl slightly against his shoulders. “Oh,” you say but there’s nothing neutral about it. You lean in before you can think too hard about it, kissing him again, harder this time. Anton moans against your mouth and kisses back with equal fervor, almost whining when you pull back.

“I don’t like that.” You murmur against his lips, shaking your head slightly.

Anton lets out a quiet breath, his grip on you tightening as he leans up to chase your lips. “She doesn’t matter. I promise.”  He says, the words brushing against your mouth.

His forehead bumps yours for a second, his gaze lingering like he’s waiting to see if you’ll push again, if you’ll question it, if you’ll admit why you even asked in the first place.

Instead you push him back to tug his shirt off and set off on laying kisses along the column of his neck and chest. Making sure to leave behind angry red bruises that show he’s off limits.

That’s how it goes with the two of you. Tonight it’s a girl downstairs, someone neither of you care about until suddenly you do. Yesterday it was the way Anton’s jaw tightened when your hand lingered a second too long on your partner during workshop, his quiet mood lasting the rest of the night until you finally snapped and asked what his problem was. Next week, it’ll be something else entirely.

It always is. You push, he pulls. He pulls, you push harder. Neither of you willing to step back far enough to end it, neither of you brave enough to step forward and call it what it is.

With spring break coming up, you only pray a change of scenery is enough to give the two of you some reprieve.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Seven days later

The ocean stretches out in front of you, endless and blue. Manon is beside you, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, already halfway through her third drink like she’s trying to make the most of the “unlimited” part of the resort package. You’re stretched out on your stomach, book open in front of you while Sohee and Anton ride jetskis in the clear blue water.

Spring break had been Manon’s idea. It started over winter break with a facetime call. She had been pushing for a cabin trip at first but Sohee and Anton were doing a cruise and your parents had planned a last minute family trip and suddenly the whole thing unraveled before it ever really came together. Manon had sulked for all of ten minutes before pivoting completely.

She proposed spring break in Cancun. Next thing you knew, you were booking an all-inclusive resort in Cancun, splitting costs and promising it would be fun.

It’s day three of five now and so far it’s been exactly what you expected. You’ve drank more than your liver can probably handle, eaten so much food to the point of expanding your stomachs and backs and the four of you have spent hours in the water with salt drying into your skin.

Somewhere in between all of it, you and Anton had smoothed over whatever that moment at the party had been but things haven’t exactly gone back to normal either. You think it’s all the sexual tension floating around the two of you. All four of you share a room, Anton and Sohee on one bed, you and Manon on the other. It’s hard to sneak away and get alone time. You’ve resorted to living vicariously through the characters in your books you packed.

Manon lets out a satisfied sigh beside you, tipping the last of her piña colada back before setting the empty glass in the sand. “Okay…I’m gonna go get us more drinks before they try to cut me off.” She announces, pushing herself up with a little wobble.

You snort, lowering your book just enough to glance at her. “You’re already pushing it.”

She waves you off like it’s nothing, already brushing sand from her legs and adjusting her bikini straps. “They love me,” she insists, flashing you a grin before turning toward the bar.

You watch her go, eyes narrowing slightly as she weaves her way across the sand, pausing once to steady herself before continuing on like nothing happened. Shaking your head, you let out a quiet sigh and settle back down, turning your attention to your book again. The pages of The Nightingale blur slightly in the bright sun but you try to focus anyway, letting the words pull you somewhere else.

You only make it a few lines in before something bumps lightly against your foot. You blink, glancing down to find a volleyball resting against your ankle, grains of sand clinging to its surface. “Sorry!” a voice calls from a few feet away.

You look up to see a guy jogging toward you, slowing as he gets closer. He lifts a hand in a small, almost shy wave, offering you an apologetic smile as he comes to a stop. “Didn’t mean to interrupt…uh that kind of rolled away from us.” He gestures back toward the makeshift volleyball court set up a little further down the beach, a few people still standing there watching.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, brushing sand from your forearm before reaching down to pick up the ball. “You’re good,” you say, offering it back to him.

He steps closer to take it, fingers brushing yours for a brief second. “Thanks…what’re you reading?” He asks, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

You glance down at the cover, holding it up slightly. “The Nightingale.”

He nods like he recognizes it, you’re not entirely convinced he does. “Is it good?”

You shrug lightly. “So far.”

He smiles at that. “I was gonna say, you look pretty into it.”

You huff a quiet laugh, closing it partway. “I was, until your game attacked me.”

He laughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Can…can I buy you a drink? As an apology.”

You hesitate for half a second, your instinct to say no rising automatically but it stalls before it reaches your mouth because what would you even say? “No, I can't, because there’s a boy on a jetski somewhere who gets jealous even though we’re not together?”

Before you can figure out how to turn him down politely, movement catches in your peripheral. Manon is making her way back across the sand, two drinks balanced in her hands, her sunglasses now crooked on her face. In front of you, Sohee and Anton are just stepping off their jetskis, laughing about something as they walk toward you.

Your stomach tightens. The timing is almost cruel. “Actually, I—” you start, already half-turning toward Manon, ready to use her as an out.

“Oh perfect,” Manon cuts in easily as she reaches you, not missing a beat as her eyes flick between you and the guy in front of you. “This one’s for Sohee,” she says, pressing one of the drinks into his hands the second he gets close. Sohee takes it without question, too busy thanking her to notice anything else.

You fight the urge to jump her. You have to remind yourself she has good intentions. You turn back to the stranger, forcing your expression into something kinder. “Yeah…um one drink is fine.”

Your eyes flick over to Anton but he lets nothing slip. He pushes his hair away from his forehead and laughs at a joke Sohee makes before settling down in the sand next to Manon.

“Cool, c’mon.” The stranger says, smiling a little wider now that you’ve agreed. He offers you his hand and you take it, dusting off sand from your stomach and thighs. You adjust your bikini straps before following after him.

Anton doesn’t look your way again.

The walk to the bar is short but it feels longer. The music gets louder the closer you get, you spot people crowded around the counter sipping on colorful drinks. The stranger introduces himself somewhere along the way, says his name is James. You tell him your name before settling against a free spot at the bar.

He leans forward slightly, catching the bartender’s attention. “Two tequila shots please.”

The glasses slide across the counter a second later, salt clinging to the rims. He picks one up and hands it to you, fingers brushing yours again. “To spring break,” he says with a grin.

You force a small smile, lifting your glass to meet his. “To spring break.”

He starts talking again, something about where he’s from, how long he’s been here but your attention drifts before you can stop it. Back toward the beach where Anton is perched in the sand soaking up the sun.

It makes your skin itch how unaffected he seems. Makes you feel dramatic for the reaction you had at the party. You wonder if he even cares, if whatever this is only feels like something more when you’re alone with him.

You swallow, the taste of tequila still lingering, suddenly too aware of everything.  “I’m sorry. I think I’m actually gonna go lie down. I’m not feeling great.”

