Chapter Text
Mike woke before the alarm.
The room was still dark, the kind of dark that felt unfinished rather than peaceful. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, letting his eyes adjust, letting his breathing even out. There was a faint glow leaking in through the curtains from the street outside, striping the ceiling in dull orange shadows. The building made its usual noises — a low hum somewhere in the walls, the distant clank of pipes, a door shutting far away.
He didn’t move.
If he stayed still long enough, the day hesitated. It hovered. Sometimes it felt like if he didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t fully arrive.
The ceiling had a crack running through it. Thin. Crooked. It started just above the window and curved inward, like it had once tried to escape and failed. Mike traced it with his eyes, slowly, following every bend and branch. He’d been doing this most mornings without realizing it. Memorizing it. Claiming it.
He wondered when he’d started needing something so small to hold onto.
Eventually, the alarm went off. A sharp, tinny sound that cut through the quiet and made his chest tighten before he could stop it. He reached across the bed and shut it off quickly, like it was something that might embarrass him if it went on too long.
He sat up and rubbed his face with both hands.
The room felt cold now that he was moving. The air pressed against his arms, against the back of his neck. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the floor.
He told himself to get up.
He did.
⸻
The kitchen light flickered when he turned it on.
Mike barely noticed. He just stood there until it steadied, casting a tired yellow glow over the counters. The place smelled faintly of old coffee and something burnt. There were dishes in the sink that weren’t his — a plate with dried food stuck to it, a mug ringed with stains. He set his bag down by the door and rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
He filled the kettle and set it on the stove.
While it heated, he washed the dishes. Not because anyone had asked him to. Not because it mattered. It was just something to do. Something simple. Soap, water, rinse. He focused on the feeling of ceramic beneath his fingers, the warmth of the water, the way the sink slowly cleared.
The kettle screamed when it was ready.
Mike flinched, shoulders jumping before he could stop it. His heart kicked hard against his ribs, then settled. He shut the stove off quickly, jaw tight.
“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, even though no one was there.
He poured the water, added the instant coffee, then dumped sugar in without counting. He never counted. He liked it sweet. Always had.
Will used to steal sips from his mug and complain about it, scrunching his nose like the taste personally offended him.
The memory came out of nowhere.
Mike froze, mug halfway to his mouth.
For a moment, it felt like Will was right there — leaning against the counter, shoulder brushing Mike’s, eyes bright with amusement. It felt so real it almost hurt to breathe.
Mike took a sip.
The sweetness flooded his mouth, too much and familiar all at once. He swallowed and stared at the counter until the moment passed.
⸻
Outside, the air was cold enough to sting.
Mike pulled his jacket tighter around himself and started walking, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The streets were already busy, people moving with purpose, voices overlapping. He stayed near the edges, stepping aside when groups passed, letting himself become something easy to walk around.
Campus rose up ahead of him, sprawling and loud in a way that made his shoulders tense. He crossed the quad slowly, eyes down, listening to the sound of footsteps and laughter blur together.
That was when he saw Will.
He stopped.
Will was standing near the art building, sketchbook tucked under one arm. His coat was open despite the cold, scarf loose around his neck. He was smiling at something someone said — not a careful smile, not one meant to be polite, but an easy one. The kind that came from somewhere deep and real.
There were people with him.
A guy stood close, angled toward Will like his attention belonged there. A girl laughed and touched Will’s sleeve as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Will didn’t pull away. He leaned into the moment, relaxed, comfortable.
Mike felt it then — the sharp, quiet ache that had become so familiar it almost scared him.
Will looked like he belonged.
Like the world had opened up and let him step inside without question.
Mike hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking until someone brushed past him and muttered an apology. He barely heard it. His chest felt tight, like something had wrapped around his lungs and decided to stay.
It wasn’t jealousy. He told himself that. It wasn’t anger.
It was the slow, sinking understanding that Will no longer needed him the way he once had.
Will glanced up, eyes sweeping across the quad, and found Mike without trying. Recognition softened his expression instantly. His smile shifted — smaller, warmer, something private just for them. He lifted a hand in a brief wave.
Mike waved back. For a second, it felt like old times. Like something familiar had resurfaced.
Then Will turned away again, pulled back into conversation, laughter rising around him like Mike had never been there at all. Mike stood there until the feeling settled fully into his chest.
Then he kept walking.
⸻
The writing building was quiet in a way Mike appreciated.
The air smelled like dust and old paper. Radiators clicked softly along the walls. He took the stairs, one hand dragging along the railing, and slipped into the seminar room early. Only a few people were there. He chose his usual seat near the window and set his notebook down.
Outside, bare branches scraped against the glass.
The professor talked about honesty. About how writing demanded that you look directly at the things you avoided most. About how voice came from tension — from wanting something and not knowing how to reach it.
