Archive of Our Own

Upon first glance, the room seemed quiet — still. It reflected the late hour that vibrated through the rest of the apartment, a heaviness that settled into the walls. Outside, the dark night sky cast a shadow-like blanket, enclosing the building in darkness. 

Somewhere beyond the thin walls came the soft sound of snores, the muffled echoes of students pulling all-nighters pulsing faintly to life. Posters strung along the walls were thrown into shadow, their shapes twisting into monsters in the low light, while a pile of clothes lay draped across a chair, dipping into a tower-like formation, as though it might collapse if disturbed.

The only light in the room came from the soft glow of Oscar’s phone, illuminating his face as he lay curled beneath his duvet. His head was propped against the headboard, the phone resting against his chest, his thumb swiping mindlessly through Instagram.

It wasn’t a habit he’d picked up lightly — wasn’t really something he’d ever done before. Oscar had been raised to live in the moment, to forget capturing things because he was too busy breathing them in. That had all changed during his first year at university. He was part of the generation that thrived under social media, yet he’d sworn he would never become a victim of its mindless chatter.

But day by day, month by month, he slowly gave in to the monster it was. He hadn’t meant to at first, only creating an account because his new classmates had promised it was the easiest way to keep in touch — to know what was happening around campus.

Soon enough, he was sucked into the vapid life that lay ahead. Picture after picture, story after story, each one told a tale of lives not fully lived, only carefully displayed for show. And somehow, he had become a victim of it too. His finger moved on autopilot, sifting through moments and montages as though he were living in them, as if he were part of the fray instead of watching it pass him by.

Which he wasn’t, of course.

But not by choice.

He wasn’t relentlessly bullied, never picked apart for things no one should be torn down for. He wasn’t called names or sneered at. He was simply… ignored.

Invisible.

He hadn’t noticed it at first. The small group of friends he’d made provided enough entertainment, enough noise to drown everything else out. It was at the start of his second year that the feeling began to creep in, picking at him like a scab he couldn’t stop worrying at. He attended parties, events — his name always somewhere on the guest list. But he was never in the pictures. In fact, he was always the one taking them.

With a sigh, Oscar rolled onto his side, clicking into his own profile and narrowing in on his tagged tab. There lay the evidence of his invisibility. Above the memes his sisters tagged him in and the family gatherings his mum proudly posted were photo after photo — parties he’d attended, games he’d watched, rallies he’d shown up for.

Except in every single one, there wasn’t a trace of his face.

There was only a tag, tucked into the corner — his name in white font, proof that he had been there. But no one could pick him out of a crowd, single him out in a line-up.

He was just invisible.

At first, it hadn’t bothered him. He didn’t care. He’d never been popular in high school, so why should it matter now? Deep down, settled neatly in his chest, he knew the real reason why.

Because it just mattered.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, as much as people said the world had changed and cliques and groups no longer defined who you were — it still did. It was archaic, outdated, old-fashioned, the idea that labels should dictate who you hung out with, who you could date, how you were seen from a social point of view. People liked to pretend those labels didn’t matter anymore. That even if you weren’t sporty, you could still hang with the footballers. That if you weren’t reckless and loud, you could still belong with the rebels. People liked to pretend the world had moved on.

But those labels were still important. They still dictated where you ate lunch and whether you were the centre of attention at parties.

And as much as Oscar wished he was better than that — wished he truly didn’t care — his chest still tightened every time someone called him Oliver, or forgot who he was entirely. Because the truth was, he didn’t even have a label. He wasn’t sporty, wasn’t cool. He stuck to the rules, but he wasn’t a genius either. He slipped neatly through the cracks. Invisible.

He would be the one no one recalled years later when they reminisced about their university days. The name that rang vaguely familiar at a reunion, with no face to attach to it. The guest forgotten on the list entirely.

With one last sigh, Oscar locked his phone and pressed it beneath his pillow. As his eyes closed, he finally let sleep take him under, carrying him into a dream world where it didn’t matter who he was — or who he wasn’t

~~

The summer sun sat high in the sky as Oscar perched on a bench, his backpack slung on the ground at his feet. He was seated in the aptly named university square, on the far side of campus where most of his classes took place. His earphones blasted some wordless dance track as he let the sun soak into his skin. It was the second week of his final year of university, the semester starting toward the end of the Australian summer, and Oscar wanted to hold onto as much warmth as he could before the breeze turned sharp and the trees began to change.

His eyes remained open, watching students walk and talk, their attention glued to their phones as they drifted toward morning classes. It twisted something unpleasant in his stomach to see how reliant everyone was on the image they wanted to project.

He watched as a girl attempted to take a picture of her coffee several times before finally landing on the winning shot, a soft, satisfied smile crossing her lips. He could picture her posting it to her story, phone clutched to her chest as she waited for the likes to roll in. He imagined her checking it during class, getting caught and berated by her tutor while clinging to that small, desperate thrill of being seen.

A scoff slipped from his lips, followed by a familiar tug in his chest — one he ignored, as he always did. Because he knew that desperation. Knew how it felt to want to be seen, to look good, to matter.

As if on cue to drag him out of his downward spiral, a slap landed on his back. Oscar jolted, yanking his earphones free as he looked up to find Logan grinning down at him.

“Morning,” Logan said cheerfully, dropping down beside him. “You looked deep in thought there.”

“It was nothing,” Oscar replied, unzipping his backpack to shove his earphones inside. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous that, mate,” Logan laughed, giving his back another slap. “Anyway, we better go if you want to snag our usual seat.”

Oscar made a vague noise in response as they both slung their backpacks over their shoulders and headed toward the Faculty of Business and Economics. Logan launched into a story mid-step, his words brushing Oscar’s ears as he half-listened, nodding at what felt like the appropriate moments.

The building loomed above them as they approached, its sleek modern design dark against the bright blue sky. Glass windows stretched across its surface, grey pipes cutting sharp lines through the structure. Oscar squinted up at it as the sun caught his eyes, the building casting a long shadow as they stepped through the main doors — Logan still talking.

Oscar had met Logan during his first year at the University of Melbourne, during orientation, and they’d clicked instantly. Similar tastes in music, films, and TV had turned into a friendship that lasted all three years. Logan had taken Oscar under his wing early on, even though it felt backward — Logan had moved countries to attend one of the world’s top universities, while Oscar was local. Still, the friendship stuck.

They’d both even chosen to major in Economics.

Logan was still gesturing animatedly as they entered the lecture hall, sliding into their usual seats near the front. They were early, as always — best seats, quiet room, a chance to settle before the chaos arrived.

“Anyway, Alex said they’re all still coming round to my place Friday night for poker,” Logan continued, pulling out his notebook. “So I said we’d order from that pizza place down the road.”

“Why don’t we play something else for a change?” Oscar asked softly, his eyes fixed on the doors.

“Like what?” Logan asked, glancing over.

And then the words lodged themselves firmly in Oscar’s throat. Through the doors walked the one person who stole the breath from his lungs.

You.

Your gaggle of friends surrounded you, laughter and shrieks filling the room as you passed by without a glance in their direction. Oscar’s gaze locked onto you, his breath shallow as you moved past and up the stairs to your usual spot at the back.

“Hearts,” Oscar murmured, his eyes following you.

Another reason he hated being invisible — hated being unnoticed — was because it meant he’d never stand a chance with you. You, one of the most popular people in the class. In the whole university, probably. But God, you were so much more than that. Beautiful, yes — but kind. Soft-spoken. Clever.

Oscar remembered the first time he’d noticed you during orientation. Your hand had shot up a second before his as Mr Hamilton posed a question. Every time you were chosen, you answered in that gentle voice of yours, always right. Always confident without being loud. Oscar had been struck instantly.

Logan nudged him with an elbow, rolling his eyes. “Mate, you’ve not got a shot in hell with her. I’ve told you this. She doesn’t even know your name.”

Oscar waved him off, his neck craning as he watched you settle into your seat, your friends jostling playfully for a spot beside you. You pulled your notebook from your bag, tucking your hair behind your ears as you turned back to them, already lost in conversation.

Oscar forced himself to face forward as Mr Hamilton entered the room. Logan had a point, and Oscar hated it. Because even though you shared classes, attended the same parties — and hell, even lived in the building next to his — He was still invisible to you.

He remembered the first time you’d spoken to him. You’d asked to borrow a pen. You’d called him Oliver. But you’d smiled when you did it, eyes bright and kind, and Oscar hadn’t had the heart to correct you. He’d handed over his favourite pen instead.

He never did get it back.

He’d followed you on Instagram that evening, scrolling through your stories and photos — always laughing, always surrounded by friends, living a life that made Oscar’s chest ache. Ache because he wanted it. Ache because he wanted you.

And you didn’t even know his name.

With a quiet sigh, Oscar lowered his gaze and began to write down what his tutor was saying — already certain that, for him, this year would be no different.

~~

You woke abruptly to the shrill sound of your phone alarm blaring from the bedside table. With a groan, you rolled onto your side, slapping your palm blindly against the wood until you felt the familiar shape of your phone beneath your hand. You dragged it closer, squinting through half-lidded eyes as you silenced it, letting your head fall back against the pillow with a frustrated huff.

You were exhausted — the kind that settled deep into your bones and stayed there. Another late night spent with friends hadn’t left much room for sleep or recovery. Still, no matter how tired you were, you refused to be late for class.

Most people thought it was odd. Popular, constantly social, always setting the tone — yet never skipping lectures or arriving more than a few minutes late on purpose. Your friends called you a square more often than not, sneering as you dragged them toward the lecture hall (except Lily — she was different).

Maybe it was because it didn’t fit the image people had of you. The perfectly curated persona you allowed them to see.

But deep down, that had always been who you were.

You’d grown up in a small town in north Queensland, the kind where everybody knew everybody else. You either left, or you stayed forever.

And you’d known early on that staying was never an option. The same faces, the same buildings, the same expectations — none of it felt like the life you were meant to live.

So you worked. You studied. You ignored the pull of adolescence — the skipped classes, the friendships formed out of proximity rather than connection. You poured everything into your future.

And it worked.

You earned the highest qualifications your school had ever seen, applied to the top university in Australia, and said goodbye to the person you’d been.

You reinvented yourself.

You still remembered that first day of orientation — the way your hand shot into the air before you could stop it, the instinct to prove yourself the way you always had. When you answered correctly, the praise came easily. The applause followed. And something warm and dangerous bloomed in your chest, clawing its way up your throat — a feeling you wanted to hold onto.

You made friends quickly. Girls from your class, people who lived in the same building. And without fully realising it, you began to present a version of yourself that felt safer — sharper, shinier. A persona built from observation and survival, from the shadows of who you used to be.

Because standing mattered. It always had.

Even back home, it mattered who captained the netball team, who topped the class. And you’d never truly fit anywhere — drifting between groups, slipping through cracks, quietly unseen. Invisible.

This time, you wanted to be the star.

But being visible came at a cost.

Between your social life and your ambition, something had started to give. First year had been manageable — energy drinks, late nights, confidence worn like armour. Your Instagram filled with photos taken days earlier, carefully curated moments that suggested effortlessness.

Second year, the cracks appeared. The balancing act grew heavier. And now, barely into third year, you were already falling behind.

Groaning as you stretched, your muscles aching in protest, you dragged yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, starting your routine before your roommates woke. You had an image to maintain, after all.

Lily would be up soon — probably poking her head into your room to make sure you ate the cereal she’d bought over the weekend. She always did. She was your best friend. You’d met her at a party during your first week — an unlikely meeting that turned into something solid and grounding. She didn’t study the same thing as you, but she was on the same campus, and somehow that had been enough.

Your other friends were… fine. Some shared your classes, others your building. But they all had one thing in common.

They’d been queens and kings once. Their desire to cling to that identity pulled you in, even when it didn’t feel like you. Lily had met the real version of you — the one you liked better. But around the others, you found yourself shedding your old skin, slipping into something easier. At first, it wasn’t hard. Pretending confidence. Walking across campus like you belonged everywhere. Invitations came easily — parties, dinners, gatherings. Your presence became a currency. People wanted you there because it made them feel important by association.

Social media was the hardest part. The constant need to post, to engage, to be visible yet untouchable. Always performing. Always watched.

Under the spray of hot water, you rubbed at your eyes, willing the exhaustion away as you moved through the motions of your routine. By the time you emerged — dressed, hair smooth, makeup carefully disguising the dark circles beneath your eyes — Lily was waiting, her smile bright as ever.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said warmly, linking her arm through yours as you headed toward campus. Lily didn’t pretend to like everyone you surrounded yourself with, but she understood why you did. She kept you afloat, steadying you as you struggled not to sink.

You stopped at your usual coffee shop, orders exchanged with easy smiles. You lifted your cup, snapped a photo, uploaded it to your story before you could overthink it.

“You know,” Lily said gently as you linked arms again, sipping her coffee, “the world won’t end if you skip posting your morning coffee.”

You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of your own. “I like it,” you said, even if you weren’t sure that was true anymore.

You parted ways at the square, Lily heading toward her class while you dragged yourself toward the Faculty of Business and Economics. The caffeine did little to revive you as you pushed through the doors. A shriek greeted you almost immediately. Your friends were waiting, arms already reaching for you. You exchanged hugs as they launched into stories from the night before.

“I can’t believe we almost got kicked out of that bar,” Carla laughed, looping her arms around your waist. “Such sore losers. Honestly, I can’t believe you and Lily left so early — such squares.” The others laughed, and you forced a smile.

“Come on,” you said simply, tossing your empty cup into the bin and shrugging Carla off. “We’ll be late.”

You couldn’t afford that — not now.

The lecture hall was already filling as your friends climbed the stairs behind you, voices loud and unchecked. You slid into your usual seat at the back, watching as Mr Hamilton glanced up briefly, a frown flickering before he returned to his notes. You bit back a groan, ignoring the girls jostling for space beside you.

Sometimes you wondered if Lily was right — if letting go would make things easier. But then you remembered the person you’d been before all of this, and you pushed the thought away.

The lecture dragged in a way that felt almost cruel. Words washed over you without sticking, sliding straight through the fog clogging your brain. Mr Hamilton’s voice blended into the hum of whispered conversations beside you, the scrape of chairs, the incessant tapping of your pen against your notebook — the only thing tethering you to consciousness.

You tried to focus. You really did. You wrote down headings, half-finished sentences, arrows pointing to nothing. Every few minutes your eyes drifted shut before snapping open again, panic jolting through you as you realised you’d missed something important. The girls beside you were deep in conversation, laughter bubbling up at inappropriate moments, their voices too loud, too close.

You shushed them once. Twice.

They ignored you.

Your stomach twisted. You could already picture the look Mr Hamilton would give you — not angry, just disappointed. That somehow hurt worse.

When he paused mid-sentence, the room fell quiet.

Your name cut through the silence. For a heartbeat, you didn’t realise he meant you. Then eyes turned. Heat flooded your face as you looked up, pen freezing in your grip.

“Yes?” you said, voice thinner than you meant it to be.

Mr Hamilton adjusted his glasses, gaze steady but unreadable. “Can you tell me the answer to the question I just asked?”

Your mind went blank.

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. You searched your notes frantically, pages blurring together, your pulse roaring in your ears. You knew this — you used to know this. You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“I—” You swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Something flickered across his face. Disappointment. Concern.

“We’ll discuss this after class,” he said evenly.