James pauses, clearly thrown off but he recovers quickly. “Oh…yeah, of course. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.” You nod, already stepping back.

He hesitates for a second like he wants to say more but then smiles. “Okay. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

You nod once. “Yeah…maybe.”

You don’t wait for anything else. You don’t grab your things or call out to Manon or wait for anyone to notice you’re gone. You just turn and walk, the sound of the ocean fading behind you with every step, replaced by the quiet of the hotel lobby as you push through the glass doors. The air conditioning hits your skin but it does nothing to cool the burning embarrassment building under it.

You make your way to the elevators without thinking, pressing the button and crossing your arms over yourself as you wait, your reflection staring back at you in the mirrored walls. The doors slide open and you step inside, pressing your floor and exhaling slowly. Just as the doors begin to shut, a hand catches them. They part again with a soft chime and Anton steps in.

The space shrinks immediately. You don’t say anything at first and neither does he. The doors close behind him and the elevator starts to move, the elevator music filling the silence between you.

For a second, you think about staying quiet and letting it pass. Letting this be just another thing that goes unspoken but the question comes out anyway. “Do you even care about me?”

Anton turns his head slightly, brows pulling together. “What?”

You shake your head immediately, already regretting it. “Never mind.”

The elevator climbs another floor. He waits a beat before speaking again, his voice deeper this time. “You looked pretty cozy at the bar.”

You turn to face him fully but he’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, jaw set. You let out a small, disbelieving scoff. “So you can flirt with whoever Sohee throws at you but God forbid I let a guy buy me a drink?”

Anton exhales sharply, rolling his eyes. “Why are you bringing her up again? I told you she means nothing!”

“It’s the principle! You don’t get to act like that when you do the same thing. That's called hypocrisy Anton.” You shoot back, frustration rising now, pushing past whatever hesitation you had before.

“It’s not the same thing!” he snaps, finally turning toward you. “You’re the one who said we can’t tell anyone. What am I supposed to say to Sohee when he tries to set me up with someone? Huh? What was I supposed to say after the party about the hickies you left on my neck? You can’t get pissed at me for a boundary you insist on keeping!”

You falter at him throwing your rules back at you. You hate how he’s right, how you can’t come up with a logical and fair defense in response to instead you reach for the one thing that always gives you distance. “This is dumb. We’re not even together.”

The elevator dings softly as it reaches your floor. The doors slide open and you step out automatically, expecting him to follow, already bracing for the argument to continue the way it always does, looping back in on itself until one of you gives in.

However, when you turn around he hasn’t moved. He’s still standing inside, one hand braced against the railing, looking at you like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. There’s something in his expression that makes your chest tighten.

He looks hurt. Genuinely hurt. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet.

“Then let’s end whatever this is.”

Present Day

As the waves of pleasure finally begin to subside, you find yourself tangled between Jake’s arms and your sheets. Both your breaths mingle in the warm air and Jake wraps his arms securely around you, holding you close as his heartbeat gradually slows. You can feel the aftershocks of your climax coursing through you as your eyes slowly shut.

One of his hands is lazily tracing over yours, turning your palm up and brushing along your fingers. “I’m never gonna get tired of this,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.

You huff out a quiet laugh, the corner of your mouth lifting into a smirk. “Mhmm, good I’ve got some more tricks up my sleeve.”

Jake lets out a groan, “Such a fucking tease.”

You laugh and open your mouth to retort but get cut off by the door swinging open. “Hey, do you have a—oh.”

Manon freezes mid-step, one hand still on the door, her eyes flicking from Jake to you tangled together in your bed. “Shit! Sorry! My fault!”

The door shuts just as quickly as it opened. You groan instantly, dragging your blanket up over your head like it might erase the last ten seconds. “Oh my gosh.”

Jake lets out a quiet laugh above you, chest rumbling against your cheek. “She definitely saw everything.”

“Stop. I can never leave this room again.” You mumble from under the covers, mortified, pulling them tighter around yourself.

He hums in agreement but his fingers hook into the edge of the blanket, tugging it down slowly until your face reappears. “Yeahhhh,” he says, amused, brushing your cheek. “That was…a little embarrassing.”

You narrow your eyes at him but there’s no real bite behind it. “How reassuring.”

He smirks in response before shrugging a shoulder. You try to hold onto the annoyance but it dissolves into a laugh as you let the blanket fall back to your chest. For a moment, neither of you say anything. His thumb finds your hand again, tracing the same absent pattern across your fingers. After a beat he speaks up again.

“You know…this could be avoided.”

You peek up at him, brows pulling together. “How?” you ask, still half-curled into him. “Our lease isn't ending anytime soon and Manon’s had a lifelong aversion to knocking.”

He smiles faintly at that but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. His thumb pauses against your hand for a second before continuing. “Well…what if you moved?”

You blink, your mind struggling to catch his drift “Moved where?”

He shifts a little beneath you, propping himself up just enough to look at you properly. “To my place.”

You stare at him for a second longer than you mean to, your mind catching up in pieces. “Your…place?” you repeat, slower this time.

“Yeah. I mean…it just makes sense, right? We’re already spending most nights together anyway.” He gestures vaguely around your room, a small smile tugging at his lips. “And no surprise interruptions.”

You let out a soft breath that almost sounds like a laugh but it doesn’t quite land. Your mind starts racing as you struggle to piece together where this is coming from. Realistically, this isn’t a crazy thing to bring up, this is the kind of thing people do. The kind of next step that fits neatly into the version of a relationship the two of you have.

You just hadn’t…thought about it…with him.

“Jake…” you start but your words die on the tip of your tongue. You push yourself up slightly so you’re not completely folded into him anymore and try again. “I feel like that’s…kind of a big step.”

He nods, like he expected that. “It is but we’ve been together for a year. It’s not like this is coming out of nowhere.”

Your gaze drifts for a second. His penthouse flashes through your mind; clean, quiet, perfectly put together. You’ve been there enough to know it’s nice…really nice. It doesn’t feel like a place you belong or could call home. “I just think…maybe we don’t have to rush it?” You say slowly, choosing your words carefully.

The second the words leave your mouth, you feel the shift. Jake’s hand stills against yours for half a beat before he lets it relax again. “Rush it?” he repeats.

You shake your head quickly, pushing yourself up a little more, tucking your blanket around you some more. “Okay maybe not rush, I just…” you exhale softly, searching for something that sounds right. “I like where we are right now. I don’t think we have to…change it yet.”

He watches you for a second, weighing what you’re saying. His thumb brushes over your knuckles again but the movement feels more less sure now. “I’m not trying to rush you. Just thought…we were on the same page.”

You nod, trying to offer him a reassuring smile. “We are,” you say, even though something in your chest tightens as you do.

He nods back, like he’s choosing to believe you. “Okay,” he murmurs.

NYU senior year

The summer after junior year, Anton Lee disappeared from your life.

Not all at once but rather slowly, as if he intended to hurt you the way you had hurt him. His texts came later and later until they eventually stopped altogether, conversations never got picked back up and there was a loud silence that filled in the blanks for you. This wasn’t temporary.