Mike wrote the words down carefully. He stared at them until they blurred. Because he knew exactly what he wanted.
He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.
Across campus, somewhere he couldn’t see, Will was laughing again. Thriving. Living a life that didn’t pause for him. Mike pressed his pen harder into the page and kept writing anyway. Even as the feeling settled in — heavy, quiet, and relentless — he stayed where he was, trying not to disappear entirely.
Mike stayed after class longer than he needed to.
He told himself it was because he was rereading his notes, because something the professor said hadn’t quite landed and he wanted to get it right. In reality, he just didn’t want to step back into the noise yet. The hallway outside the seminar room sounded crowded, alive with footsteps and voices, and the thought of merging into it made his stomach twist.
He stared down at his notebook.
The page was half full. Neat handwriting at the top, growing tighter and darker toward the bottom, where the words began to crowd each other. He hadn’t written anything useful. Just fragments. Phrases circled twice. A sentence crossed out so hard the paper nearly tore.
Voice comes from tension.
Mike underlined it again. His pen hovered, then pressed down.
What happens when the tension never goes away?
He stared at the question until it stopped looking like words.
Eventually, the room emptied. Chairs scraped. The door shut softly behind the last student. Mike was alone with the hum of the radiator and the sound of his own breathing. He packed his bag slowly, folding the notebook closed like it might spill something if he wasn’t careful.
When he finally stood, his legs felt stiff, like he’d been sitting there much longer than he realized.
⸻
He wandered campus without a plan.
This happened more often than he liked to admit — walking just to walk, letting his feet decide where to go. He passed buildings he didn’t have classes in, bulletin boards layered with flyers advertising things he never went to: poetry readings, art shows, meetings for clubs he didn’t feel brave enough to join.
Outside the art building, the smell of paint lingered faintly in the air.
Mike slowed. Through the tall windows, he could see students moving around inside, canvases propped against walls, hands stained with color. Laughter drifted out when someone opened the door, warm and unrestrained.
For a second, he thought he might see Will again. He didn’t.
The disappointment surprised him. It sat heavy in his chest, unwelcome but familiar. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking.
⸻
He ended up in the library without really choosing to.
The place felt safer. Quieter. The kind of quiet that asked nothing of him. He took a seat at one of the long wooden tables near the back, spreading his books out in front of him without opening them.
Around him, other students worked in silence — heads bent, pages turning, pencils scratching softly. Everyone seemed absorbed, purposeful. Mike felt like he was pretending to be one of them.
He opened his notebook again. Stared at the blank page. Writing used to feel like relief. Like exhaling. Now it felt like standing at the edge of something deep, knowing he had to jump and not knowing if he could survive the fall. He tried anyway.
A sentence formed. Awkward. Honest. He wrote it down before he could stop himself.
Then another.
The words came slowly, unevenly, but they came. They circled the same thing without naming it — distance, absence, the quiet horror of watching someone you loved move on without you.
Mike didn’t realize how tense he was until his hand started to cramp. He flexed his fingers and leaned back in his chair, eyes closing briefly. For a moment, he let himself imagine Will reading it someday. Imagined Will recognizing himself between the lines.
The thought made his chest ache in a way that felt almost unbearable. He closed the notebook.
⸻
By the time he left the library, the sky had darkened. The campus lights flickered on one by one, casting long shadows across the paths. The air had grown colder, sharper. Mike pulled his jacket tighter and headed back toward his flat, steps slow and heavy.
Halfway there, he passed a payphone. He stopped.
He stared at it longer than he meant to, heart thudding softly. He hadn’t planned on calling anyone. He didn’t even know who he would call. Still, the thought lingered — a quiet, dangerous what if. What if he called Will?
What would he say?
Hey. I saw you today.
Hey. I miss you.
Hey. Do you ever think about us?
His hand twitched at his side. He didn’t move. Eventually, he turned away and kept walking, the unanswered questions following him like a shadow.
⸻
Back in his room, the silence felt heavier than it had that morning.
He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the wall, listening to the muffled sounds of life happening elsewhere in the building — laughter through thin walls, footsteps overhead, a radio playing faintly in another room.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling crack again. It looked a little longer now. Or maybe he was imagining it.
Mike closed his eyes and let the day replay itself — the quad, Will’s smile, the wave that meant everything and nothing at all. He wondered when frustration had started to curl around his longing, when missing someone had begun to feel like resentment’s quieter cousin.
He didn’t want to be angry. He just wanted to be wanted. The thought settled deep in his chest, heavy and unresolved.
Tomorrow would come whether he was ready or not. Another morning. Another class. Another glimpse of a life moving forward without him. Mike lay there in the dark, breathing slowly, holding onto the ache like it was the only thing anchoring him in place.
And somewhere, not far away, Will was living — laughing, creating, becoming someone new — while Mike stayed very still, afraid that if he moved too much, he might finally break.