The rest of the lecture passed in a blur. You barely registered the scrape of chairs or the swell of voices as students began to pack up — not until your name was spoken again.

“Can you see me in my office,” Mr Hamilton said, already gathering his things.

A chorus of exaggerated groans rose from your friends.

“Uh-oh,” Carla stage-whispered, bumping your shoulder. “Someone’s in trouble.”

You forced a laugh that didn’t reach your eyes.

Mr Hamilton’s office smelled faintly of old books and stale coffee. The door clicked shut behind you, far too loud in the quiet room. Your heart hammered as you stood there, bag clutched tightly to your shoulder.

“Sit,” he said gently, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.

You obeyed, spine straight, hands folded neatly in your lap — a reflex from years of trying to look composed even when you felt anything but.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before opening a drawer. When he slid the paper across the desk, you recognised it instantly.

Your first-year report.

An A, circled in red.

“This,” he said, tapping the page, “is what I know you’re capable of.”

Your throat tightened.

“And this,” he continued, pulling another folder toward him, “is what you’ve been submitting lately.” He didn’t need to say the grade. You already knew.

“I’ve spoken to you before,” he said, not unkindly. “I asked if everything was alright. I gave you extensions. I gave you time.”

You stared at the desk, shame curling hot in your chest.

“I’m not saying this to scare you,” he added, voice softer now. “But you are dangerously close to failing this class.”

Your breath hitched despite your best efforts to stay composed.

“There’s an exam at the end of the month,” he went on. “If you don’t pass it, I won’t be able to keep you enrolled in this course.”

The words landed like a physical blow. You knew what that meant. You’d heard this warning before, just as your second year came to an end.

Fail.

Out.

Your mind spiralled instantly — images flashing one after another. The flight home. Your parents’ forced smiles. The small town. The whispers. The life you’d worked so hard to escape swallowing you whole.

“I can’t,” you said quietly, panic leaking into your voice. “I can’t fail.”

Mr Hamilton watched you carefully. “Then something has to change.”

You nodded, too quickly. “I’ll do anything. I’ll— I’ll cut back, I’ll study more, I just—”

He held up a hand. “You need support, more than I can give you,” he said plainly. “You’re not managing this on your own anymore.”

The truth of it burned.

“I strongly recommend you get a tutor,” he continued. “Someone to help you catch up before the exam. If I don’t see improvement and you don’t pass this exam, I’ll have no choice but to fail you.”

A tutor.

Your chest tightened. Private tutors were expensive — more than you could afford without explaining why. And explaining meant admitting failure. It meant questions. Expectations.

Going home.

“I don’t—” You hesitated, then shook your head. “I don’t have another option?”

Mr Hamilton’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, I really am, but no,” he said gently. “If you don’t pass the exam, if you don’t improve, then you’re out.”

You nodded, tears blurring your vision as you stood abruptly, afraid that if you stayed another second you’d break completely.

“Thank you,” you said, the words barely holding together.

You barely registered the door swinging open. Your vision blurred, pulse roaring in your ears as panic clawed its way up your throat. You moved on instinct alone — forward, fast, desperate to escape before the tears won.

And then—

You collided with someone solid.

A sharp gasp tore from you as you stumbled back, hands lifting automatically to steady yourself. The world tilted for a moment, the hallway spinning as you blinked rapidly, trying to force your vision to clear.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, voice breathless. “I wasn’t- I wasn’t looking—”

You looked up.

He stood frozen in front of you, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair slightly out of place as if he’d been pacing or hesitating just outside the door. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, unsure whether to reach for you or step away.

“Oh—” you breathed, your mind racing. “Oliver.”

The name slipped out automatically. Soft. Familiar. And unbeknownst to you, wrong.

Something flickered across his face — surprise, then something sharper, quieter. Hurt.

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, voice low, steady despite the way his shoulders tensed. “I wasn’t watching where I was going either.”

You nodded, mortification burning through you as heat crept up your neck. You could feel tears pressing hard behind your eyes now, threatening to spill no matter how much you tried to hold them back.

“I— I’ve got to—” You gestured vaguely down the hall, already stepping away. “Sorry. Again.”

He opened his mouth, like he might say something else — like he might correct you.

But you were already gone.

Your footsteps echoed as you hurried down the corridor, ducking into the nearest bathroom and pushing the door shut behind you with shaking hands. The second the door clicked, your composure shattered.

You braced yourself against the sink, breath hitching as tears finally spilled free, sliding hot and uncontrollable down your cheeks. You squeezed your eyes shut, shoulders trembling as the weight of it all crashed down at once — the pressure, the fear, the knowledge that everything you’d worked for was slipping through your fingers.

Failing wasn’t just about grades. Failing meant going home. And you couldn't go home, you couldn't face that life you'd left behind.

~~

Oscar hadn’t meant to overhear — he really hadn’t.

He was already halfway out the building when it hit him, the sudden, irritating memory that made him stop short in the hallway. The textbook. The one Mr Hamilton had lent him a month ago, the one that had helped Oscar finally formalise his latest assignment into something presentable, something good. He’d promised to return it as soon as he was done, and Oscar was a man of his word.

He’d meant to give it back before class, honestly. But then you had walked in.

You floated through the room like you belonged there — like the lecture hall was a stage built just for you. The way you climbed the stairs to your seat, the way people shifted to make room, the way laughter followed in your wake. Oscar had watched without meaning to, his focus slipping entirely away from the notes in front of him.

And when Mr Hamilton had called on you, when you stumbled, something ugly had twisted in Oscar’s chest. He’d winced at the way the room had gone quiet, the way your confidence fractured just enough for people to notice. When Mr Hamilton’s disappointment seeped into his voice, Oscar felt it like it was aimed at him instead.

The air had changed. Fear had bled out of you, thick and unmistakable.

Now, halfway down the steps outside the building, Oscar slapped Logan on the back, interrupting his retelling of some half-finished story.

“Forgot something,” Oscar muttered, already turning around. “Be back in a sec.”

He jogged back down the corridor, pulling the textbook from his bag as he went, its familiar weight grounding him. He slowed as he approached Mr Hamilton’s office — and then froze.

Voices.

Muffled, but clear enough. Recognisable.

That was when the thought hit him, absurd and uncomfortable all at once: Wow. Now I’m stalking her.

Oscar hesitated, fingers tightening around the book. He should walk away. He knew that. He wanted to walk away. But then he heard Mr Hamilton’s tone — softer than usual, edged with something like concern — and something in Oscar stilled.

He edged closer without fully meaning to, his shoulder brushing the doorframe. And then he heard it. The ultimatum. The warning. The finality in Mr Hamilton’s words.

I strongly recommend you get a tutor.

Oscar’s heart dropped.

His hands clenched uselessly at his sides, the textbook suddenly heavy, like it was filled with guilt instead of paper. He hated the way your voice sounded when you replied — quiet, careful, stretched thin. It didn’t match the version of you everyone else seemed to know.

The scrape of a chair snapped him out of it.

Panic flared hot and sharp. He w⁷as too close. If the door opened now, it would be obvious. He started to move, deciding quickly — he’d walk past, circle the building, come back later. You’d be gone by then. No harm done.

But the door opened before he could take two steps.

You came pouring out, head down, breath uneven — and collided straight into him.

The textbook slipped from his hands and hit the floor with a dull thud, but Oscar barely noticed. His attention was entirely on you. On the way you barely looked at him as you whispered an apology, voice shaking. Your eyes were glossy, rimmed with red, and it hit him all at once just how close you were to breaking. 

“I’m so sorry,” you murmured. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t looking—” 

Oscar opened his mouth to say something as he crouched to grab the book, words falling short.

Then you said it.

“Oliver.”

The name landed like a quiet punch to the chest. Something sharp tugged inside him — the familiar, aching reminder that he was forgettable. That even when he was right in front of someone, even when he mattered in a moment like this, he was still just a blur. A placeholder.

“It’s okay,” Oscar said, voice low, cringing as it came out. “I wasn’t watching where I was going either.”

“I— I’ve got to—” You gestured vaguely down the hall, already stepping away. “Sorry. Again.”

He swallowed it down and looked up just in time to see you already pulling away, brushing past him like you couldn’t get away fast enough. Oscar opened his mouth, words scrambling uselessly on his tongue — but you were already gone, almost running down the hallway.

He crouched there for a second too long, heart racing, watching the space you’d left behind.

He wanted to go after you. Wanted to stop you, to tell you he understood, to promise you that everything would work out somehow. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it would be a lie.

After dropping the textbook off — barely managing more than a mumbled explanation to Mr Hamilton — Oscar lingered in the hallway. He leaned against the wall, pretending to scroll through his phone, waiting. Hoping.

Maybe this would be his chance. Maybe he could fix it. Maybe you’d come back and he could finally make you see him — really see him.

But you didn’t.

A message buzzed on his phone.

[11:52am] Logan: Did you get lost or something? Where are you?

Oscar sighed, pushing off the wall. Whatever momentum he’d imagined drained out of him as he typed a quick reply and headed out to meet his friend.

Later that night, Oscar sat cross-legged on Logan’s bed, the cardboard box from their pizza slumped open beside him, grease staining the lid. He wasn’t eating anymore. He was just staring at the slice in his hand like it had personally wronged him.

He couldn’t focus. Your face kept replaying in his mind — the way your confidence had cracked, the way you’d run like something was chasing you. He couldn’t reconcile that version of you with the one everyone else seemed to know. The one from Instagram. The one from class.

And he definitely couldn’t shake Mr Hamilton’s words.

I strongly recommend you get a tutor.

He took a bite of the slice of pizza, chewing absentmindedly as a thought began to form. Slow at first. Dangerous.

Sure, he wanted to help you. That part was real — kindness stitched into his bones whether he liked it or not. But there was something else there too, something he didn’t want to examine too closely.

He wanted to be close to you. He wanted to understand how someone could be surrounded by people and still sound so alone.

He wanted — just once — not to be invisible.

And Logan noticed.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he said, lowering his phone and squinting at Oscar. “The staring-into-space-like-you’re-about-to-make-a-bad-decision thing.”

Oscar huffed out a breath. “I’m thinking.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

Oscar shot him a look, but it didn’t hold any heat. He dropped the slice back into the box and wiped his hands on his jeans. “She’s going to fail.”

Logan frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“I heard Hamilton,” Oscar said quietly. “He’s serious. Like — out serious. If she bombs that exam, she’s done.”

Logan sighed and shifted closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Okay. And how is that your problem?”

Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“Because I can help,” he said eventually. “I’m good at this stuff. You know I am.”

“I know,” Logan said carefully. “That’s not the part I’m questioning.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. “Then what is?”

Logan hesitated, watching him for a moment too long. “Mate, you don’t go into something like this thinking it’s just tutoring.”

Oscar frowned. “I didn’t say it was.”

“You don’t have to,” Logan said. “I can see it.”

Oscar scoffed. “You’re reading into it.”

“I’m reading you,” Logan corrected gently. “You’re not offering help. You’re probably rearranging your life around her.”

Oscar looked away.

Logan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’ve been in love with her since first year. You follow her like she’s a bloody constellation.”

Oscar went very still.

“I’m not saying that to be a dick,” Logan continued, softer now. “I’m saying it because I know how you work. You don’t do halves. You don’t step in unless you’re already too far gone.”

Oscar picked at the seam of his jeans. “I just don’t want her to fail.”

“And I believe you,” Logan said. “I really do.” Then, quieter: “I just don’t think that’s all you want.”

Silence filled the room.

“You help her,” Logan went on gently. “You stay up late explaining graphs and formulas. You show up when no one else does. And then she passes.”

Oscar swallowed hard.

“And then,” Logan said, voice careful now, “whatever this is ends. Because it was never really meant to last.”

Oscar’s fingers curled into his jeans.

“And you’re left standing exactly where you started,” Logan finished. “Only this time, it hurts more.”

A long beat.

Oscar’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“What if it doesn’t end like that?”

Logan snorted softly. “You’re really going with the movie logic here?”

Oscar looked up. His eyes were bright — not foolish, just hopeful. “Why not?”

“Because this isn’t a movie,” Logan said. “This is real life. And real life doesn’t do grand gestures and tutoring turning into true love.”

Oscar’s lips twitched. “Sometimes it does.”

Logan sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” Oscar said. “But think about it. She’s not like the others. She’s not mean. She’s not shallow. She’s just… tired. I saw it today, Logan. She looked terrified.”

“And that makes you want to save her?”

“No,” Oscar said quickly. “It makes me want to stand next to her. Just for a bit.”

Logan studied him for a long moment. “And what? You’re going to ask her to pretend to date you in exchange for some tutoring or something?”

Oscar grimaced. “I mean, it’s not a terrible idea. Probably a bit stupid but—”

“Probably?”

“Logan,” Oscar said, frustration creeping into his voice. “I don’t want to be famous. I don’t want to be someone else. I just want proof I existed here. And she can give me that, everyone knows who she is.”

Logan’s expression cracked at that.

“And yeah,” Oscar added, quieter now, “maybe part of me hopes that if she actually sees me, she might fall in love. Is that so terrible?”

Logan rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not terrible. It’s just dangerous.”

Oscar nodded. “I know.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because if I don’t try,” Oscar said, voice steady despite the fear underneath, “I already know how the story ends.”

Logan leaned back, exhaling slowly. “You’re going to get your heart broken.”

“Probably,” Oscar admitted. “But at least I’ll have had one chapter where I mattered.”

Logan shook his head, then reached out and clapped a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “You say that like it’s news.”

“Promise me something,” Logan said.

“What?”

“If she says no, you drop it. You don’t push. You don’t martyr yourself.”

Oscar met his eyes. “I promise.”

“And if she says yes?”

Oscar’s smile grew, small and hopeful and terrifying. “Then maybe — just maybe — this time, the movie logic works.”

Logan groaned. “I hate that I can’t stop you.”

Oscar laughed softly. “You love me.”

“I do,” Logan said. “That’s the problem.”

That night, sleep refused to come. Oscar tossed and turned, the ceiling blurring above him as his thoughts spiralled. He replayed your voice, the way it had sounded smaller than he’d ever heard it.

He knew the plan was flawed — outdated, ridiculous, built on too many what-ifs. Not even fully formed yet. He hadn’t even really thought it through, what he would say, how he could say it. But by the time his alarm went off in the early hours of the morning, the decision had settled deep in his chest.

He wanted to be close to you. He wanted a taste of your life. He wanted to be seen. You had something he wanted, and he had something you needed.

And so, that was how he found himself approaching you the next morning.

Oscar barely paused to think. He rushed through his routine, grabbed his nicest plaid shirt, tugged it on without checking the mirror properly, and bolted from his apartment. He cut across campus, ignored the bench where he and Logan usually met, and headed straight for the library.

It was a long shot. An educated guess.

But something in his gut told him he was right.

The library was quiet in the way only libraries ever were — not silent, but held. Breath-muted. Reverent. The kind of quiet that made Oscar acutely aware of the sound of his own footsteps as he crossed the threshold, his trainers squeaking softly against the polished floor.

He paused just inside the doors.

There you were.

You sat tucked into the far corner, exactly where he’d hoped you’d be and exactly where he’d been afraid you wouldn’t. Books were spread across the table in front of you in untidy stacks, highlighters and pens scattered between them like you’d lost a small battle and refused to admit defeat. Your head was bowed, hair falling forward as you scribbled something into your notebook, brow furrowed in concentration.