You tried to hide behind your ego, told yourself that it made sense. Said that after everything that had happened between the two of you, maybe this is how it was always meant to end.

When the line had been drawn as clear as could be, you filled your time with other things. You still talked to Sohee and Manon, spent hours writing in your room about a perfect world where things worked out for your main characters.

You convinced yourself you were fine. Better off even without Anton. It was easy to think that way when he wasn’t standing right in front of you. Then September came and with it, the last semester the two of you would ever share again.

Just like that, he was back. It dawned on you that it was just as easy for Anton to delude himself when you weren’t standing directly in front of him, when the two of you weren’t sitting side by side pretending nothing ever happened between the two of you in front of your friends.

Like clockwork, you fell back into your familiar pattern. Only this time, the Anton you had grown to love wasn’t the one who came back to you. You think you lost that version somewhere in Cancun.

This time around, you thought it couldn’t be as bad as junior year…how wrong you were.

This time, neither of you cared to pretend. Gone was the sneaking around, no more stolen moments hidden behind closed doors. Whatever this was between you existed out in the open now. Unlabeled and undefined but impossible to miss.

Parties turned into something else entirely. What used to be fun, loud nights with your friends became a game the two of you never agreed to but always ended up playing anyway. How far can you push before the other snaps? How much can you get away with before it finally crosses a line?

Anton started it more often than not. He’d lean a little too close to someone else, let his hand linger just long enough for you to notice, sometimes even going as far as taking them upstairs. They’d disappear for a few minutes, never long enough to confirm anything but never short enough to ignore. It was never enough to call him out without sounding crazy but it was always enough to make burning hot jealousy rip through your chest.

When you would finally corner him and ask him what the hell he was doing, he’d only smirk before asking. “Why do you care?” It would be followed by a condescending hum and, “We’re not even together.”

He would throw it right back at you. The same words you used first, the same ones you threw at him in Cancun. You would sneer at him before stomping off, your pride fully kicked in. You would find someone of your own, someone easy. You would let him talk to you, let him get you drinks, let yourself be seen with him just long enough to prove a point you didn’t even fully believe in.

It would work for all of an hour before your attention would start to drift back to Anton. All he would ever do is give you one look and suddenly nothing else mattered. You’d make some excuse, slip away and leave whoever you were with standing there confused while you found your way back to him like you always did.

Manon tried, truly, to get you to have some self-respect. She would set you up with people she thought were easier and healthier. You’d go along with it at first to humor her. You’d exchange numbers, let conversations start only to lose interest almost immediately. Your replies got shorter then slower, until eventually they stopped altogether. It never made it past that.

From what you heard from Manon, Sohee tried too. He pulled Anton aside more than once, told him he wasn’t being fair, that maybe he should date outside of the friend group, give someone else a real chance only to be told, “We both know what we’re doing.”

Eventually, they both stopped pushing. Not because they approved but because they realized nothing they said was going to change it because as much as the two of you didn’t work like this, you still worked everywhere else.

Anton still walked you back to your dorm after late lectures, hands tucked into his pockets while the two of you talked about nothing and everything all at once. He still bought you lunch when you forgot your student ID, didn’t even let you argue about it. You still showed up to his swim meets with posters you’d spent too long making, shouting his name like you were born to cheer him on.

You still sat together at family dinner with Manon and Sohee, still laughed at the same jokes, still fell into each other on the couch during movie nights like it was muscle memory.

You’re good at that part…too good and that’s what made it worse.

Manon and Sohee didn’t understand it. They couldn’t figure out how the two of you fit so easily everywhere else, how you could be this…effortless together, only for everything to fall apart the second it turned into something more.

But you know why and so does Anton.

Neither of you said it out loud but it lingered in every argument, every glance and every moment where one of you almost gave in and the other refused to meet you there.

He hasn’t forgiven you for Cancun. Maybe even how you treated him leading up to your fight. He’s still holding on to how easily you turned off your emotions when others were around, how quick you were to deny him the chance of ever being more than a dirty little secret.

As for you, you’re too proud to fix it first. It’s humiliating enough knowing how thoroughly he’s ruined everyone else for you.

So you don’t cave, even when it’s the only thing you want to.

To your relief, somewhere along the way the two of you stop fighting as much. Not because anything gets resolved or because either of you finally says the thing you’ve been circling for two years now but because there’s nothing left to argue about that hasn’t already been said in a hundred and one different ways. You think it’s because he didn’t want to be on bad terms during graduation.

The last few weeks fly by, it’s easy to not notice time slipping away from you when things are as easy as they once were freshman year.

Today is commencement.

Just like that, the last four years of your life collapse into a single moment. You’ve imagined this day a hundred different ways but none of them feel quite like this. None of them capture how quickly it slips through your fingers.

One minute you’re walking across the stage, heart pounding, the announcer calling your name, next it’s over. Your tassel is turned, people are clapping, caps are already being tossed into the air before you’ve even had the chance to process it.

It all blurs together.

The months of deadlines, the nights spent hunched over your laptop swearing you’d start earlier next time, the early mornings you dragged yourself out of bed for classes you almost skipped, the crowded study rooms, the shared meals, the laughter—it all collapses into this one fleeting stretch of time that feels both too fast and impossibly long.

No more classes to rush to. No more last-minute submissions or group chats blowing up at two in the morning. No more of this.

You barely have time to sit with that realization before you’re being pulled in every direction. Pictures with your friends, your family, your professors. Someone is fixing your cap, someone else is calling your name, your phone is buzzing endlessly in your hand. It’s overwhelming in the best way.

By the time your parents decide you’ve taken enough pictures and accepted more gifts than your arms are capable of holding, you find yourself sitting at a long table surrounded by the people who made these last four years what they were.

Come six o’clock, you’re tucked into your seat beside Manon and her sister, your cap and gown long forgotten in your dads car. Across from you, Sohee is mid story with your dad, hands moving animatedly as he recounts something from freshman year.

Beside him sits Anton. He sits a little more relaxed than usual, one arm draped over the back of Sohee’s chair, a small smile tugging at his lips as he listens. Every now and then he chimes in, correcting Sohee or adding details that make the story even funnier and it’s so normal.

Eventually, plates empty and conversations start to taper off. You push your chair back softly, leaning toward Manon. “I’m gonna step outside for a second,” you murmur.

She nods without question, too caught up in whatever story Sohee’s telling now to look too closely. You slip out quietly, the noise of the restaurant fading behind you as the evening air hits your skin, cooler now.

You exhale slowly, stepping just far enough from the entrance to give yourself space, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses muffled behind you. For a moment, it’s just you and the quiet hum of the city.

The door opens again and you don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

Anton steps out beside you, he doesn’t say anything right away, just shrugs his suit jacket off his shoulders and holds it out toward you. “Here,” he says softly.