Oscar’s chest tightened.

He could leave.

The thought came easily, seductively. He could turn around, walk straight back out, tell himself it had been a stupid idea fuelled by too little sleep and too much wishful thinking. He was good at leaving before he was noticed. He’d built a life around it.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.

If he walked away now, nothing would change.

The familiarity of that nearly stopped him.

Oscar took a slow breath, then another, grounding himself the way he did before exams or presentations — feet planted, shoulders back, count to three.

Just say hello, he told himself. That’s it. You don’t need a plan. You don’t need to be clever.

He started forward, heart thudding so loudly he was sure someone would hear it.

Halfway across the room, he faltered.

What if you didn’t remember him? What if you did — as Oliver? What if you looked up and saw him the way everyone else did: briefly, vaguely, forgettable?

He slowed again, coming to a stop a few steps from your table.

From this close, he could see the dark circles beneath your eyes. The way your pen hovered uncertainly over the page before pressing down, harder than necessary. 

You looked smaller than you did in lecture halls. Less untouchable.

Human.

That tipped something in him.

Oscar reached out, then stopped himself, fingers curling back into his palm. He didn’t want to startle you. Didn’t want to intrude.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Nothing.

Of course.

He watched as you scribbled another note, completely absorbed, earphones tucked into your ears. The wire disappeared beneath your jumper, a small, mundane detail that made his heart stutter.

He almost laughed. Of course you hadn’t heard him. Of course it wasn’t that simple.

Clearing his throat, Oscar stepped closer, close enough now that retreat felt impossible. He hesitated one last time, then lifted his hand and tapped your shoulder — gentle, brief, like he was afraid you might shatter.

You startled, gasping softly as you yanked one earphone free, eyes wide as you looked up at him.

For a moment, Oscar forgot how to breathe.

Up close, you were overwhelming — not in a dramatic way, not in the polished, Instagram-perfect sense. Just real. Your lashes fluttered as you blinked, confusion giving way to recognition that wasn’t quite there yet.

“Sorry,” he blurted out. “I— I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You stared at him for a second longer, then your expression softened. “It’s okay,” you said. “I was miles away.”

Oscar nodded, words tangling in his throat. He hadn’t planned for this part — the standing, the looking, the terrifying possibility that this was it. That whatever happened next would ripple outward.

“I, um,” he started, then stopped. Tried again. “We have microeconomics together.”

Your brow creased slightly. Then— “Yeah,” you said slowly. “We do. Oliver, right?”

Hope flared in his chest, reckless and bright. Followed by a tinge of disappointment — and then the looming realisation that you didn’t know him and that this could backfire in his face.

“Actually— I’m Oscar,” he added quickly, as if afraid the moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t anchor it. “I sit near the front. Usually.”

You smiled, small but genuine. “Right. Hi. Sorry, that was rude of me, I should know your name.”

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

Oscar swallowed, nerves buzzing beneath his skin. “No honestly it’s fine, I mean—,” He gestured vaguely to the empty chair across from you. “Do you mind if I sit? If not, that’s totally fine, I just—”

“Yeah,” you said, surprising him. “Sure.”

He sat. The chair scraped softly against the floor, loud in the quiet room. Oscar placed his bag at his feet, hands resting awkwardly on the table like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

And then, somehow, impossibly, Oscar realised he hadn’t run.

He became acutely aware of how close he was to you now — not physically, but in a way that made his chest feel too tight. He could smell your shampoo, something clean and familiar, and it made his thoughts scatter.

“So,” you said eventually, tapping the edge of your notebook with your pen. “What’s up?”

There it was. The opening.

Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I—” He exhaled slowly, gaze dropping to the books spread in front of you. “I heard Mr Hamilton talking yesterday.”

Your pen stilled. “I didn’t mean to,” he added quickly, panic flaring. “I was returning a textbook, I swear. I wasn’t… listening. Not on purpose.”

You didn’t look at him. “What did you hear?”

Oscar hesitated, then chose honesty. “That you’re struggling. And that he wants you to get a tutor. Not much else, I promise.”

Your shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly, like you’d braced for impact.

“I don’t need help,” you said, a beat too fast.

Oscar nodded, accepting the lie without calling it out. “Okay.”

He meant it. He really did. He wasn’t here to corner you. But something in him twisted at the thought of leaving it there.

“I just—” He rubbed his palms together beneath the table. “You don’t look like someone who’s lazy. Or careless. You look like someone who’s exhausted. We’ve shared classes for three years, I know you know this stuff, I just—”

That made you look at him. Your eyes were sharp, guarded, but there was something else there too — relief, maybe. Or recognition.

“—I’m good at micro,” Oscar continued, softer now. “Like annoyingly good. It’s kind of my thing.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

“I could help,” he said. “If you wanted. No pressure.”

You studied him for a long moment. “Why?”

The question landed heavier than he expected. Oscar searched for the easy answer — the casual one, the one that would let him retreat if needed. But none of them felt true. He didn’t want to lie to you.

“Because you need it and I don't think you deserve to fail,” he said finally.

You looked back down at your notes, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I don’t really have time for tutoring.”

“I know,” Oscar said. “That’s kind of the problem.”

That earned him a huff of laughter. He took it as permission to keep going.

“I’m not saying you have to decide anything now,” he said. “We could just try one session. See if it helps.”

You hesitated. “And that’s it?”

Oscar nodded. “That’s it.” It wasn’t. Not really. But he wasn’t ready to say the rest yet.

You sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. “I can’t fail this class.”

The words were barely above a whisper, but they cracked something open between you.

Oscar leaned forward, voice gentle. “Then don’t.”

You laughed weakly. “That’s not how it works.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Silence settled again — heavier this time, charged. It was then — only then — that Oscar felt the other truth press against his ribs, demanding to be acknowledged. The selfish one. The terrifying one.

He swallowed. “There is one more thing,” he said carefully.

You looked up. “I knew there was.”

Oscar winced. “Yeah. Sorry.”

He took a breath, steadying himself. “This is the part where you’re allowed to walk away.”

“I’m tired,” he said finally. “Like — bone-deep tired. Of being overlooked. Of people thinking I’m Oliver or… nothing at all. I’ve been in classes with the same people for three years and I could disappear tomorrow and half of them wouldn’t notice.”

You grimaced as your fingers stilled against the edge of the table.

“I do everything right,” he went on, words spilling faster now, like if he stopped they’d choke him. “I show up. I work hard. I help people when they ask. And I still feel like I’m watching my life happen from the outside,” He let out a short, humourless laugh. “Which is ironic, because everyone thinks you have it all.”

You stiffened slightly at that.

“I don’t want to be famous,” Oscar added quickly, panic flashing across his face. “I don’t need thousands of followers or parties or— God, I don’t even like parties that much. I just want to matter. To someone. To anyone.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“And where do I come in?” you asked quietly.

Oscar hesitated, then met your eyes - really met them.

“You’re visible,” he said. “When you walk into a room, people notice. They listen. They remember you. And I know that’s probably exhausting and not as shiny as it looks, but—” He shrugged helplessly. “I thought maybe if we— hung out, or like pretended to date, just for a little while, some of that visibility might rub off.”

Your brows knit together. “Pretend?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Very much pretend. No expectations, no pressure. Public appearances, maybe sitting together in class, people seeing us together and connecting the dots.”

“And in return?” you prompted.

“I tutor you,” he said. “Properly. As much as you need. I help you pass the exam, keep you here, stop you from having to go back to a place you don’t want to be.”

That landed. Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

Oscar noticed immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I shouldn’t have assumed. I just— when you left his office, you looked like the ground had been ripped out from under you. I’ve seen that look before. I wear it.”

You exhaled slowly, staring down at your hands. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know what it feels like to build a version of yourself and be terrified it’ll collapse,” he said. “I know what it’s like to feel like if this doesn’t work, everything you ran from will catch up to you.”

Your head snapped up.

Oscar flushed. “Sorry. That was — too much. I know I sound weird and I’m bad at moderation.” A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Not loud. Not manic. Just surprised.

“You’re not weird,” you said after a beat. “Or— maybe you are. But not in a bad way.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ll take that.”

“But why me?” you asked. “Why not someone else? Someone less — complicated.”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Because I already see you.”

That did it.

Your chest ached — not painfully, but deeply, like something old and bruised had been touched.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you said honestly. “I don’t know if I can fake anything else right now.”

“You don’t have to fake me,” Oscar said quickly. “Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking. No pressure. If you say no, I’ll walk away. No hard feelings. I'll still tutor you,” He slid his phone across the table. “Here. My number. In case you decide you want help — deal or no deal.”

You stared at it for a long moment before taking your own phone and handing it to him instead.

“Put it in,” you said quietly. “I’ll think about it.”

Oscar smiled — small, hopeful, terrified.

“I’ll wait,” he said.

~~

Your mind had been working overtime since Oscar caught you off guard and proposed his elaborate deal. That was a Wednesday. It was now Friday, and it felt as though your thoughts hadn’t slowed once since. You replayed the moment over and over, each detail refusing to dull with time. The way he had sat there, awkward and hopeful all at once. The way his voice had wavered when he spoke, as though admitting the truth out loud had cost him something.

You couldn’t stop thinking about how fragile he had seemed. How desperate.

Not in a way that repelled you — in a way that lingered.

It was impossible to concentrate on anything else. Classes blurred together in the background of your mind, lectures dissolving into white noise. Your friends’ voices barely broke through the constant churn of thoughts, their laughter and chatter sounding distant, muffled, like you were underwater. Only Lily had noticed — of course she had.

You hadn’t found the bravery to tell her about Mr Hamilton’s ultimatum. And you definitely weren’t going to tell her about Oscar’s deal.

Lily could read you like a book. She always had. She didn’t push or prod, didn’t ask questions you clearly weren’t ready to answer. Instead, she made sure you knew where she was — nudging your foot under the table, meeting your eyes, offering quiet reassurance without words. She let you know, without saying it, that she was there. That she always would be.

It might have brought a tear to your eye — if your thoughts weren’t still circling him.

Oscar.

The way he had opened up to you so easily, telling you things most people kept buried, all when you barely knew his name. There had been no bravado, no arrogance. Just honesty spilling out of him, unpolished and raw. He didn’t know how much it had affected you. You hadn’t told him. You didn’t think you could.

But you understood him. He didn’t know that either.

You understood what it felt like to be invisible, to fade into the background while everyone else seemed to take up space so effortlessly. You knew what it was like to feel forgotten, overlooked, misnamed. To work so hard just to be seen. You had seen it in his eyes — the desperation, the exhaustion, the quiet hope threaded through his words.

He seemed sweet. Genuine. Kind in a way that didn’t feel performative.

And beneath it all, there was something else. Something crackling just under the surface. A tension you couldn’t quite name, a pull you hadn’t expected. Something that made you look twice — and then keep looking.

Sitting at the lunch table, you pushed your salad around with your fork before eventually setting it down. Your appetite had disappeared days ago. You let out a slow breath, shoulders sagging as Lily caught your eye.

It was one of the rare days you shared lunch together — the rest of your friend group scattered across campus, tied up in other electives and commitments.

“What’s up?” Lily asked, finishing the last of her lunch.

You hesitated, fingers twisting together beneath the table. “Do you know an Oscar?”

Lily paused. “Oscar? Maybe. What’s his surname?”

You grimaced, your stomach twisting when you realised you didn’t know. “I don’t know.”

She raised a brow but didn’t comment. “Well, there’s a guy in my class — the cute one I told you about, Alex? He’s friends with a guy called Oscar. Pastr-something. I’m pretty sure he said he’s studying Economics.”

Your heart skipped, just slightly. Annoyingly.

“Do you know anything about him?”

Lily hummed, studying you carefully now. “Not really. But I can ask. I’ll see Alex this afternoon.” She tilted her head. “Why?”

“No reason,” you said softly, too quickly.

“Unusual,” Lily replied, but she let it go, tearing her gaze away from you. She always knew when to stop pushing.

You picked at your lunch until the bell rang, your thoughts still spiralling long after Lily stood to throw her trash away. By the time you made it back to the library, indecision had been replaced with something heavier. Steadier. Determination.

You needed to study. You had to.

Carla had laughed when you told her where you were headed, waving you off with her manicured nails and calling you a square — as though her vocabulary was limited to the one word. You felt frustration bubble in your chest, hot and sharp, but you swallowed it down. You always did.

Still, your thoughts drifted back to him.

You wanted to grab Oscar by the shoulders and shake him, tell him it wasn’t worth it. That popularity was damaging. Dangerous. That being invisible was safer. Easier.

But even as the thought crossed your mind, you knew it was a lie.

Because you had reinvented yourself to come here. Changed the way you dressed, the way you spoke, the way you laughed. You had become someone else entirely just to survive in this world.

Just like he wanted to.

You flipped open your textbook, eyes scanning the page, searching for something — anything — to make sense. But the words refused to stick. The formulas blurred, meaningless symbols mocking you from the page. What used to come so easily now felt impossible.

Defeated. Frustrated. Pathetic. The feelings crowded in all at once.

You dropped your head onto the table with a groan, on the verge of giving up entirely, when your phone buzzed beside your elbow.

Lily.

“Save me,” you sang as you answered, her laugh warm on the other end.

“Studying again?”

“Trying to. Failing.”

“Well,” she said lightly, “I got some more information for you. About that guy you asked about.”

You straightened instantly, pulse quickening. “Yeah?”

“So Alex says he’s a good guy. Smart. Kind of quiet, but sweet. He hangs around with some of Alex’s friends, but he always seems stuck in his own head.”

You swallowed. “And?”

“And what?”

“Well,” you huffed, “is he a sociopath? A deranged psycho?”

“No,” Lily laughed. “He’s just nice. Alex says he thinks a lot of him.”

Nice. The word landed heavier than it should have. Something in your chest loosened — just enough to scare you.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“Anytime. You still coming to Jimmy’s party tonight?”

“Yeah,” you replied softly. “I’ll see you at home.”

When the call ended, the decision settled heavy but steady in your chest.

Oscar was a nice guy. Honest. Genuine. And more importantly — he cared. He cared about helping you. He wouldn’t flake. He wouldn’t disappear when things got hard.

You loved Lily more than anything — but she couldn’t tutor you. She couldn’t save you from failing. She couldn’t fix this.

But maybe Oscar could.

And for the first time since Mr Hamilton’s office, you felt like you weren’t entirely alone.

It was decided.

You shoved your textbooks into your bag and slung it over your shoulder. Mr Hamilton’s class didn’t start for another twenty minutes, but you knew Oscar would already be there. He always was — front row, notebook open, waiting while everyone else filtered in.

Not that you’d really noticed before. Had you?

On a mission, you waved off familiar faces as you marched toward the lecture hall, determination in every step. You pushed open the door — and there he was.

Oscar. Front row. Notebook open. Exactly where you knew he’d be.

“Oscar,” you called, his head snapping up, a blush blooming across his cheeks. “A word. Outside.”

Ignoring the curious look from the friend beside him, you stepped back into the hallway and waited.

When he appeared, you grabbed his wrist without thinking and dragged him down the hall, past his protests, to the nearest bathroom. You shoved the door open, checked that it was empty, locked it. You crossed your arms, leaning back against the sink as you studied him.

Oscar stood there like he didn’t quite know where to put his hands, shifting his weight from foot to foot, eyes flicking between your face and the tiled floor.

“Okay,” you said carefully. “I’ll do it.”

His head snapped up. “You— really?”

“Yes,” you repeated, slower this time. “But not the way you think. And not without rules.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed, though the tension didn’t leave him entirely. If anything, it sharpened — excitement threading through nerves.

“Yeah. Of course. Whatever you want.”

The ease of it made something in your chest tighten. You didn’t want this much say over anyone. You didn’t want to be the person holding the rope — even if part of you recognised how used you were to being pulled by it.

“This isn’t charity,” you said. “And it’s not dating.”

“I know,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “I don’t want to— I mean, I just—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. You softened despite yourself.

“One month,” you said. “That’s it. When I pass the exam, the deal is done. Clean break.”

“Okay,” he nodded. “One month.”

“We can sit together at lunch,” you continued, ticking the rules off on your fingers, “three times a week. Not every day. I don’t want people getting suspicious.”

He frowned slightly. “Only three?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… that’s fine,” he said, though you caught the flicker of disappointment before he masked it. “But maybe— I mean— people will notice more if it’s consistent.”

You eyed him. “No pushing for more.”

“Right. No pushing. Three’s good.”

“And we go to some parties together. Maybe a couple but you don’t disappear halfway through and leave me answering questions.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said immediately. “I promise.”

You believed him — and that was the problem. You told yourself this was temporary. That everything good about it had an end date. You had learned a long time ago that if you didn’t pretend you were leaving first, you’d stay too long and let it ruin you.

“Socials are optional,” you added. “Maybe a post. Maybe a story. I decide.”

“Okay,” he said again, softer now.

You hesitated before continuing. This part mattered.

“No physical stuff,” you said. “No kissing. No hand-holding. No pretending in private. In public we look convincing enough, but when it’s just us? It’s studying. That’s it.”

You said it like it was practical. Like it wasn’t already a rule you suspected you’d lose.

His ears turned pink. “Yeah. Of course. I wasn’t— I didn’t expect—”

“I know I just don't want you to get the wrong idea,” you said quietly.

Silence settled between you. Not awkward — just heavy.

“And the tutoring,” you went on. “After classes. At my place or the library. You help me pass. That’s the whole point. I can’t promise everyone will know you just because you’re with me, but you have to help me pass.”

“That part,” he said, finally meeting your eyes, “I’m serious about. I won’t let you fail.”

Something in his voice — steady, certain — did something traitorous to your chest. You hated how easily he made you feel safe.

“I know,” you replied.

He inhaled, slow and shaky. “And— the dating part. It’s just— for visibility. So people know I exist. I don't— I don't expect anything from you. I just want to feel like I matter.”

Wanting to matter was never a small thing. Once you got a taste of it, it rewired you.

You nodded. “I get it.”

He laughed softly, humourless. “I don’t think you do. Not really. But thank you. For even considering this.”

You studied him then — really looked. At the nervous hope written across his face. At the way he stood like this moment could either save or break him.

“You’re not doing this alone,” you said. “And you’re not allowed to get hurt and pretend it’s fine.”

He blinked. “What?”

“If this stops feeling okay,” you continued, “we stop. No questions. No guilt.”

His throat bobbed. “Deal.”

“And Oscar?”

“Yeah?”

“This isn’t dating,” you repeated gently. “It’s a favour. You get what you want. I get what I need.”

He smiled — small, sincere, a little sad. “Yeah. I know.”

Neither of you moved for a moment.

Then—

“Jimmy’s having a party tonight,” you said. “Eight o’clock. Pick me up, I'll text you my address.”

His eyes widened. “Tonight?”

“If we’re doing this,” you said, reaching for the door, “we’re not easing in. Oh— and one last thing. This stays between us,” you said firmly. “Because the second people find out it’s fake, we’re both done — you’ll be a joke, and I’ll be a liar.”

He nodded immediately — too fast — like he hadn’t considered what secrecy costs when one of you stops wanting to hide.

As you left him standing there, stunned and hopeful all at once, you couldn’t ignore the thought settling deep in your chest:

This deal was going to change everything.

He wanted what you’d spent years building — and years quietly hating. And the worst part was knowing you’d give it to him anyway.

~~

You had no idea why you were nervous. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been to a party like this before. Hell, it wasn’t even like you hadn’t been to a party with someone as a date before. You’d done this routine more times than you could count — the pre-drinks, the laughing, the polite exits before things got too messy.

Maybe it was because you knew, deep down, that this was all fake. Maybe it was because you were scared of having to perform another version of yourself — one more mask layered over the rest.

Either way, your stomach twisted violently as you took one last look in the mirror, smoothing down your dress, checking your reflection twice. You looked good. You knew that. Still, anxiety coiled tight beneath your ribs, refusing to loosen its grip.

It was just a kick-back. Nothing fancy. You attended at least one a week, doing the rounds with Lily before you’d both sneak off while everyone else got wasted.

But there was something about tonight — something charged in the air — that made your pulse race and left the anxiety clawing its way through your body.

There was a soft knock at your door before Lily pushed it open, peeking her head around the frame.

“You look gorgeous, are you sure you don’t want me to wait and come with you?” she asked sweetly.

Biting down on your lip, you smoothed your hands over the fabric of your dress, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. “No it’s fine, I just— It’ll be fine,” you said quietly.

“Okay,” Lily paused — only for a second — before her face split into a grin. “I’ve never seen you this nervous for a date before? Oscar, was it?”

“It’s not like that, Lils,” you said quickly, even as your heart betrayed you by jumping. 

You trusted Lily. She would never let this slip. But still, there was something lodged deep in your chest that resisted naming what this was. Not yet. Curiosity felt safer than truth.

“I can’t believe you’re ditching me for a boy,” she giggled, then softened. “Well, I’ll go catch up with the other girls. I guess I’ll see you there?”

She gave you a small wave before slipping out, the door clicking shut behind her. You exhaled slowly, tension leaving your shoulders in increments, before turning back to the mirror.

You didn’t recognise the girl staring back at you — not entirely. And that scared you more than the party ever could.

When the clock struck eight — as if on cue — there was a knock at the front door.

You were still adding a final layer of gloss to your lips when you heard it. Your heart kicked up, sharp and sudden. You capped the tube and moved quickly, opening the door before you could second-guess yourself.

And there stood Oscar.

A soft smile rested on his face, tentative but genuine. His brown hair had clearly been styled — though it looked like he’d raked his hands through it one too many times before giving up. He wore a blue linen shirt, neatly pressed with visible creases down the front. Black pants hugged his legs, the shirt tucked in carefully, finished with a cream blazer draped over his shoulders.

And your heart did something traitorous as you took him in.

In his hand was a small bunch of flowers.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you replied.

“Oh, er- these are for you,” he said, holding them out. “They’re hydrangeas. They symbolise thanks, so I thought—”

You laughed softly — not mocking, just surprised. Warm. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

You took them from his hand, fingers brushing briefly. No one had ever bought you flowers before. Not dates. Not even your parents. You ignored the way your heart leapt at the gesture.

“So,” Oscar asked, clearing his throat, “are you ready to go?”

“Oh— er—” You lifted your gaze from the flowers to his face, tilting your head as you assessed him. “Before we go, I don’t want to sound rude, but—” Your lips twitched. “You look— Sweet but— right. Come with me.”

Without waiting, you wrapped your free hand around his wrist and tugged him inside, guiding him toward your room. You placed the flowers gently on your bedside table, making a mental note to put them in water later.

Turning back to him, you planted your hands on your hips.

“So, I think I need to put a few more rules in place before we do this.”

Oscar looked at you, confusion flickering across his face — but no resistance.

“You want to be seen, right?” you continued. “Then you need to look like you don’t care. And right now— well, you look adorable. But that’s not what we’re going for.”

You missed the way his cheeks flushed as you stepped closer, lifting your hands to his hair. Your fingers threaded through the soft strands, pushing it back from his forehead, deliberately mussing it around his ears.

“You want to look like you made no effort,” you said lightly, “even though it takes a lot of effort to get there.”

Your eyes flicked down to his, lingering a beat too long. Something twisted low in your stomach as the air between you thickened. A breath passed before you reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it free.

“No one tucks their shirt in anymore unless they’re at a wedding.” This definitely counted as physical contact. You chose not to care.

You smoothed out the creases as best you could, then lifted your hands to slide the blazer from his shoulders.

“And this has to go.”

You folded it neatly and placed it on your bed.

“There we go,” you grinned. “Job done. Are you ready?”

Oscar nodded.

You grabbed your bag. “Let’s go.”

Jimmy was an engineering major — and a popular one at that. Renowned for his parties, always hosted in his off-campus townhouse. Jimmy was the kind of person everyone knew, everyone envied. An invite to one of his parties was sacred.

You swallowed your anxiety as you made your way up the cobbled path, Oscar trailing just behind you. Neither of you spoke much on the walk over — the silence wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either. By the time the music pulsed through the night air, your palms were slick with sweat.

At the door, bass thudding behind the wood, the smell of smoke and alcohol already thick, you turned on your heel to face him.

“Ready? Just stay with me. People are going to ask a lot of questions. The less you say, the better it gets, okay?”

He nodded, mirroring your movements. You muttered a soft “good luck” and turned the handle.

Bodies filled the townhouse — pressed together, loud, pulsing with energy. Music vibrated through your bones as you squeezed inside, Oscar close behind. You felt the stares before you saw them. Murmurs followed you like static, invisible but unmistakable.

You guided him toward the kitchen — slightly quieter, though still overcrowded.

Jimmy stood by the island pouring himself another drink, Carla draped at his side, crooning over him. Your friends clustered nearby, laughter spilling freely. Lily was pressed into a corner mid-conversation, but the moment she saw you, she broke away and wrapped you in a hug.

“Finally, I was thinking you had ditched us,” she sang, alcohol lacing her voice. She pulled back and smiled warmly at Oscar. “Hi, I’m Lily.”

“Oh— hi, yeah. Alex talks about you a lot,” Oscar said, before his face flushed crimson. He visibly cringed at himself, but Lily just laughed.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” She linked her arm through yours. “Come get a drink.”

As you poured yourselves one, you felt it — the weight of Carla’s stare. When you finally looked up, her sneer was already in place.

“Who’s the square?” she drawled, laughter rippling around her.

Your eyes snapped up. You rolled them and pressed a hand against Oscar’s arm — grounding him, anchoring yourself. Warmth bloomed beneath your palm.

“This is Oscar. He’s my date,” you said sharply. You wanted to slap the smirk from Carla’s face. For the way she dismissed him. For how quickly she decided who mattered.

But this was what Oscar wanted.

“I’ve never seen you around. Are you new?” Another friend, James, asked as he leaned across the counter.

“Er, no. I’ve been here for three years.” His voice was quiet. Nearly swallowed by the noise. Something protective curled in your chest as you looped your arm through his, pulling him closer.

“He’s really smart, in our micro class” you said lightly. “I’ve had my eye on him for a while, but he’s only just given me the time of day.”

Interest sparked instantly. Heads turned. Carla scoffed.

“Oh, cool,” she sneered. “Does Oscar want a tour?”

“He’s fine. He’s not a realtor,” you shot back, tugging Oscar toward the living room. “We’re going to dance.”

As you disappeared into the crowd, the murmurs followed.

It had already started.

And it twisted something ugly in your stomach — the knowledge that this attention, this validation, was exactly what he’d wanted.

You just hadn’t expected it to hurt so quickly.

~~

Oscar had a lot more fun at Jimmy’s party than he ever thought he would. Not only did he get to spend the night pretending he was even on the same level as you, but somehow, beneath all that, he actually enjoyed himself. 

People talked to him — really talked to him — asked his name, asked if they’d met before, laughed at the things he said. He could feel their eyes on him when you both took to the dance floor, feel the subtle shift in the room when you stood beside him. He noticed the way their breath hitched every time you touched his arm, like your attention validated his existence.

It felt like you were golden — like everything you touched turned brighter, better, more desirable. And he had somehow been caught in the crossfire — warm for now, but impossible to stand in forever.

And maybe — just maybe — you’d had fun too.

You laughed. Properly laughed. You tipped your head back at his jokes, the sound spilling freely from your lips, unguarded and real. As the night wore on, you pressed closer, your body warm against his, his hands settling at your back as naturally as if they belonged there. He’d been careful not to push his luck, terrified of doing anything that might make you uncomfortable. But you never recoiled. Never stepped away.

So he stayed where he was. He told himself he was just following your lead.

He woke the next morning with his phone buzzing incessantly and a dull ache blooming behind his eyes. Oscar couldn’t remember the last time he’d drunk alcohol — even if it had only been a few cups of warm, questionable liquor — but the discomfort didn’t bother him. None of it did. A smile was already etched across his face as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and reached for his phone, blinking himself fully awake.

When he unlocked the screen, the sheer number of notifications almost made him drop it.

Follow requests. Tags in photos — photos where his face was actually visible, unmistakably his. Messages from people he barely knew. People who suddenly knew him.

But beneath it all was an upload from you. A picture of the three of you — you and him standing side by side, Lily’s arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders. You looked effortless. Familiar. Like you belonged together.

Oscar let out a laugh, fist-pumping the air as he scrolled, giddy in a way he didn’t quite recognise. For once, the world was looking back at him.

He was so caught up in it that he almost missed his phone lighting up again.

Logan was calling.

Oh. Shit.

Oscar answered quickly, pressing the phone to his ear. “Mate, listen—”

“Where were you last night?” Logan cut in. His voice carried irritation — but underneath it, something closer to disappointment. “We waited for you. I called you like ten times, you weren’t answering your phone.”

Guilt flickered through Oscar’s chest. He really had forgotten. “I’m sorry, I was— I mean, you won’t believe it but I—”

“Was at Jimmy’s party,” Logan interrupted. “Yeah. We saw. You were all over everyone’s socials.”

Oscar hesitated, then couldn’t help himself. “Can you believe it? Jimmy even asked if I wanted to go golfing today, can you picture it, me, Jimmy golfing— .”

“Yeah,” Logan said flatly. “Real happy for you, man. Could’ve saved us waiting all night with a text.”

“Shit,” Oscar muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I really am sorry.”

There was a pause. Logan sighed on the other end. “Yeah. I get it. Are we still going to the movies tomorrow?”

Oscar opened his mouth — then faltered. “Oh. Well. Actually, the guys asked—”

“The guys?” Logan scoffed, and Oscar felt the words land heavier than they should have. “Yeah. Alright, Oscar. Just forget it.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—” Oscar started, but the line went dead before he could finish.

He stared at his phone, his smile faltering just slightly. A weight settled in his chest — uncomfortable, unfamiliar. He considered calling Logan back. Even typed out a message.

Then his screen lit up again.

[1 new message] jimmyafterdark: Sick nite. Didn’t kno u were cool like that. Still up for golf? 3pm?

The weight loosened. The guilt dulled.

Oscar smiled despite himself, pushing out of bed as his phone continued to buzz with new notifications. Requests. Invitations. Messages that made his name feel solid in his hands. He let himself fall back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling as the glow of his screen reflected in his eyes.

His thoughts drifted, inevitably, back to you — to the way you’d looked at him, the way you’d stood beside him like it was natural.

Like it was real.