You hesitate for half a second before taking it, the fabric still warm from him as you slide your arms through the sleeves. It’s too big, swallowing you just slightly, the faint scent of his cologne settling around you.

“Thanks,” you murmur, pulling it closer around yourself.

He nods once, hands slipping into his pockets as he leans back against the wall beside you.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Anton shifts slightly beside you before breaking it. “You wanna go for a walk?” he asks.

You glance over at him, really looking at him for the first time since you stepped outside. His hair is slightly out of place from the day, his tie loosened just enough to make him look less put together.

“Yeah,” you say, softer than you mean to.

He pushes off the wall and falls into step beside you, his arm brushes up against you but neither of you say anything or move away. You walk without a destination at first, letting your feet carry you down familiar streets, past places that have become second nature over the last four years. Neither of you rushes to fill the silence and for once, it doesn’t feel like something that needs fixing.

Eventually, without either of you meaning to, you find yourselves standing before your dorm. The place where everything started. You let out a small breath, something soft and almost disbelieving as you take it in. The windows are dark now, the halls inside probably already half empty with everyone moving out.

“Wow,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything.

Anton huffs a quiet laugh beside you. “How fitting.”

There’s another pause. You glance at the entrance, then back at him. “Do you wanna go in?” you ask.

The words hang between you. Anton’s gaze flicks from you to the building and back again. For a second, you think he might say no. Instead, he surprises you and nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly.

You barely have time to register his words before he’s putting in the building code and pulling the door open for you.

Inside, everything feels different. The lobby that once buzzed with voices and movement now sits in a strange, hollow quiet. A few stray boxes are stacked near the walls, abandoned or waiting to be taken, and the fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead.

It’s like stepping into a memory that’s already started to fade. You walk further in first, your eyes drifting over everything like you’re trying to hold onto it. The couches where you and Manon used to sit for hours, the corner where Sohee would pace while practicing, the hallway that always smelled faintly like burnt popcorn no matter the time of day.

“Feels weird,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” Anton agrees quietly, falling into step beside you.

Your feet carry you on their own. Down the hall. Past doors left ajar, rooms half-empty, beds stripped down to their frames. The place that once felt too small for all the life inside it now feels too big without it.

By the time you stop, you’re standing in front of a door you’ve walked through more times than you can count. Anton’s old domr. He hesitates for just a second before pushing it open.

The room is almost empty. His side of the room is stripped down completely, mattress bare, desk cleared, shelves wiped clean like he was never there at all. Sohee’s side looks the same. The only thing left is what couldn’t be taken yet, suitcases by the wall, a few stray items waiting to be packed last.

It shouldn’t feel like a punch to the chest but it does. You step inside slowly, your gaze dragging over the space where you’ve spent so many nights cuddled in Anton’s arms.

“Damn,” you breathe, arms crossing loosely over yourself, still wrapped in his jacket.

Anton shuts the door behind you, quieter this time. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches again, heavier now. There’s nowhere to sit except the bed so that’s where you perch yourselves. You lower yourself onto the bare mattress, the springs creaking softly under your weight. He follows a second later, sitting beside you but not too close.

You take in the room again, noting the way things have changed over four years.

“I hated this year,” you admit after a beat.

Anton stills beside you but you continue. You swallow, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. “Not…the school year itself…just—” you shake your head faintly, searching for the right words. “Us.”

You let out a small, humorless breath. “I hated knowing I lost you before we even got back in the fall. The silence over the summer, the way everything after that just felt like we were…punishing each other.”

Anton exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “You think I didn’t hate it too?” 

You glance at him. “I hated all of it. You think I wanted that? I wanted to be with you.” He shakes his head slightly. “Every time I got close, every time I chose you…you pulled away.”

Your chest tightens. “I didn’t—” you start but the words fall apart before you finish your sentence. He’s right, you always chose to avoid him, from sophomore year when you realized you were falling all the way up to junior year after he confessed. He picked you yet you made it nearly impossible for him to stay with all the rules you set, the way you kept him hidden but would burn with fury when anyone else tried to fill your place beside him.

The truth sits there between you, ugly and unavoidable.

“It’s not too late,” Anton says quietly as you sit in your discomfort.

There’s no teasing in his expression now, no deflection, no pride. “We don’t have to keep doing it like that. We could…actually try.” He adds, softer now.

For a second, you let yourself imagine it. What that would look like. What it would feel like to finally stop fighting it, to call it what it is, to choose each other without all the conditions and rules and distance you’ve spent the last two years hiding behind.

Just as quickly though, reality comes crashing down. Every fight, every misstep, every moment where one of you reached and the other pulled away. Two years worth of proof, the two of you star crossed lovers destined to fail from the moment he showed up in front of your dorm and offered to help you build your bookshelf. You know how this ends.

Your gaze drops, your fingers smoothing over the edge of the mattress like it might ground you. “Sohee told me you’re leaving,” you say instead.

It’s a clear deflection and Anton picks up on it the second the words leave your mouth. He exhales, leaning back slightly on his hands. “Yeah. We’re going back to Korea for a bit. See where things go from there. Maybe LA after.” He admits.

You nod slowly, like you’re processing it, even though you already have.

“But that doesn’t mean—” he starts.

You don’t let him finish. “Long distance?” you ask, glancing at him.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second before nodding. “We could try. I mean it. Something real this time.”

Something real. The words settle in your chest, heavy. You want to believe him…you almost do but wanting something has never been enough for the two of you.

You nod like you agree, like you believe him, even though you don’t and before he can read too much into it, you lean forward, closing the space between you, pressing your lips to his. The kiss is softer than anything you’ve shared before.

It doesn’t feel like a fight or a distraction or something meant to prove a point. Anton stills for half a second surprised before his hand comes up to cup the side of your face, pulling you closer as he kisses you back.

His movements are slow and deliberate, almost like he’s trying to memorize you rather than consume you. His thumb brushes along your jaw, your cheek, as his lips move against yours with a kind of care you haven’t felt from him before.

His hands slide down from your face, pausing briefly at your shoulders before drifting lower, fingertips grazing along the edges of his jacket still wrapped around you. He tugs it gently from your arms, letting it fall somewhere beside the bed before his attention returns to you, eyes flickering over your face like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time in a long while.

You don’t look away.

Your breath catches softly as his hands find the zipper of your dress, hesitating for just a moment, giving you time to stop him, to say something, to pull away. You don’t.

He takes the hint and slowly unzips your dress. His gaze never leaving yours until the fabric is gone and discarded somewhere behind him.

He leans in again, pressing another kiss to your lips before letting it drift to your cheek, your jaw, the curve of your neck. Each touch softer than the last, like he’s making up for every moment he wasn’t like this before.

You let your hands move too, undoing his tie, then his dress shirt, guiding him just enough until he pulls back to shed the layers himself. The fabric drops to the floor without care, forgotten the second it leaves his hands.

When he comes back to you, it’s closer. His forehead rests briefly against yours, both of you breathing the same air, your breaths mingling together and become one. You take your time to remember his face, all the beauty marks and smile lines then his lips find yours once more.