The weekend flew by in a blur. Oscar had never had so many plans, so little time alone. Normally, he’d spend his weekends studying, hanging out with Logan and the others, maybe heading home if boredom won out.

But this weekend? Golf with Jimmy and the guys. Bars. Late nights. Conversations where people leaned in to listen when he spoke. Carla even asked him to go to the movies — something that would’ve once left him speechless — but he declined. Even as a fake boyfriend, he wanted to be a good one.

He couldn’t even wrap his head around how quickly it all had happened, the effect of just being seen with you. He didn’t realise until later that being seen had already happened — quietly, without witnesses, without applause.

And he’d mistaken that silence for absence.

You crossed his mind less during the days — not because he didn’t care, but because everything else was suddenly so loud. When you did text, it was brief. Light. You teased him about how good it felt to hear people say his name properly — Oscar, not Oliver — and told him you were happy for him.

You also mentioned drowning in books.

For a moment, he forgot. Forgot what his end of the deal was.

Until Monday afternoon arrived.

And suddenly he was sitting beside you, textbooks spread across the table, ink smudged on his fingers. You wrote as he spoke, your handwriting neat and precise, your attention entirely on him. Oscar had to stop himself from pinching his arm. This felt unreal — like something he’d imagined too many times to trust.

You looked up at him as he explained a concept, eyes wide and earnest, your lips forming a small o when it finally clicked.

Something in his chest stuttered.

You studied for hours. The sun dipped low outside the library windows, golden light filtering through as you stretched, arms raised above your head, muscles rolling with a yawn.

His knee shifted, brushing yours under the desk — accidental, barely there.

You both froze.

Oscar didn’t move away. He didn’t move closer either. Just stayed, breath shallow, eyes fixed very deliberately on the page like if he looked at you, something would tip. You could feel the heat of him, the awareness humming between you, the way silence suddenly meant something else.

When he finally cleared his throat and turned the page, it felt like relief and loss all at once.

“I swear,” you said with a grin, leaning your chin into your palm, “if I hear you say supply and demand one more time, I might throttle you.”

Oscar laughed softly.

Then you tilted your head, studying him. “So tell me, Oscar Piastri — how does it feel to have people notice you?”

He flushed, ears warming as he followed your posture, leaning forward onto his hand.

Over the past few hours, people had approached the table again and again — some for you, but increasingly for him. His phone buzzed on the table beside them, lighting up with another notification. Eventually, you’d both turned your phones to silent.

“It feels good,” he admitted quietly. “Not having to change my name to Oliver anymore is a bonus too. Mum’ll be thrilled.”

You laughed, soft and fond, and his chest lifted at the sound. You watched him closely now — the brightness in his eyes sharper than it had been a week ago, his smile easier. Pride mingled with something else in your chest — something uneasy.

“You know,” you said gently, “I hope you don’t forget who you are in all of this.”

Oscar frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

You exhaled. “The attention. Being wanted. It feels good— until it doesn’t. It can change you if you let it. These people, they're like leeches. They suck everything out of you until you're nothing and then they just throw you to the side. Don't let them change you, Oscar.”

“I won’t,” he said immediately. “I promise.”

“Good,” you replied, holding out your pinky. “Pinky promise?”

He smiled, linking his finger with yours. Neither of you acknowledged the way the simple touch sparked something sharp and electric beneath your skin.

“I promise.”

“You’re a good person, Oscar Piastri,” you said softly. “Don’t ever forget that.”

And he believed you — because nothing had gone wrong yet.

~~

The library is almost empty by the time you both realise how late it’s gotten.

The overhead lights hum softly, half of them already dimmed, the air colder now that the sun’s long gone. Oscar flips another page, pauses, then glances at the clock on his phone.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to keep you this late.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t. I’d still be staring at the same paragraph if you weren’t here.”

He smiles at that — small, pleased, a little shy — and something in your chest tightens unexpectedly.

You pack your things slowly. Too slowly. He does the same. Neither of you quite ready to be the first to stand.

“You okay?” he asks, noticing.

“Yeah,” you say. Then, quieter, “Just… tired.”

He nods like he understands something deeper than that.

When you finally stand, he does too — and for a second you’re too close. Close enough that you can smell his laundry detergent. Close enough that his arm brushes yours, warm through fabric.

Neither of you moves.

Oscar clears his throat. “I can walk you back.”

“Yeah,” you say. Then — without thinking — “I’d like that.”

The walk is quiet. Not awkward. Just full.

At your building, you stop. He stops with you. The city hums behind him — traffic, voices, life — but it all feels distant, muted.

“Thanks,” you say. “For tonight. For… everything.”

He shrugs, uncomfortable with praise. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not,” you say gently.

He looks at you then — really looks — like he wants to say something and doesn’t trust himself to.

“Well,” he says eventually. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nod.

He hesitates. Then, softly: “I like when it’s just us.”

The words settle between you, fragile and dangerous.

You smile like you didn’t hear them — like you don’t need to unpack them right now — and step back.

“Me too,” you say.

You don’t sleep much that night.

The days that followed didn’t feel like a turning point.

They felt normal.

You studied the way you always had — except now Oscar was there, steady and patient, his voice anchoring you when your thoughts ran too fast. Libraries, cafés, quiet corners of campus where time slipped away unnoticed. He still showed up early. Still brought extra pens. Still waited for you to finish sentences instead of rushing ahead.

If anything, he tried harder.

You posted him again — nothing loud, nothing curated. Just fragments of your life that happened to include him. His shoulder in the corner of a frame. His reflection in a café window. A blurry photo of your notes with thanks, tutor scribbled at the top.

People noticed. Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just in small ways that were easy to miss.

Someone waved at him in the hallway. Someone said his name like they’d known it for years. Someone asked if he was going to Jimmy’s next thing — not if he wanted to come, but assuming he already would.

Oscar always looked surprised.

He laughed it off, leaning closer to you, whispering jokes under his breath as if the rest of the world still existed at a distance. When his phone buzzed, he silenced it without looking. When someone interrupted your study sessions, he redirected them easily, politely.

“I’m busy,” he’d say, glancing at you like it was obvious why.

That mattered to you.

It mattered when he walked you home instead of staying longer. When he turned down plans because you had the exam coming up. When he remembered things you didn’t realise you’d told him — your coffee order, the way you liked silence more than noise, how you got overwhelmed when things felt out of control.

The terrifying twist in your stomach didn’t lesson, not even after he promised he wouldn’t change. Because deep down, you knew he would. Because it was like catching fire in your hand, it burned brightly and you wanted to keep chasing it — no matter the cost.

As expected, the change didn’t come in big gestures. It came in seconds.

In the way he hesitated before saying no now, even if he still did. In the way he checked his phone after study sessions instead of ignoring it entirely. In the way conversations lingered around him longer than they used to, pulling at his attention even as he tried to keep it with you.

But despite it all, you kept posting.

Not because you wanted to make him popular — but because he looked happy, and you liked being the one who saw him that way first.

The comments grew warmer. Familiar. People started tagging him without asking. He started recognising names he’d once scrolled past without a second thought.

And still, when it was just the two of you, nothing felt different.

He listened. He showed up. He cared.

That was what made the unease settle quietly in your chest.

Because you could feel something shifting — not away from you, but around him. Like the tide pulling back before anyone noticed the water was moving at all.

Oscar didn’t see it yet.

And you didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like you were afraid of something you didn’t want to admit.

~~

The studying was supposed to be structured.

That was how you justified it at first — colour-coded notes, timed breaks, a strict agenda you wrote at the top of the page like a promise to yourself. You needed this. You needed him. And if you stuck to the plan, you wouldn’t let it turn into something else. You told yourself this was still pretend — and didn’t examine why you needed to say it so often.

Except it kept slipping.

Some afternoons it started with work and ended with laughter you couldn’t trace back to its beginning. Oscar would explain something, hands moving as he spoke, his voice steady and patient, and you’d interrupt him mid-sentence because the way he’d phrased something was ridiculous. He’d laugh, ducking his head, ears turning pink, and suddenly ten minutes were gone. Then twenty. Then the library lights would dim slightly, warning you that the hours were slipping away into night.

You started sitting beside him instead of across the table.

It happened without discussion — one day you just dropped your bag into the chair next to his instead of opposite, your knees brushing when you sat. You didn’t move away. Neither did he.

When you leaned over his notebook to correct a number, your shoulder pressed into his arm, warm and solid. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. It was practical. Easier to see.

Still, you noticed the way his breathing changed.

Some sessions barely felt like studying at all. You’d quiz him on definitions only to end up asking about his childhood, about Logan, about what it was like growing up somewhere smaller than this city.

He asked about you too — carefully, like he was worried about prying — and you found yourself answering anyway. About home. About why failing scared you so badly. About how you’d worked so hard to be here that the idea of losing it made your chest ache.

You didn’t tell him everything. But you told him more than you meant to.

In class, things shifted too.

Oscar stopped sitting at the front row one morning and never went back. He slid into the seat beside you instead, his bag nudging yours, his knee bouncing nervously as though he was still adjusting to the change. When Mr Hamilton asked questions, he glanced at you first — quick, instinctive — before raising his hand. Sometimes you passed notes, childish and unnecessary, little jokes scribbled in the margins of lecture slides.

You started saving him a seat. You told yourself it was nothing.

His clothes changed slowly too — not dramatically enough to notice all at once, but enough that one day you looked at him and realised he didn’t look like he was trying to disappear anymore.

His shirts were softer now, sleeves pushed up instead of buttoned down, his backpack traded for a worn canvas tote. He stopped tucking his shirt in after you’d teased him about it, and the next time you saw him like that, he looked comfortable. Like he expected to be looked at — and didn’t flinch when it happened.

You realised, with a strange mix of pride and unease, that you’d taught him that.

Your room became part of the routine.

At first it was practical — quieter than the library, closer to your notes — but soon it just felt natural.

He’d knock, polite even after weeks of coming over, and you’d pretend not to smile when you opened the door. Sometimes you studied sprawled across the floor, backs against the bed, textbooks forgotten between you as the conversation drifted. Other times you sat close on the edge of the mattress, knees touching, handwriting slowly becoming more confident as the weeks passed.

You started making him tea. Making sure you had his favourite snacks before he came over.

On social media, you broke your own rules without admitting it.

The first post was harmless — a group photo, his face half-turned, caught mid-laugh.

The second was a candid Lily had taken without warning, Oscar leaning toward you, focused, unaware of the camera. By the third, you stopped pretending it wasn’t intentional. You tagged him. You didn’t flinch when people commented. You liked the way his name looked next to yours.

People recognised him on campus.

It didn’t escape you how often his phone buzzed, how he’d silence it during study sessions but glance at the screen when he thought you weren’t looking. You didn’t mind. Not really. You told yourself this was the point.

Being noticed felt like standing under a spotlight — bright, blinding, and strangely lonely. No one could see him properly from this far away.

Logan drifted quietly to the edges.

At first it was just timing — Oscar staying late with you, rescheduling plans, saying he’d catch up another day. Then it became habit.

Logan stopped appearing at the library, popping by to say hello. His name came up less in conversation. Once, Oscar’s phone lit up with Logan’s name while he was explaining something, and he ignored it without comment, continuing as though nothing had happened.

You noticed. You didn’t say anything.

Because you told yourself you weren’t sure what it meant.

Oscar still walked you home. Still waited for you outside class. Still listened when you spoke like every word mattered. And when you looked at him now, bent over your notes, focused and confident and real, you felt something dangerous curl low in your chest.

~~

At some point, studying stops looking like studying.

You’re meant to be going over practice questions, but instead Oscar is tracing something on the margin of your notebook with his pen.

“What are you doing?” you ask, amused.

“Thinking,” he says. “Dangerous, I know.”

You lean closer to see. The pen pauses.

“Don’t move,” he says without looking at you.

“Why?”

“Because if I look up, I’ll forget what I was going to say.”

Your breath catches.

He finishes the shape — a small, stupid doodle — then finally meets your eyes.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

The table is cluttered with coffee cups and highlighters and half-written notes, but none of it feels important. His knee is brushing yours under the table. He hasn’t moved it away.

“You should tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

“Stop what?”

He gestures vaguely. “This. Getting distracted.”

You swallow. “I don’t want to.”

That’s it. That’s the line.

His expression softens — something unguarded flickering across his face — and he nods like he’s just accepted a truth he won’t say out loud.

“Okay,” he says. “Then I won’t.”

Someone walks past the table and glances at you both. Oscar doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care.

Later, when you post a photo of your notes to your story — his handwriting visible beside yours — you don’t tag him.

He reposts it anyway.

You told yourself you could stop anytime. You told yourself this was still pretend.

But somewhere between shared headphones and late-night studying, between inside jokes and the way he looked at you like you were the safest place he knew, the rules stopped feeling solid.

By the time you suggested shortening your studying the day before the exam — just for an hour, just to show him something — you already knew the truth.

You just weren’t ready to say it out loud yet.

The library was too quiet.

Not the comforting kind — the kind that pressed in on your skull, every ticking second a reminder that tomorrow mattered. Your exam loomed like a storm cloud, thick and immovable, and for the first time since you’d made the deal, studying felt impossible.

Oscar noticed before you said anything.

“You’ve read that paragraph four times,” he said gently, tapping the page with his pen. “It’s not sticking, is it?”

You exhaled, closing the book with more force than necessary. “No.”

He didn’t tease you. Didn’t push. Just watched you, patient as ever, waiting for whatever came next.

“I don’t want to study anymore,” you admitted, quieter now. “Not today.”

Oscar blinked. “Okay,” he said easily. “What do you want to do instead?”

That was the thing about him — he never made you justify yourself.

“I want to show you something,” you said. Then, before you could second-guess it, “Come with me.”

You didn’t explain much more. Just closed your notebook, slid it into your bag, and looked at him like the decision had already been made.

Oscar hesitated — instinctively glancing at the clock, at the open pages between you — but then he looked at your face and nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Lead the way.”

The city softened as you left campus.

The closer you got to the tram stop, the quieter everything felt, like the noise of university life was being gently turned down.

Oscar walked beside you, close enough that your arms brushed with each step. You didn’t move away. Neither did he.

When the tram arrived, already crowded, you stepped on first without thinking — and when it lurched forward, he reached out automatically, steadying you with a hand at your elbow.

He didn’t let go right away.

You stood together, swaying slightly with the movement of the tram, bodies angled toward each other by necessity rather than intention. His shoulder was warm through the thin fabric of his shirt, his breath brushing your hair whenever the tram jolted.

You could feel him there in a way that felt different from before — not nervous, not unsure. Present.

“Is this far?” he asked quietly, voice pitched just for you.

“About an hour,” you replied. “Don’t panic.”

He smiled. “I’m not.”

You found seats halfway through the ride, knees turned inward, legs brushing every time the tram curved.

The windows fogged faintly with the shift in temperature, the city blurring past in fragments — cafés, terraces, streets you recognised and streets you didn’t. Oscar watched it all with open curiosity, like he was seeing the place through different eyes now.

“So,” he said, after a while. “Is this part of the syllabus?”

You laughed, soft and surprised. “Very advanced material.”

He grinned, and you noticed how easily he did that now — how little effort it took. It made something in your chest tighten, sharp and fond all at once.

The conversation drifted the way it always did lately. From nothing to something without either of you noticing the shift. He told you about the first exam he’d ever failed, about how he’d pretended not to care even though it had haunted him for months. You told him about the first time you’d almost given up and gone home, about standing in a train station with a suitcase you never ended up unpacking.

He listened like it mattered.

At some point, his knee pressed fully against yours and stayed there. When the tram jolted again, you laughed and grabbed the edge of the seat — and his hand found yours without looking, fingers curling in, steady and sure. It took a second for either of you to realise.

Neither of you moved.

You didn’t comment on it. You just let your thumb rest against his knuckles, the contact light but unmistakable. It felt easy. Too easy. Like this was something you’d been doing longer than you had.

Rules were no longer in sight.

Oscar glanced down eventually, eyes flicking to where your hands were joined. Then back to your face. Something unreadable passed over his expression — surprise, warmth, maybe a little awe — before he squeezed your hand once, gentle.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“Just thinking,” you replied.

“About?”

You looked out the window, the buildings thinning now, the sky opening up ahead. “Whether this was a good idea.”

He smiled softly. “And?”

You turned back to him. Met his eyes. Letting the moment hang.

“I think,” you said, “you’ll understand when we get there.”

He nodded, trusting you without hesitation.

The tram rattled on toward the coast, carrying you farther from the rules you’d written and closer to something you hadn’t planned for — something that felt like relief, like risk, like standing on the edge of something you want to step into and hold onto.

And when the doors finally opened and the salt air rushed in, cool and bracing, Oscar stood first — offering you his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You took it.

The air changed first.

It hit you as soon as you step out — cooler, salt-laced, carrying something restless with it. The city noise thinned out behind you, replaced by the low hush of waves rolling in and retreating again, over and over, like the ocean was breathing.

You don’t say much as you walk.

The footpath opened onto the beach gradually, the sand stretching out in pale, uneven lines beneath a sky caught somewhere between blue and grey. The water looked choppy today — not violent, not calm either. Small waves break and scatter themselves into white foam before they reach the shore, retreating just as quickly as they arrive.

Unsettled. In-between.

You slow without realising it, shoes sinking slightly into the sand. Oscar follows your lead, gaze drifting across the horizon before settling back on you.

“This is where I come,” you say finally. “When everything gets too loud. It’s the only place that still feels like mine.”

The wind tugs at your hair, pressing cool fingers against your skin. You wrap your arms around yourself, more out of instinct than cold.

Oscar doesn’t interrupt. He just stands beside you, hands in his pockets now, letting the silence exist.

You watch the water for a moment, the way it surges forward and then pulls back, never fully committing either way. It feels familiar. Comforting, in a way that hurts.

“It’s not perfect,” you add, quieter now. “Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it feels like it’s about to swallow everything. But it keeps moving. Even when I don’t. It feels like a piece of me.”

Oscar glances at you then, something thoughtful settling into his expression. “I like it,” he says simply.

You smile faintly. Not because it’s beautiful — but because he understands without needing you to explain.

You walk closer to the water, shoes dangling from your fingers now, toes brushing damp sand. The tide creeps in and out, cold and insistent. Oscar sits beside you when you stop, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

For a while, neither of you speak. The sound of the waves fills the space between you, steady and grounding. You breathe it in. Let it settle.

“There’s something so peaceful about being here, especially when I feel like everything’s getting too much,” you said.

Oscar turns slightly toward you, attentive but careful — like he’s afraid of startling you if he moves too fast.

“I didn’t always plan on staying,” you continue. “Coming here, I mean. University. This life.” You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “Back home, everything was small. Predictable. Safe. I thought leaving would fix that, stop me being invisible," You let out a quiet laugh that doesn’t quite land. “It turns out you can change your postcode and still feel exactly the same.”

Oscar opened his mouth — then stopped.

For a second, you thought he might say it. Whatever it was that sat heavy between you, the thing that made his voice softer around you than anyone else. His fingers curled into the sand instead, grounding himself.

“You’re not invisible,” he said finally.

It wasn’t what he’d almost said. You felt it anyway.

Oscar’s voice is gentle when he speaks again, breaking the tension growing thickly between you. “Is that why you’re scared of the exam?”

You nod. “If I fail, that’s it. I go back. And I don’t think I can survive pretending that’s enough for me anymore.”

The wind kicks up, tugging at your clothes, sending a shiver through you. Oscar shrugs out of his jacket without a word and drapes it around your shoulders.

You hesitate — just for a second — before letting it settle there.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “I mean it,” you add, meeting his eyes now. “About you helping me. You didn’t have to. And you don’t take it lightly. I can rely on you. I actually feel like I’m getting back to understanding it all. I’m not as scared about tomorrow as I was— and that’s all because of you.”

Something flickers across his face at that — pride, maybe. Or responsibility.

“Will you wait with me, after the exam?” you ask softly.

“Of course, I promise.” 

You sit in silence again after that, a comfortable one.

“I just— don’t want to,” you say carefully, “be the reason you change.”

He frowns slightly. “Change how?”

You gesture vaguely back toward the city, toward everything that’s been shifting without either of you fully acknowledging it. “This attention. These people. It’s easy to lose yourself in it. I know, because I did.”

He studies you, brow furrowed. “I won’t,” he says quickly. “I promised.”

You believe that he believes it.

“I just don’t want you to forget who you are,” you say. “The person who stayed. Who listened. Who actually cared.”

Oscar’s voice is softer now. “You make it sound like I’m already gone.”

You shake your head. “No. You’re here. That’s why I’m telling you.”

The waves surge forward then, soaking the sand beneath your feet before retreating again. You watch them go, chest tightening with something you don’t have a name for yet.

After a moment, Oscar speaks.“I don’t feel invisible when I’m with you.”

The words land heavier than you expect. He doesn’t say them dramatically — just honestly. Like it’s a fact he’s only just realised himself.

Your throat tightens.

You turn toward him, really look at him — the softened confidence, the warmth, the way he watches you like you’re something steady in a world that keeps shifting.

And that’s when it hits you.

Not like a lightning bolt. Not like panic.

Like the tide creeping up around your ankles, cold and undeniable.

You like him — and the thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

Not as a project. Not as a favour. Not as part of a deal.

You like him in the dangerous, quiet way — the kind that lingers, the kind that stays even when everything else changes.

The ocean rolls in again, closer this time.

You don’t move away.

~~

You couldn’t quite believe how quickly the past month had gone. It had slipped by in a blur — faces, late nights, shared silence, and the constant, humming awareness that everything would change after today. 

Anxiety flushed your skin as you sat in the exam hall, nails tapping softly against the table while you waited for the papers to be handed out. It felt like everything had been counting down to this moment, the ticking clock echoing loud and relentless in your head.

This was it.

You had worked hard — harder than you ever thought you could — clinging to the hours Oscar had spent with you, patient and steady, urging you forward when you wanted to give up. You couldn’t say everything had magically fixed itself, that you were suddenly the person you’d been three years ago. But something had shifted. Not just in your understanding of the material — in you.

Mr Hamilton had promised to grade your paper first. Three p.m. sharp. By then, you’d know whether you’d passed… or whether your life would unravel completely. But that was still hours away. The exam hadn’t even begun.

You’d arrived early — the first one there — surprising even Mr Hamilton as he offered you a brief nod while you found your seat. As students filtered in, you craned your neck, searching instinctively. Logan appeared a few minutes later, offering you a tight-lipped smile before settling into his place.

Oscar was late.

He’d sent you a good luck message that morning — short, sweet — but you hadn’t seen him since last night. You told yourself not to read into it, ignoring the twist in your stomach as the clock crept forward.

Because after today, it would be over.

The deal.

If everything went right, you’d pass, stay here, never have to crawl back to your hometown — a place you’d sworn you wouldn’t return to. But that wasn’t the only reason the thought of today left a sour taste in your mouth.

After the exam, you were supposed to stage a breakup. No more pretending.

Except it hadn’t felt like pretending for a long time.

At first, it had been transactional — simple, mutual benefit. But the closer the deadline crept, the more time you spent together, the more you wished you had time.

Time to stretch things out. Time for him to see the real you — not the curated version you showed the world. You’d let him in slowly. You’d told him your favourite movie saga was Star Wars (the original trilogy, obviously), admitted that your music taste was all over the place and that you only pretended to like what everyone else did.

You’d even shown him your beach — the place that made you feel whole when everything else felt like it was slipping.

Maybe, maybe it didn’t have to end like this.

The thought crept in uninvited as the last few students drifted through the doors. Your anxiety spiked, breath catching when your eyes finally found him — Oscar slipping through the door and rushing into a seat a few rows behind you, hair slightly mussed, chest rising like he’d rushed.

Relief bloomed.

You turned, ready to smile — only to freeze.

Just behind him, a manicured hand looped around his arm.

Carla.

Your hand dropped back to the desk. You faced forward, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes, refusing to let it show.

The exam passed in a haze. You stumbled through some questions, clawed answers free where your mind stalled, but you finished — nothing left blank. When Mr Hamilton finally called time, a collective groan rippled through the hall.

You gathered your things slowly, heart pounding as you glanced over your shoulder. Oscar was still there, a few rows back. You offered a small wave. He returned it — distracted, unsettled — before turning to Carla when she leaned close behind him to say something you couldn’t hear.

Outside the hall, the air felt too bright, too loud.

Students spilled out in clusters, relief and frustration bleeding into one another as laughter and complaints echoed across the steps. You lingered near the doors, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, scanning the crowd.

Oscar appeared shortly after, moving through the crowd, phone in hand.

Your heart lifted — briefly — before you noticed how close Carla stood beside him. Her arm brushed his, fingers lingering just a little too long as she laughed at something on his screen. She noticed you almost instantly.

Her gaze flicked to you, sharp and assessing, before her mouth curved into a slow smile.

You stepped forward, ignoring her gaze.

“Hey,” Oscar said when he spotted you, pushing himself upright. “How do you think it went?”

“I think… okay,” you replied. You waited. For him to step closer. For him to say let’s wait together, like he’d promised when you’d admitted how scared you were.

Instead, Carla looped her arm through his without hesitation.

“God, I’m starving,” she said, tilting her head up at him. “Come on, Osc, milkshakes. I need sugar or I might cry.”

Osc.

The name hit harder than it should have.

You watched Oscar hesitate — just for a second — and in that pause, hope bloomed traitorously in your chest.

He didn’t take it.

“Yeah,” he said, distracted, glancing at you. “Uh— I’ll text you later, yeah?”

Something in you sank.

“You said you’d wait,” you said before you could stop yourself. Your voice came out quieter than you intended, fraying at the edges.

Oscar blinked, genuinely surprised. “I did?”

Your throat tightened. “You said you’d stay. Just until we knew.”

“Oh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing between you and Carla. “I mean, it’s only a couple of hours. I’ll see you later.”

Carla’s smile widened, satisfaction glinting in her eyes as she gave your arm a brief, almost patronising squeeze.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Carla added, squeezing Oscar’s arm. “You’ve worked way too hard to let this be the thing that sends you back.” Something in your chest stuttered at the word back.

It wasn’t sharp enough to hurt — not yet — just a strange, off-beat feeling, like a step taken where you’d expected solid ground. You told yourself she was guessing. People always guessed. You’d been stressed, it wasn’t exactly a secret.

Still, the thought lingered longer than it should have. You didn’t remember ever saying that out loud. You’d only just told Lily. Only to—

You stepped back before either of them could say anything else.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Have fun.”

You didn’t wait for a response.

As you walked away, you felt it — the shift. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just the quiet realisation that something had changed. That you were no longer the centre of his attention, even though he still belonged to you in all the ways that mattered.

You didn’t miss the way Carla looked back over her shoulder, checking to see if you were watching.

Which you were.

And you understood then, with a hollow twist in your chest, that Carla wasn’t interested in Oscar because of him.

She was interested because you were.

Because being chosen by him now meant something. Because it meant winning.

And Oscar — sweet, oblivious Oscar — didn’t see any of it.

He didn’t understand the rules of this game, of being seen. Didn’t feel the promise snap quietly between you. Didn’t realise that for the first time, you were walking away alone.

The wait for three p.m. felt cruel in its slowness.

Each minute dragged, stretching thin, your nerves pulled taut as you sat beside Lily on the chairs outside Mr Hamilton’s office. You checked your phone far too often, thumb hovering over Oscar’s name like muscle memory. You’d texted him twice now — light and hopeful — and again ten minutes ago, unable to stop yourself.

[12:52pm] This wait is killing me, send me luck!

[02:48pm] I’m about to go in. Wish me luck.

Both messages sat unread.

You told yourself he was busy. He’d said things were hectic lately. New people, new plans. You swallowed past the ache that settled in your chest and tucked your phone away just as Lily squeezed your hand.

“You’ve got this,” she said softly. “No matter what.”

You nodded, even though your hands were shaking as you sat.

Then, you heard your name being called.

Mr Hamilton’s office felt smaller than usual, the air thick with anticipation. He gestured for you to sit as you closed the door behind you, his expression carefully neutral as he gathered the papers on his desk.

The silence stretched — unbearable, oppressive — and you could hear your heartbeat in your ears.

You braced yourself. For disappointment. For failure. For the confirmation of every fear you’d carried for years.

When he finally slid the paper toward you, your breath caught.

You stared at it for a moment, afraid to look properly, afraid that hope itself might be a mistake. Slowly, you leaned forward, fingers trembling as you turned the page.

B.

The letter swam before your eyes.

“I—” Your voice broke before you could stop it. “I passed?”

“You passed,” Mr Hamilton said, warmth breaking through his professional calm. “And not just barely. This is solid work. Consistent. Thoughtful. This is what I’ve been waiting to see from you again.”

Something inside you cracked open. Tears burned, blurring the page as relief flooded through you so fast it left you dizzy. You hadn’t realised how tightly you’d been holding yourself together until that moment — how much of your worth you’d tied to this single outcome.

“I was so scared,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I thought— I thought I’d lost it. That I wasn’t capable anymore.”

Mr Hamilton shook his head gently. “You were never incapable. You were just carrying too much. And you still showed up.”

That did it.

You nodded quickly, wiping at your cheeks, laughing weakly through the tears. He dismissed you soon after, and the moment you stepped outside, Lily was on her feet.

“I passed,” you choked.

She wrapped you up immediately, laughing and crying with you outside his office as the world kept moving around you, blissfully unaware that yours had just been stitched back together.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said fiercely.

Your phone buzzed in your hand — and your heart leapt before sinking just as fast.

Not Oscar.

A notification.

Carla had posted a story.

You shouldn’t have opened it. You knew that. But your thumb moved anyway, traitorous and automatic.

Oscar sat across from her in a booth, milkshake in hand, laughing at something she’d said. He looked relaxed. Happy. Unreachable. The caption read: Post-exam treats with my favourite square💋

Your chest tightened.

You typed Oscar’s name into your messages again, fingers flying.

[03:10pm] I passed.

[03:11pm] I wanted to tell you.

You watched the screen for a moment longer than you should have.

Still nothing.

Lily watched your face carefully. “He’ll text,” she said gently. “He’d want to know.”

You nodded, forcing a smile, even as the truth settled heavy in your stomach.

He would want to know.

He just wasn’t here.

And for the first time since this all began, the victory felt oddly lonely — like you’d crossed the finish line only to realise the person you wanted beside you had already started walking somewhere else.