There’s no urgency in the way he touches you, no rush to get anywhere else. His hands move as if he’s learning you all over again, like this version of you is something fragile. Something he doesn’t want to break.

You fall back onto the bare mattress together, the springs creaking faintly beneath you, the room around you stripped of everything except this.

Your orgasm crashes into you, shattering you completely. You barely register the sounds you’re making, Anton swallowing them with a desperate kiss. Your breaths tangle, uneven and shaky, his hands still holding you like he doesn’t quite know how to let go. “I love you.” He chokes out as he spills in you.

It feels like a freight train has hit you. Your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts, your breath catching as everything inside you stumbles over itself. Your hand lifts on instinct, brushing his hair back from his face so you can see him clearly, really see him.

“I love you too,” you breathe. You finally allow yourself to say the words you’ve been aching to say for the past four years.

Anton exhales against your lips, something in his expression breaking open just slightly before he leans down again, kissing you reverently. You kiss him back just as gently, your fingers still tangled in his hair, holding him there for a second longer before pulling back just enough to look at him again.

“I love you,” you say once more. Making sure he knows, he understands you have and will always love him.

Anton gently pulls out and a soft whimper escapes your lips at the loss but he’s quick to drop down beside you, pulling you into his embrace, cradling you against his chest like it’s second nature. His arms wrap around you securely, one hand splayed across your back while the other traces slow, absentminded circles into your skin. It feels like everything you’ve ever wanted.

You tilt your head slightly, looking up at him. His eyes are already on you. “Did you mean it?” he murmurs.

You nod against him, your fingers coming up to rest lightly against his chest. “I always did.”

Anton exhales softly, his hand sliding up your back to rest at the base of your neck. “Then we can make it work. It doesn’t have to end like this.”

You don’t humor him with a response. Instead, you trace slow patterns into his skin, listening as he continues. “I’m being serious, ____. We could try. Long distance for a bit…until things settle.” His thumb brushes lightly along your shoulder. “And then I’ll come back to New York.”

Your heart stutters at that.

“I don’t wanna be anywhere else long term. We could…get a place. A brownstone, maybe. Fix it up how we want.” He says with a small laugh.

You smile faintly despite yourself, picturing it without meaning to. You had mentioned freshman year wanting to be a NewYork Times best selling author living in your very own brownstone, that’s how you would know you made it.

“You’d have your own space to write,” he continues, glancing down at you. “I could finally hear all those stories you never let anyone read. Help if you want or just…be there.” 

Tears slowly start to fill your eyes. “And you could tell me when my lyrics suck.” He adds teasingly.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “They don’t suck.”

“Some of them do,” he insists, nudging you slightly.

You hum, pretending to consider it. “Maybe.”

He smiles at that, something soft and boyish slipping through as he turns his head to look up at the ceiling. For a moment, you let yourself stay there. In the version of your life he’s painting so easily, as if it’s something already within reach. You nod along when you’re supposed to. Add small comments, let him talk, let him believe you’re right there with him.

His voice eventually slows, his words tapering off as the exhaustion of the day finally catches up to him. His grip on you loosens just slightly, his breathing evening out as sleep begins to pull him under.

You stay still beneath him, listening as his breaths deepen, as the tension finally leaves his body completely. When you’re sure he’s asleep, you tilt your head just enough to look at him again.

You take in the way his lashes rest against his cheeks, the faint crease between his brows that’s finally smoothed out, the pink of his lips. Your fingers lift slowly, brushing his hair back from his forehead one last time, lingering there for just a second longer than necessary.

“I love you,” you whisper, so quietly it drifts into the night.

You fight the tears as you pull away. Slowly untangling yourself from his arms like you’re afraid even the smallest movement might wake him, might stop you from doing what you already know you’re going to do. You gather your clothes from the floor, dressing in silence, your hands moving on autopilot.

When you make it to the door, you pause. You sniff once before looking over your shoulder. He’s still there, still unmoving. Still looking like something you could’ve kept if things had been different.

Your throat tightens but you don’t let it stop you. You open the door and slip out into the quiet hallway, letting the door close softly behind you. Only then do you allow yourself to cry, to mourn what you never let yourself have.

Present Day

By the time you step off the train, your head is still buzzing with red ink and rejected edits.

The day had dragged at the publishing house, hours blurring into each other under fluorescent lights while you sat hunched over your laptop, eyes burning, flipping between manuscripts and stories that weren’t yours. Words you were supposed to fix, shape and make better even as your own sat untouched in the notes app on your phone.

Your boss hadn’t made it any easier. Hurling insults from her glass office at the all editors as she sat with her legs up on her desk eating a deli sub.

All you want is your bed.

You dig through your bag as you walk, fingers brushing past your notebook, your wallet and the lip gloss you swore you lost two days ago. Your keys are always at the bottom no matter how many times you tell yourself to keep them somewhere easier to reach. You let out a quiet sigh, already half-annoyed at the effort it’s going to take to find them.

The sound of someone calling your name cuts through your annoyance. You look up and blink in confusion. Jake stands a few feet away leaning casually against his car, one hand resting on the hood of his stupidly nice sports car, the other tucked into the pocket of his slacks.

He smiles when your eyes meet his. “Hey baby.”

For a second, you just stare at him. You hadn’t been expecting him. Your fingers that are still in your bag tighten slightly around nothing, your thoughts lagging a step behind as you try to catch up. “Jake? What are you doing here?” You ask as you finally pull your hand free, letting your bag fall back against your hip. 

He pushes himself off the car, stepping a little closer as if he doesn’t see anything wrong with showing up unannounced. “I texted you. Figured I’d come pick you up.”

You blink, pulling your phone from your pocket. The screen lights up immediately, a string of notifications you hadn’t bothered checking once you left the office. His name sits there near the top.

“Sorry. I must’ve missed it.” You murmur, locking your phone again without really reading anything.

“It’s okay. I thought we could grab dinner or something. You look like you had a long day.” He says quickly. 

You let out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “That obvious?”

“A little,” he admits, reaching out to brush his thumb lightly under your eye like he’s checking for something.

The touch is gentle and familiar. You should lean into it but instead you step back just slightly. “Yeah. It was…a lot.” You say, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder.

Jake watches you for a moment, something flickering across his face too quick to fully catch. “Well,” he says, straightening a bit, deciding not to push it. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

He gestures toward the passenger side, already moving to open the door for you. “Um…actually,” you start, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Raincheck? I kinda just feel like staying in tonight.”

Jake’s hand stills on the car door for half a second before he nods. “Cool, then I’ll take you to my place.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “No. I think I’d rather just stay home.” You say softer now, shaking your head slightly. 

His brows pull together just a fraction. “Home?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, filling the space before he can. “Manon’s leaving soon, remember? That F1 thing in Miami? I haven’t really gotten to hang out with her before she goes so I just…I wanna spend some time with her.”