~~

By the time the sun began to dip low enough to soften the edges of the street, you still hadn’t heard from Oscar.

Your phone felt heavier with every minute that passed. You refreshed the screen more than once, even though you knew it wouldn’t change anything.

[04:32pm] Did you get my text? I passed.

[05:55pm] Can you call me when you see this?

[06:41pm] Please.

Nothing.

You told yourself not to overthink it. He was busy. He’d been busy a lot lately. But your feet still carried you toward the places you knew by heart — the ones where the answers were usually easy.

The café near campus was full. A few of your friends were there, loud and sprawling, already holding court at the biggest table. Others hovered close, laughing too hard, leaning in like orbiting planets. You paused just inside the door, scanning faces.

Oscar wasn’t there.

Neither was Carla.

You checked again, slower this time, like maybe you’d missed him the first pass. The realisation set in like grit under your skin — not that he wasn’t with them, but that he should have been. This was where he always was now. This was where he belonged now.

And he wasn’t.

You left before anyone could notice you’d come in at all.

The bar down the street was the same. Familiar faces, familiar noise. Jimmy this time, leaning against the wall near the bathrooms, phone in hand, waiting for someone else to make the night interesting.

Not tonight.

Oscar and Carla were nowhere.

It started to feel intentional — like a decision you hadn’t been invited into.

Your chest tightened, irritation bleeding into something sharper. You pulled out your phone again, fingers hovering uselessly over Oscar’s name before you closed the app entirely and opened Instagram instead.

Logan’s profile came up instantly.

You stared at it for a long moment before your mind decided and you typed him a message.

Hey. Sorry if this is weird. Are you around?

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

[1 new message] logansargent: Yeah. What’s up?

Your throat tightened.

Can I come by? 

The reply came a few seconds later.

[1 new message] logansargent: Yeah. Of course.

Following his directions, Logan looked surprised when he opened the door — not annoyed, not guarded. Just concerned.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Come in.”

You barely made it past the threshold before the words spilled out, unfiltered and messy.

“I’m really sorry,” you said. “I think this is my fault. I shouldn’t have agreed to any of it. I didn’t mean for things to get weird between you and Oscar, or for him to—” You faltered, shaking your head. “I didn’t mean to mess things up.”

Logan closed the door behind you with a quiet click. “This isn’t on you.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “It feels like it is.”

He leaned back against the wall, arms folded, gaze steady. “Oscar makes his own choices. Lately, I don’t always agree with them, but they’re still his.”

That settled something in your chest — not comfortably, but firmly.

Logan doesn’t rush you. That’s the first thing you notice.

He lets you talk yourself out, lets the apologies pile up messy and uneven, like if you say them enough times they’ll mean something different.

When you finally stop, breathing shallow and embarrassed, he studies you for a long moment.

“You’re worried about him,” he says slowly.

You blink. “I— I mean, yeah. Obviously. I just feel like I pushed him into all of this and-”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You fall quiet.

Logan shifts, not defensive, just tired. “You’re not talking like someone who feels guilty,” he continues. “You’re talking like someone who’s scared.”

Your throat tightens. You stare at the floor.

“I can’t get hold of him,” you admit. “I passed today and I wanted to tell him and I’ve been everywhere he usually is and he’s just— not there.” You let out a short, humourless breath. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not.”

You look up.

“He was supposed to be glued to his phone,” Logan says quietly. “That was the whole point, right? He kept saying how important this was. How important you were.”

The word lands heavier than the rest.

You hesitate. “Logan, what did Oscar say to you about this? About me?”

Logan exhales through his nose. “That he thought if people saw you with him, really saw him with you, they’d finally see him as worth something.” He pauses. “And that maybe — if he was lucky — you’d fall for him for real.”

Your chest aches.

“I think he’d be excited right now,” Logan adds, softer. “If he knew you passed. If he knew you were looking for him like this.”

You swallow hard. “But he doesn’t.”

“No,” Logan says. “And that’s what scares me.”

Silence settles between you — thick, uncomfortable.

“He used to tell me everything,” Logan continues. “Now I don’t even know where he is. And I don’t think he knows either.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “I thought maybe I was imagining it. Like maybe I was just projecting because I didn’t want it to end.”

Logan looks at you then — really looks. His expression softens, something protective flickering across his face.

“You like him,” he says.

You don’t deny it.

“God, if he knew—,” he adds gently before letting out a soft sigh. “I feel like I’ve lost him, he’s not the friend I once had, he’s changed. He wanted all of this for you— and now he’s not even aware that it’s come true.”

The words sting because they’re true. You can feel the tears well in your eyes as Logan looks at you.

“This isn’t on you,” Logan says firmly. “Whatever’s happening with Oscar — that’s him chasing something he doesn’t know how to hold yet.”

You nod, even as something inside you curls in on itself.

Because if Oscar can’t hold it, then neither can you.

You found yourself at Oscar’s apartment just as the sky slipped fully into night.

One of his roommates recognised you immediately, stepping aside without hesitation. “He’s not back yet. You can wait, if you want.”

So you did.

You sat on the edge of his bed, hands folded loosely in your lap, surrounded by pieces of him you’d grown used to — his notes, his jacket draped over the chair, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air.

I passed, you thought. I passed because of you.

You wait longer than you should.

Long enough to convince yourself that when he walks through the door, everything will make sense again.

When Oscar finally appears, blinking in surprise at the sight of you, you feel a rush of relief so sharp it almost hurts.

“Oh— hey,” he says, laughing a little. “What are you doing here? Sorry, I didn’t think—”

“I passed,” you say quickly. “I text you, several times.”

The way his face lights up nearly undoes you.

“Shit— You did?” he beams. “That’s amazing. I knew you would.”

He pulls you into a hug before you can think, and you let yourself melt into it — just for a second. Just long enough to pretend this is still easy. Just long enough to forget how long you’ve been waiting for him. 

As he pulls back, the room holds its breath.

This is it, you think. Okay. Don’t overcomplicate it. Thank him. Tell him you like him.

Logan said he likes you. This is fine.

Your heart is pounding, but it feels hopeful now — nervous in a good way.

“Oscar,” you start. “I just wanted to say—”

“Right,” he says brightly, cutting in. “So. About us.”

You smile faintly.

“We should probably figure out how to break up, now the exam is over,” he continues, casual and upbeat, like he’s suggesting coffee plans.

The words don’t register at first.

They just float there.

Break up.

Something inside you splinters.

“Oh,” you manage.

He keeps going — not cruel, not malicious — just excited. “I mean, we said we would, right? Now that you’ve passed and everything. We can make it clean. Mutual. People will get it.”

Your ears ring.

This was supposed to be the part where it stopped being pretend.

You stare at him, trying to reconcile this version of Oscar with the boy who listened to you at the beach, who promised he wouldn’t change, who said he didn’t feel invisible with you.

You think of Logan’s words.

He’d be excited if he knew.

He is excited.

Just not in the way you hoped.

“I was going to tell you something,” you say quietly.

Oscar tilts his head, distracted. “Yeah?”

You hesitate.

This is the moment — the one where you were supposed to step forward.

Instead, you step back.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “You’re right. We should plan it.”

The room feels emptier than it did when you arrived. Oscar smiles, relieved. You almost told him then.

Almost said I don’t think this is fake anymore or don’t let this be the end. But he was smiling — distracted, buoyant — and you didn’t want to be the thing that anchored him back down.

So you swallowed it.

And later, when he didn’t hear you at all, you wondered if this was the moment everything slipped.

~~

You’d talked about it.

Not in detail — just the fact of it.

That after the exam, after everything settled, you’d end things. Cleanly. Quietly. You’d both agreed it was better that way.

You’d imagined it happening somewhere calm. Maybe walking back from class. Maybe sitting side by side, knees almost touching, voices low enough that only the two of you would hear.

You didn’t imagine this.

The square hums with midday noise — voices overlapping, laughter spilling, the familiar pull of Jimmy’s table drawing people in like gravity. It’s exactly where it always is. Loud. Visible. Impossible to ignore.

Oscar is there.

He looks good. Too good.

Different.

He’s laughing easily, one arm slung across the back of the bench, posture loose in a way that still feels unfamiliar to you. Carla sits close — not touching, but angled toward him, her attention sharp, proprietary. Like she’s already decided where she belongs.

Your stomach twists.

For a moment, you consider turning around. Pretending you didn’t see him. Letting this wait.

Then Oscar spots you.

“There you are,” he says, already standing, his face lighting up like he’s genuinely relieved. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

Relief flickers despite yourself. Maybe he’ll suggest walking. Maybe he’ll—

“Come on,” he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the edge of the square. “Let’s go over there.”

It’s small. Subtle. But it’s enough.

You follow him a few steps away from the table — not private, exactly, but no longer at the centre of it either. Close enough that people can still see you. Far enough that they can’t quite hear.

Your heart is already pounding.

Oscar rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets. He looks excited. Like this is something to tick off a list.

“So,” he says lightly. “We should probably do it now, yeah?”

Your chest tightens.

“Do what?” you ask, even though you already know.

“The breakup,” he says easily. “I mean— it makes sense. Everyone’s here. It’ll look natural.”

The world dulls at the edges, like someone’s turned the volume down too fast.

“Oscar,” you murmur, “I thought we were going to—”

“Talk later?” he finishes, smiling. “Yeah, but this is later.”

You glance back toward the table. Jimmy is very deliberately not looking. Carla absolutely is.

“I didn’t think you meant here,” you say quietly.

He tilts his head, genuinely confused — not defensive, not irritated. “Why not? It’s better this way. No big scene. But everyone will see.”

Your fingers curl into your palms.

“We said no one could know,” you say. “About the deal.”

“They won’t,” he says quickly. “Not really. It’ll just look normal.”

Normal.

“You’re good at this,” he adds, earnest, like it’s a compliment. “People already like you. They’ll believe it.”

Something tightens sharply in your chest.

“Believe what?” you ask.

“That it just ran its course,” he says. “These things happen.”

You stare at him then. Really look.

And with a quiet, sinking certainty, you realise he isn’t being careless.

He’s being proud. Proud of how smoothly this worked. Proud of how convincing you’ll be.

“You want me to say it,” you whisper.

He nods, encouraging. “Yeah. You’re better with words. It’ll be better coming from you.”

Behind him, Carla shifts, smiling faintly, like she’s waiting for her cue.

You swallow hard.

“Oscar,” you say, softer now, careful. “Do you remember what you promised me?”

His brow furrows. “About what?”

“That you wouldn’t change,” you say. “That you wouldn’t lose yourself in this.”

He lets out a small laugh, not unkind. “I haven’t.”

“You’re not even listening to me,” you say. “This wasn’t just pretending to me.”

His smile falters, just a little. “I know it wasn’t. That’s why we’re ending it clean.”

“That’s not what I mean,” you say, voice trembling now. “I thought we were in this together. That we’d get through it together.”

He blinks. “We did get through it.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “We started together.”

The noise of the square presses in — laughter, voices, the easy rhythm of a world that hasn’t noticed anything slipping.

“This was meant to get us through,” you continue. “The exam. The pressure. The pretending. It was supposed to be something we survived side by side.”

Oscar exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” he says gently. “This is just how things go. People notice you. Things change.”

“But you were supposed to notice me,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The words hang there.

Oscar looks genuinely taken aback — not offended, not angry. Just confused.

“I do notice you,” he says. “That’s why this is easy. We said we’d keep it simple.”

Simple.

“I didn’t think simple meant invisible,” you say.

He hesitates. Doesn’t know what to do with that.

“You’ll be fine,” he says finally, certain. “You always are.”

And that’s when you understand.

He thinks your strength means immunity. That because you’ve always handled things, you can absorb this too.

You step back.

“I can’t do this here,” you say, voice shaking. “I can’t pretend this doesn’t hurt.”

A few nearby conversations dip — not silent, but aware.

Oscar reaches for you instinctively, then stops himself, unsure what the right move is anymore.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You’re doing great.”

You let out a small, broken laugh.

“I wasn’t acting,” you say.

Then you turn and walk away — heart hammering, vision blurring — leaving behind a group of people who think they just witnessed something convincing.

Behind you, Oscar sinks back onto the bench, unsettled but unable to name why.

“That went rougher than I expected,” he mutters.

Carla leans in. “She’ll be okay.”

Oscar nods absently.

“She always is.”

Oscar can’t get a hold of you after that.

It feels wrong. Not urgent — just off. Like a door left open somewhere it shouldn’t be.

He’d texted you not long after, something light. Complimenting how well you’d handled it. How convincing it had looked. A joke about how you’d almost had him believing it by the end.

You hadn’t replied.

Which was strange. But then again — you were always busy. Always juggling things. You’d probably just needed space.

And Oscar, well. He hadn’t exactly been free either.

Not because he didn’t care — God, no. But because suddenly there were people everywhere. People asking him to come out, to hang back, to sit here instead of there. People who used his name easily now, like they’d always known it.

Now that he was free from you relationship, he was more in demand than before.

He’d spent the afternoon drifting from conversation to conversation, laughing more than he usually did, telling himself he’d text you properly later.

You’d both got what you wanted. You’d passed. You were safe. And people knew his name now.

That was all he’d ever wanted.

So why did his stomach twist every time he checked his phone? Why did not hearing from you feel heavier than it should?

He sends another message — casual, breezy — then shoves his phone into his pocket and heads across the square, planning to go home and change before meeting Jimmy and the others later.

He’s halfway across when he spots Logan.

Head down. Backpack slung high. Walking fast, like he’s trying not to be seen.

“Logan!” Oscar calls, jogging to catch up, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Mate, long time. How you doing?”

Logan stops. Slowly pulls his headphones out. Stares at him.

Then starts to put them back in.

Oscar frowns, grabbing his arm. “Hey— what’s with the silent treatment?”

Logan laughs, sharp and humourless. “Silent treatment? You haven’t replied to me in weeks, Oscar.”

Oscar blinks. “I thought—”

“Thought what?” Logan cuts in. “That we’d just wait around? That we’d still be here while you play happy families with people who didn’t know your name a month ago?”

“That’s not fair,” Oscar says, defensive now. “I’ve just been busy.”

“With her,” Logan says flatly.

Oscar stiffens. “What about her?”

“She came to see me after the exam,” Logan says, voice dropping. “Couldn’t find you. Said you weren’t replying.”

Oscar’s chest tightens. “I didn’t know—”

“That’s the point,” Logan snaps. Then he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Mate, when you started this whole thing, I thought you’d get your heart broken.”

Oscar swallows. “I’m fine.”

“I never thought you’d be the one breaking someone else’s.”

Oscar frowns. “I didn’t break anything. We agreed—”

“You agreed on rules,” Logan interrupts. “Not on treating her like she doesn’t matter. Not on treating me like—”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Oscar insists. “She’s strong. She’ll be okay.”

Logan stares at him.

“That’s what you think?” he says quietly. “That because she’s strong, she doesn’t get hurt? What about me? What about your actual friends?”

Oscar hesitates. “I just— everything worked out.”

“For you,” Logan says. “And somewhere in the middle of that, you stopped paying attention.”

Silence stretches between them.

“You always wanted people to see you,” Logan continues, softer now. “I just didn’t think you’d stop seeing the ones who already did.”

Oscar doesn’t know what to say.

“Have fun with your new friends,” Logan mutters, turning away. “Just don’t act surprised when there’s no one left who remembers who you were.”