The lie comes out smoother than it should. You don’t mention that she’s probably already half-packed, that she’ll be out the door early tomorrow, that “spending time” really just means existing in the living room watching The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives together before retreating into your room to shower. Maybe use TikTok for a bit before crawling to your laptop to open the same document of your novel that hasn’t seen real progress in weeks.

Jake doesn’t need to know any of that though.

You watch as his tongue presses into the inside of his cheek, something tightening in his jaw as he exhales quietly through his nose. “____,” he says, and there’s a shift in it now. “Seriosuly?”

You blink at him, feigning confusion. “What?”

He lets out a short breath, pushing the car door closed. The soft thud echoes a little louder than it should between you. “Why don’t you like coming to my place?”

You straighten slightly, defensive before you can stop yourself. “I do like your place.”

“Okay, then why does it feel like you avoid it?”

“I don’t avoid it,” you shoot back, adjusting your bag again just to have something to do with your hands. “Jake, I just said I’m tired. I wanna go home.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “So come home with me.”

You exhale, slower this time, trying to keep the moment from tipping over into something else. “Jake…”

“Why won’t you move in?” he asks, more direct now, finally naming what this is realy about.

“Can we not do this today? I just got off work, Jake. I’m tired.” You sigh.

He shakes his head immediately. “No ____, because every time I try, you shut me down.”

“I don’t shut you down,” you say quickly.

His eyes widen just slightly, like he can’t believe you’re actually going to pretend that. “You don’t?” he repeats, incredulous now. “You brushed it off last week. You brushed it off the week before that. Every time I bring up anything about us moving forward, you throw up these impenetrable walls!” he gestures vaguely toward you, frustration bleeding through.

You roll your eyes. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what is it? Because I don’t understand what this is supposed to be anymore.” He presses.

You cross your arms over yourself, more to shield than anything else. “You’re making it into something it’s not.”

His jaw tightens. “Am I?”

You shrug, ready to dismiss him and this conversation but he speaks up again. “Is this about that guy in your memory box? In the polaroid?”

Your head snaps up, irritation flaring instantly. “Why are you bringing him up again? I told you he’s nothing!” The irony of your words are not lost on you.

“Because you clearly still feel something for him!” he fires back, matching your energy now, all the patience he’s been holding onto slipping. “You don’t react like that over someone who’s ‘nothing,’ ____!”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head like he’s the one being unreasonable. “You’re reaching.”

“Am I?” he pushes, voice rising just slightly. “Because from where I’m standing you’re looking really fucking guilty!”

You roll your eyes, already turning away from him like that’s the end of it. “This conversation is over,” you mutter over your shoulder, digging back into your bag as you head for your building.

“____.” He calls. You ignore it.

Your fingers close around your keys, finally finding them at the bottom and you pull them free. “Don’t walk away from me!” Jake booms from behind you.

You continue up the steps, not giving into the way he baits you. You clench your jaw as you reach for the lock on your door when he yells out again. “Why won’t you just choose me!?”

Unable to keep a hold on your cool, you whirl around, anger rising faster than you can contain it, words already spilling before you can catch them. “Because you’re not him!”

You gasp the second you finish your sentence. There’s no way you just said that. “Fuck—” you breathe, your voice breaking as your eyes widen. “Jake, wait—I didn’t mean that, I didn’t—”

Only problem with that is that you did mean it and Jake knows. “Yeah. You did.”

The calmness of his response is worse than anything else he could’ve done or said. You take a step toward him, panic rising now, hands half-lifted like you can fix it if you just say the right thing. “No, Jake, listen to me—”

He wastes no time in turning away from you and heading to his car without another word. You hurry after him, heart racing reaching for the passenger side. “Jake! Please! just let me explain—”

You try tugging the door open but the handle doesn’t budge, he’s locked the car. You look up just in time to see him start the engine, his gaze fixed straight ahead, not even sparing you a glance. “Jake!”

He doesn’t stop. The car pulls away from the curb in one smooth motion, tires scraping slightly against the pavement as he accelerates, merging into traffic and away from you. You swallow hard, your vision blurring just slightly as everything starts to catch up all at once.

For a second, you’re still facing the street like he might come back if you just stand there long enough but the space he left behind stays empty, cars passing through like nothing happened. You step back from the curb slowly, your footing uneven as you make your way toward your building.

The world around you keeps moving, people pass, a couple across the street glances over before quickly looking away, your neighbor lingers by the front steps a little too long before pretending to check her phone.

Heat creeps up your neck at the fact that she definitely heard but you don’t have it in you to care. Not really. You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder and try to feign normalcy. Your phone buzzes in your hand, dragging your attention down to the screen.

It’s an email. The subject line almost knocks the remaining air from your lungs.

Subject line: English 102 – Letter to the Future, ____.

For a second, you just stare at it. You almost ignore it. You almost shove your phone back into your bag and deal with…everything else first but your curiosity wins out and your thumb moves before you can think too hard about it.

There’s a short message from your old professor explaining that the letters were scanned and sent out now that everyone has graduated, a small note about reflection and growth and how she hopes you’ve become everything you once wrote about.

Your chest tightens slightly as you scroll. Before you is a scanned copy of your own handwriting. You sink down onto your front steps without really deciding to, your bag slipping from your shoulder as you bring the screen closer to read.

Hi…me? This feels weird. I don’t even know how to start this without sounding dumb but I guess that’s kind of the point? You’re probably not the same person writing this anymore so…hi. I hope you’re okay….I hope you’re happy. Right now I feel like everything is just starting. Like I finally made it somewhere I’ve been dreaming about for years. New York still doesn’t feel real, like I’m going to wake up and be back home again lol. Did we stay? Please tell me we stayed. Also…did we write it? Our book? I keep telling everyone I’m going to be a New York Times bestselling author one day and they all nod like I’m insane or don’t have what it takes. I think I do though. I think I have it in me. I just hope you didn’t give up on that. Oh! And Manon, are we still friends? She’s literally my favorite person right now. We keep joking about living together after graduation like it’s a given. Did we actually do it? Because I feel like we would be so good at it. Does Sohee come to visit like he says he will? Does he freeload and steal our food before offering to pay us by singing old Justin Bieber?

There’s a pause in the letter. You can see it in the way your handwriting dips slightly, like you hesitated even back then.

Anton…I don’t know why I’m even writing about him but…he’s really nice. Like, really nice. Being around him makes me…happy. There’s something about him, I don’t know. Anyway, I feel like he’s going to do something big one day. I don’t know what yet but I know he has it in him. I hope he accomplishes all of it. I hope we stay close.

Your vision blurs before you even realize you’re crying. The girl who wrote this…she sounds so sure…so hopeful. So painfully unaware of everything that would come after. You let out a shaky breath, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as the tears finally spill over, sliding down your cheeks before you can stop them.

You don’t even notice the second email come in right away. It’s only when the ding sounds and your phone buzzes again, sharp against your palm, that your eyes flick to the top of the screen.

Subject line: English 102 – Letter to the Future, Anton Lee.

Your breath stutters. For a second, you think it has to be some kind of mistake, a glitch. Maybe your professor sent things out in bulk and accidentally attached the wrong file to the wrong name.

You tap it anyway.

The screen shifts and there his handwriting sits. Neater than yours and slightly slanted. You can almost see him again, hunched over his notebook in that classroom, chewing on his pencil, tapping it against the page while he thought too hard about the assignment. You start reading.

It’s kind of funny how we’re supposed to capture something meaningful in a letter like this. As if we can freeze a version of ourselves in time and trust that it’ll still make sense years from now. I don’t think it works like that. I think people change too fast for that. Or maybe not fast enough. Maybe we just carry different versions of ourselves at the same time and pretend they don’t contradict each other. Right now, I feel like I’m somewhere in between a lot of things. Not really who I was when I first got here but not fully who I’m supposed to be yet either. People talk about “finding yourself” like it’s a destination, like one day you just wake up and everything clicks into place. I don’t think that’s real. I think it’s more like…you keep going and hope you recognize yourself along the way. Freshman year is almost over and it already feels like something I won’t ever get back. Not in a sad way. Just in a…you don’t realize how important something is until you’re already moving past it kind of way. Like how certain days feel bigger than others for no reason. Or how certain people do.

Your breath catches before you even get to the next line.

I think you’re one of those people for me. I didn’t expect that. If I’m being honest, I didn’t expect to get this attached to anyone here. I’ve never really been good at that. Not in a cold way, I don’t think. Just…sometimes it feels like people experience things in a way I can’t fully reach. Like there’s always a small gap between what they feel and what I understand but with you, it’s different. Or at least it feels different.

You swallow hard.

I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like I’m overthinking something simple but I think about you more than I probably should. Not in a weird way. (Okay, maybe a little in a weird way.)

A broken laugh escapes you through your tears.

I think about the way you talk about things you love, the way you only ever read hard copy versions of books. The way you get frustrated when people don’t take writing seriously. The way you appreciate the more sentimental things life has to offer. It makes me want to listen. Even when I don’t understand half of it. I don’t know what happens after this year. I don’t know what happens after any of this, actually. Everyone keeps asking those big questions like where we’re going, what we’re becoming, what the point of all of this is supposed to be and I don’t have an answer. I don’t think anyone really does. But I do know this: I’m really glad I met you.

Tears slip faster down your cheeks, dripping onto your screen.

I almost didn’t, which is the craziest part. (crazy am i right?) If Sohee hadn’t dragged me to your door that day, I probably would’ve just…kept walking and you would’ve just been another person in the hallway. Someone I passed by without thinking twice. And now I can’t imagine this year without you in it. I don’t know if I’ll ever say any of this out loud. I feel like I won’t. Not because I don’t want to but because I don’t know if I’m supposed to. There’s a version of this where I tell you and everything changes. Maybe for the better, maybe not. And there’s another version where I don’t say anything and I get to keep what we already have. I think I’m a little selfish when it comes to that. So if you’re reading this and I never told you…I think I liked you. No

The word is scratched out slightly, like he went back over it.

I know I did. I just didn’t know what to do with it. Maybe by the time you’re reading this, I figured it out. Maybe I told you and we laughed about how obvious it was. Maybe we tried. Maybe we didn’t. Maybe we’re still in each other’s lives in some way that makes sense. And if we’re not…then I hope you’re still writing. I hope you didn’t let anything or anyone convince you to stop. I hope you became everything you said you would, even if it looks different than you imagined. And I hope, in some small way, I was part of that version of your life. You were my favorite part of this year. I think you might be my favorite part of college. And if I never got the chance to say it properly…then just know I would’ve chosen you.

The sob hits you before you can brace for it.

It tears out of your chest, sharp and broken, your whole body folding forward as if the weight of it all finally catches up to you at once. Your phone slips slightly in your grasp but you don’t let go, your fingers tightening around it like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“Fuck—” you choke, dragging in a breath that doesn’t quite fill your lungs. Your shoulders shake, your head dropping as tears fall freely now.

You walked away. You walked away from him.

From every version of him that tried quietly, stubbornly and consistently to meet you where you were too scared to stand. The freshman who hoped you’d stay close, the sophomore who fell for you in all the ways possible, the junior who asked you to stop pretending and the senior who laid everything out and still chose you.

“____?”

A soft calling of your name cuts through your self deprecating thoughts. You don’t look up right away, too far gone. It’s only when you feel a shift beside you that you finally blink through your tears to find Manon perched beside you on your stoop.

She sets her bag down beside her and just looks at you for a second, taking you in, your tear-streaked face and your trembling hands. “You got the letter?” she asks gently.

You hiccup, the sound catching in your throat as your brows knit together. “W-what? H-how did you—”

Manon exhales softly, leaning her elbows onto her knees. “I got mine at dinner.” She folds her hands before continuing. “Anton told me he wrote to you.”

Your head snaps toward her. “What?”

She shrugs one shoulder, nudging her bag further aside with her foot. “Beginning of sophomore year.” she adds.

“He—” you start then stop because what is there to even say to that?

Manon watches you carefully for a second longer before letting out a quiet breath. She leans back slightly, bracing her hands against the step behind her. “Are you finally done running?” she asks.

The question lands like a slap to the face. For a moment, you don’t answer. You just stare at the ground between your feet, your tears slowing but not stopping, your mind replaying everything at once.

Manon doesn’t fill the silence, lets you sit in it however uncomfortable it may be. For the first time in two years, you don’t deflect. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know he—” your throat tightens again, cutting you off.

Manon hums quietly. “Yeah, you did.” She says.

You flinch slightly at that. She softens almost immediately, nudging your knee with hers. “Maybe not like this but…you knew.” She amends, nodding toward your phone.

You don’t argue. Manon exhales, dragging a hand down her face before resting her chin in her palm. “I knew about the two of you before…Sohee knew too, by the way. Maybe not everything but…we knew enough. His feelings weren’t exactly subtle.”

A weak, humorless laugh escapes you. “I thought we were so slick.”

“Please,” she snorts lightly. “Everyone could see it except you.”

You shake your head, more tears slipping free. “That’s not…”

“It is. I’ve been watching you self-sabotage for two years.” She cuts in frimly.

The words sting. Not because they’re harsh but because they’re true. “I got frustrated,” she admits after a beat, her tone quieter now.

“Watching you push him away then get mad when he didn’t stay exactly where you left him. Watching you settle for…less.” She gestures vaguely, she doesn’t even need to say Jake’s name.

Your gaze drops as you think about every time she defended Anton during senior year. Every time she looked at you like she was trying to understand why you kept choosing the harder option.

“I should’ve stopped you…with Jake I mean. I knew you didn’t love him the way you loved..the way you love Anton.”

You don’t deny it. You sniff, wiping at your face with the back of your hand as you look away, the street lights blurring together in front of you. The two of you sit in silence for a beat before Manon speaks up again.

“...I still talk to him.”

Your head turns so fast it almost hurts. “What?”

Manon shrugs, like she expected that reaction. “Not all the time but...yeah. We keep in touch. Sohee too.”

“He’s…okay?” you ask.

She nods. “He’s good. Booked and busy. Music stuff is actually going really well.”

You smile, at least he accomplished his dreams. Manon studies your face for a second before reaching into her bag, pulling out her phone. “Actually…” she hesitates then unlocks it, scrolling for a moment. “There’s something you should hear.”

She taps her screen then turns it slightly so you can see. “It’s his latest release, he sent it to me two nights ago.”

You look at the title and your heart constricts all over again. Before You Leave Me.

Manon presses play and you listen with baited breath. You don’t make it past the first verse before your vision blurs again.

Darling, handle me with care Cover me in bubble wrap I’m scared you really mean it That you’re never comin’ back

Your chest caves in slowly, your hand tightening around your phone as the next lines play.

Know I can’t change your mind But how could you just leave like that?

Manon doesn’t say anything beside you. She just lets it play, lets it sink in. The chorus hits and it feels like it knocks the air out of your lungs completely.

Just give me one more night Hold me like you’re still mine Oh, love me for right now Before you leave me

You squeeze your eyes shut but it only makes it worse. The memory overlaps with the sound, his arms around you, his voice against your skin, the way he held you like he already knew you were going to go. Like he was asking for something you were never going to give him.

I know it’s gonna hurt Watching your footsteps turn So, love me for right now Before you leave me

Your shoulders shake as the realization settles in. He knew. Some part of him knew. Even that night when he was laying there with you, when he was telling you about brownstones and writing and staying, he knew you might still walk away but he loved you anyway.

You drag in a shaky breath, pressing your palm harder against your mouth. “Stop.” You beg Manon, turning away from her. “Turn it off!”

She complies right away. The music cuts off mid-line, the silence that follows almost louder than the song itself. “I can’t—” you choke, dragging a hand down your face. “I can’t listen to that. I can’t!”

“Okay. Then what can you do?” She asks.

You blink at her, thrown off by the shift. “What?” you rasp.

“What can you do, ____?” she repeats, leaning forward now, elbows braced against her knees. “Because I’ve watched you do this for two years. Self destruct and wait for the damage to pass by.”

Your brows knit together, a weak shake of your head already forming. “That’s not—”

“You don’t get to sit here and act like this blindsided you. None of this is new. The only thing that’s new is that you can’t pretend you didn’t know anymore.”

“That’s not fair,” you mutter.

“No. It’s not. That’s the point.” She rebuttals.

She softens slightly. “You knew he loved you and instead of meeting him there, you made him work for it then punished him by walking away. You don’t get to fall apart like this and act like you’re helpless in all of it. You made choices too.”

“I was scared,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Manon says.

Nothing is said beyond that. After minutes of sitting in silence, Manon pats your leg softly. “His number hasn’t changed.”

She doesn’t linger after that. Manon pushes herself up, brushing her hands against her dress before reaching down to grab her bag. She pauses for half a second, like she might say something else but whatever it is, she decides against it. Instead, she gives your knee one last squeeze then she turns and heads inside, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving you alone on the step.

You sit there a moment longer, your phone still in your hand, his letter open on the screen waiting for you to do something with it. Your chest still aches and your eyes still sting but you sniff once and remind yourself you caused this pain.

You look down at your phone again and swipe out of the email, not wanting to face it anymore. Tonight, you need to forget it all. You inhale slowly and push yourself up from the steps. Your legs feel a little unsteady at first but you adjust, sliding your bag back onto your shoulder and wiping at your face with the sleeve of your jacket.

You walk aimlessly down the street back towards the subway entrance. You swipe your metro car and step onto the platform, the train arrives in five minutes. You get on, not thinking of the destination, just letting your feet carry you.

Your mind drifts, your thoughts looping through everything that’s just happened; Jake’s face, Manon’s words, the letter, the song…Anton. You stare out the window as the train carries you further and further into the city.

Eventually, the train slows and the doors slide open. You step out onto the platform you haven’t stood on in a while, the familiarity hitting you in a way that feels almost disorienting. Your feet move before you can second guess it, carrying you up the stairs and out onto the street.

You walk and walk and walk. You don’t stop until you’re standing in front of phebes. The neon sign flickers faintly above the door, the same way it always did. You can hear the music from outside, muffled but familiar.

For a second you just stand there taking it all in. You haven’t visited NYU since graduation, haven’t made it to this side of town since you left Anton. You push down the thought the second you push open the door. Inside, it’s exactly how you remember. Dim lighting, sticky floors and music just loud enough to drown out your thoughts if you let it. The layout hasn’t changed. 

You slide onto a stool at the bar without hesitation. The bartender who approaches you isn’t one you recognize. “What can I get you?”

You don’t hesitate. “Two shots of don julio, keep the tab running.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for the bottle. He pours quickly and slides the small glasses toward you with a dish of lime wedges. You grab the first shot and lick the salt rim before tossing the tequila back in one smooth motion. You suck in a breath through your teeth, chasing it with the lime, blinking hard as your eyes water.

“Rough night?” the bartender asks, seemingly unfazed.

You let out a humorless snort, setting the empty glass down a little harder than you mean to. “Try two years.”

He pauses for half a second, caught off guard by the honestly then offers a small awkward smile. “Yeah…that’ll do it,” he mutters, already stepping away to tend to someone further down the bar.

You don’t watch him go, you just reach for the second shot. This one goes down easier. Or maybe you just don’t care as much. Either way, you welcome the burn. You exhale slowly, fingers wrapping around the empty glass as you start to twirl it against the bartop. Your mind won’t stop.

Jake. Manon. The letter. The song. Anton.

You’re already lifting your hand to signal for another when the stool beside you scrapes softly against the floor. Your jaw tightens at the new presence, irritation flaring up faster than it should. It’s barely five pm on a Thursday, the place is practically empty. There are a dozen other open seats and this asshat chooses the one right next to you? Seriously?

You roll your eyes, turning fully now, already halfway into telling them to move. “Excuse me,”

The words die the second they leave your mouth and your eyes catch sight of who the stranger is. Sat before you is none other than Anton Lee.

For a split second, he looks just as caught off guard as you feel. His brows lift slightly, his posture stilling like he wasn’t expecting this either. It’s gone as quick as it came.

Your eyes tear away from his gaze to take him in greedily, trying to make up for two years worth of absence. His hair is longer now, falling around his face and dyed a deep auburn. It’s styled back enough to show his forehead.

Your gaze drops. His gold chain is still there, resting against his collarbone. The same Lange & Söhne Odysseus sits at his wrist. He’s dressed simply, jeans and a henley, sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms.

Your eyes lift back to his face. You find him staring at you too, like he was inventorying all the new details about you. Anton’s lips curve into a gentle smile despite everything that sits between you.

“Howdy, stranger.”