He walks off, leaving Oscar standing there — phone heavy in his pocket, chest tight in a way he doesn’t yet understand.

For the first time since this all started, the noise of the square doesn’t feel like validation.

It feels like distance.

With a sigh, Oscar turns on his heel. But he didn't go home.

Instead he headed towards the tram stop, toward the part of the city he knows you go when everything gets too loud.

~~

There was an odd feeling in the air. Something misaligned. Like the world had shifted half a step and forgotten to tell you.

Your mind had been racing since the breakup that morning — thoughts overlapping, emotions pulling in opposite directions. Everything felt suspended and unravelled at the same time, and you didn’t know how to hold any of it steady.

You weren’t sure when the feelings for Oscar had started. Somewhere between the tutoring sessions and the quiet jokes, between studying and stolen moments that felt too real to be pretend. Somewhere along the way, the line had blurred, rules were broken — and now you couldn’t tell where the lie had ended and the truth had begun.

And you couldn’t stop thinking that this was your fault.

You’d watched him change slowly, almost imperceptibly — slipping into rooms he’d once hovered outside of, laughing louder, standing taller, being pulled toward people who had never mattered to you. He was drowning in the same sea you’d spent years convincing yourself you could swim in. The same current you’d learned to survive by pretending it didn’t pull.

You’d led him here. ANd then you’d left him there.

Because yes, you’d passed. But the tightness in your chest hadn’t loosened. The bitter taste at the back of your throat hadn’t faded.

What had it cost? Oscar?

Or worse — the version of him that had been real.

It all felt tangled and stupid and unmistakably yours. You should have said no. Should have let it stay tutoring, equations and explanations, clean and uncomplicated. Logan would still have his best friend and you— Well, you still would have passed.

But there had been something in his eyes — earnest, hopeful — that had made you reach out. Something that made you want to believe that this could be different.

Now he was slipping through your fingers before either of you had realised you were holding on.

It felt almost fitting. For the life you lived. For the persona you wore so carefully.

That the first thing that had ever felt real had still been fake. Still just another performance.

You spent hours curled into Lily’s bed, her hand smoothing over your hair as you cried — about everything. About the pressure, the fear of failing, the relief Oscar had offered. About the deal. About how fast it had spiralled. About how you felt like you’d taken something good and steered it directly into danger.

She told you it wasn’t over. That it wasn’t that deep. She held you and loved you and you clung to it — but it didn’t quiet the pit in your stomach.

You couldn’t even face him. He hadn’t followed you. Hadn’t hesitated. Had walked straight back to the table while your eyes burned and your chest cracked open.

And you couldn’t even be angry.  Because that would make you a hypocrite.

All Oscar had ever wanted was to be seen. And hadn’t you wanted the same thing?

You’d laid the path he was now walking, convinced yourself it would end differently for him — that he wouldn’t get lost the way you had.

Maybe because you never really understood why he’d been invisible in the first place. Because the more you learned about him, the more your heart betrayed you, the more it felt unbearably unfair.

You were replaceable. Forgettable.

But him? He was a change in the current.

When you finally pulled yourself from Lily’s bed, tears dried tight on your cheeks, you needed air — space — something that wasn’t a room filled with grief.

There was only one place your heart took you.

The tram ride felt familiar, almost comforting. The same low rattle, the same blur of streets slipping past. As the sun dipped low, orange and pink fracturing the sky, you remembered another evening like this — another time the colours had felt gentle instead of heavy.

The air was colder now. Sharper. It bit at your skin as you stepped toward the beach, the chill wrapping around you like a reprimand rather than a comfort. The same cold you’d once welcomed now made you feel exposed.

The waves sounded the same. That steady hush and pull.

But where they’d once calmed you, now they only reminded you how easily things were taken.

You slipped your shoes off and walked into the sand, letting it give beneath your feet. Last time, you’d told him this place made everything quieter. That it helped when the world felt too loud.

Now your thoughts only echoed louder.

Still, you went to the water. Let the ocean wash over your feet, cold and insistent, grounding and accusatory all at once. You told yourself maybe you just needed to talk to him — really talk. Away from everyone else. To offer him the truth this time, no pretending, and let him choose.

He might have, once. Logan’s words lingered like a bruise.

As you walked along the shore, something pulled your gaze toward the rocks at the far end of the beach. Near the spot where you’d sat together. Where you’d opened yourself up and believed he was listening.

Your heart knew before your eyes did.

A figure sat there, feet buried in the sand, shoulders silhouetted against the fading light. The blue shirt — the one you’d picked out for him — unmistakable even from a distance.

Oscar.

Hope surged, sudden and painful. Your body moved before your mind could stop it. You wanted to run to him, to grab hold, to believe this was fate trying to fix what you’d broken.

The same sunset.  The same sea. The same place.

Maybe it meant something.

You rehearsed the words as you walked closer, palms damp, chest tight, every step pulling you deeper into fragile hope.

Then another figure stepped into view.

Carla.

She sat beside him easily, like she belonged there. Like this place — your place — had already been claimed.

The sound of the ocean rushed too loud in your ears. The same waves that had once held your secrets now felt like they were laughing at you.

You stopped. Tears came hot and fast, anger sparking beneath the grief. You’d shown him this place when it still meant something. When it was yours. When it was safe.

And he’d brought her here.

Not just anyone — her.

The betrayal landed sharp and final.

He really had changed. And the worst part was knowing — with a sick, unbearable clarity — that you’d helped him do it.

~~

Oscar wasn’t sure why this felt like a real breakup — but it did.

He’d thought what you had was solid, even beneath the façade. That somewhere between the late-night study sessions and the way you’d trusted him with pieces of yourself, something genuine had taken root. Friendship, at the very least. Something real enough to survive the pretending.

But now you were distant.

You ignored his messages. Walked past him in class without so much as a glance. You moved through the friendship group with an ease that looked practiced — like you belonged there — but your eyes never lingered on him the way they used to. You spoke when you had to, laughed when it was expected, and then slipped away before he could catch you alone.

The others noticed. They clapped him on the back. Teased him. Congratulated him on being a heartbreaker, like that was something to be proud of. They talked over him, around him, as if nothing meaningful had changed.

Oscar laughed along — because that’s what he was meant to do — but the twist in his stomach never quite went away.

He tried to find you after class. Missed you by minutes. Went to your apartment; Lily answered the door with soft eyes and said you were out. Later, when he met up with the others and you weren’t there either, he realised — dimly, belatedly — that she might have been lying for you.

He should have been happy. He really should have.

You’d passed. He was seen. People knew his name now, invited him places, wanted him around. It was everything he’d thought he wanted.

So why did it feel wrong? Why did the thought of you not replying make his chest tighten? Why did every laugh feel hollow without knowing if you’d heard it too?

He kept hoping for something cinematic — something stupid and hopeful — that if he could just get you alone for five minutes, it would all make sense again.

That’s why he went to the beach. Your beach.

He didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t plan it properly. He just went, chasing the quiet certainty that if there was anywhere you might be, it would be there.

You never showed.

Only Carla did.

She’d smiled too brightly, said something about loving sunsets, about how she came here all the time. She’d sat too close, leaned too much, and Oscar had felt a knot of discomfort settle in his chest.

He hadn’t wanted this. He’d wanted to be seen — yes — but not like this. Not at the cost of you.

And still, when you stayed cold, stayed distant, he didn’t know how to reach you without shattering whatever fragile balance you’d struck.

So he did the stupidest thing he could think of.

He waited for Friday night.

Jimmy’s party was loud and cramped and impossible to escape — exactly the kind of place where feelings either burst open or got buried forever. With enough alcohol, maybe things would soften. Maybe it would feel less scary.

Oscar stood in the kitchen with a lukewarm beer in his hand, eyes flicking between the living room and the front door. He knew you’d come. You always did.

Carla hovered for the first hour, clinging and pouting when he barely engaged, eventually drifting away with an eye-roll and a muttered insult about him being boring.

He didn’t care.

He only cared when Lily walked in.

Her face was tight with concern, jaw set like she was holding something together by force alone. And then you appeared behind her — clinging to her arm, unsteady, eyes glassy.

Oscar’s stomach dropped.

“I need a drink,” Lily muttered, grabbing a cup from Jimmy and flicking Oscar a curt smile.

“Long night already?” Jimmy asked, amused.

“I’ve been babysitting,” Lily said dryly, tipping her head toward you.

Oscar stepped forward without thinking. “Is she okay?” He could see you were drunk, swaying and stumbling as Lily kept a tight lock around you.

“She’ll be fine,” Lily said sharply, positioning herself between you and him. “Come on, let’s dance.”

You giggled, curling into her side as she pulled you away.

Oscar couldn’t stop watching.

You danced too loosely, stumbled too often. Every near-fall sent a jolt of fear through him. Every time your gaze flicked his way — and then slid past him — something in his chest tightened painfully.

He wanted to leave. But he wanted to stay.

When Lily returned and placed you between Jimmy and another guy, warning them not to let you out of their sight, Oscar felt something ugly twist in his gut. Watching you lean into Jimmy — for warmth, for balance, for something — hurt more than he expected.

Then you looked at him. Really looked.

Oscar felt it before he understood it. The way the room seemed to narrow. The way the noise dulls, like cotton stuffed in his ears.

The way you’re looking at him — not past him, not around him — at him, finally, after days of absence.

Your eyes are glassy. Too bright. Too tired. Not angry. Hurt.

And for the first time since the square, since the breakup that wasn’t supposed to feel like one, Oscar feels afraid.

He takes a step forward without thinking.

“Hey,” he says, low. Careful. “Can we—”

A hand wraps around his arm.

Carla.

He stiffens at the contact, barely registering her presence before his attention snaps back to you — because something in your expression breaks when you see it. Like the final piece sliding into place.

“Pathetic,” you say.

The word doesn’t land all at once. It ripples. Heads turn. Conversations stall.

Oscar’s chest tightens. “What?”

“Both of you,” you slur softly, a humourless laugh slipping out that doesn’t sound like you at all. “You’re pathetic.”

Jimmy chuckles nervously, arm tightening around your shoulders. “Alright, come on, let’s not—”

“Shut up, Jimmy.”

The room goes still.

You pull away from him, stumbling slightly, palm slamming into the counter to steady yourself. Oscar reaches out instinctively — then freezes when you flinch away.

That hurts more than he expects.

“I hope you’re enjoying this,” you say, voice shaking now, the alcohol peeling away whatever restraint you had left. “You got everything you wanted, didn’t you?”

Oscar swallows. “I don’t know what you—”

“You never do,” you cut in, eyes shining. “That’s the problem.”

He takes another step closer. “Let’s talk somewhere else. Please.”

You laugh again, sharp and brittle. “So I can keep protecting you? So I can keep pretending I’m fine?”

The word pretending lands hard in his chest.

“I didn’t know how else to make it stop,” you say suddenly, like you’re confessing something you’ve been holding in for weeks. “I tried walking away. I tried ignoring you. I tried pretending it didn’t hurt.”

Oscar’s heart is hammering now. This isn’t going the way he imagined. This isn’t a scene from a movie where everything clicks into place.

“I thought,” you continue, voice cracking, “that maybe if everyone knew, it would finally make sense. Why I feel like I don’t exist to you anymore.”

A murmur ripples through the room.

Oscar’s breath comes shallow. “What are you talking about?”

You turn then — slow, unsteady — facing the room instead of him. Like it’s the only way you can get the words out.

“There was a deal,” you say, and your voice trembles on it. “Between me and Oscar.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“We pretended to date,” you continue, eyes fixed somewhere above their heads. “Because I was going to fail my exam. And he—” your voice wavers, and you have to swallow hard, “—he wanted people to notice him.”

Oscar feels the floor drop out from under him.

“No,” he breathes. “Wait—”

“We helped each other,” you say quickly, like you need them to understand. “It wasn’t fake at first. It was just supposed to get us through.”

Your eyes finally flick back to him.

“And then it wasn’t.”

A few people shift uncomfortably. Someone whispers something Oscar can’t hear.

“He got what he wanted,” you say, tears spilling freely now. “You all like him. You all know his name.”

You gesture vaguely around the room.

“And I lost mine.”

Lily is suddenly there, arms wrapping around your waist, whispering your name urgently — but you’re not done yet.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you say, and this part is for Oscar alone. “I just couldn’t keep disappearing for you.”

Something in Oscar’s chest caves in.

This isn’t revenge. This isn’t cruelty. This is grief.

“I never wanted this,” he says hoarsely. “I never wanted to lose you.”

You look at him — really look — and for a second he thinks you might believe him.

“I don’t think you realised what you were losing,” you say softly.

Then Lily pulls you away, your head collapsing into her shoulder as you’re guided out of the kitchen.

“I hope it was worth it,” you murmur over your shoulder, words barely holding together. “I really do.”

And then you’re gone.

The room stays frozen long after.

Oscar stands there, arms folded tightly like he’s holding himself together, staring at the space you left behind.

This was supposed to be the part where everything worked out.

He looks around. No one meets his eyes.

Not Jimmy. Not Carla. Not anyone.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

“Guys,” he says quietly. “I can explain.”

Jimmy exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “You should go, mate.”

The words land heavier than any insult.

Oscar nods numbly, sets his drink down with shaking hands, and walks out into the night — the sick, hollow realisation settling in his chest:

He got exactly what he asked for. And it cost him the only person who ever saw him before he was worth seeing.

~~

The thing that people never tell you about the rise to the top is that the higher you go, the harder you fall.

And fall, Oscar did.

The attention didn’t vanish overnight — it thinned first, over the weekend. 

Conversations stalled. Messages went unanswered. Invitations stopped coming with the same certainty. People smiled at him still, but it was different now. Polite. Careful. Like he was something they didn’t quite know what to do with anymore.

By Monday morning, the square looks the same — same benches, same noise, same lazy drift of people in and out — but the gravity has shifted. Or maybe it was never really there at all.

He stands on the edge of it for a second too long, hands shoved into his pockets, watching Jimmy laugh with someone else. Carla is nearby, her back half-turned, attention already elsewhere. For the first time since all of this started, no one clocks him immediately.

He clears his throat and steps forward.

“Hey,” he says, aiming for easy. Familiar.

Jimmy glances up, blinks — the briefest flicker of recognition — then looks past him again. “Oh. Yeah. Hey.”

That’s it. No grin. No clap on the shoulder. No pull into the conversation.

Oscar waits for more. It doesn’t come.

Carla catches his eye next, her smile tight and polite in a way that makes his stomach drop. “I didn’t know you were coming,” she says, already shifting her weight as if preparing to leave.

“I—” He stops. There’s nothing to follow it with. No invitation. No role. No reason.

She nods once, distracted. “Right. Well. I’ve got a lecture.”

She doesn’t wait for his reply before she gets up.

Oscar turns back to Jimmy, something sharp and desperate rising in his chest. “Listen, about the other night—”

Jimmy exhales, finally facing him properly. There’s no anger in his expression. That’s the worst part. Just distance. Mild discomfort.

“Look, man,” he says, lowering his voice like he’s doing Oscar a favour. “No hard feelings. We only hung out with you, well because of her. Without her, you’re just you.”

The words land quietly. Cleanly. No malice. No cruelty.

Just truth.

Oscar nods, because that’s apparently what you do when something inside you caves in. Jimmy turns back to the group, conversation flowing around him again like Oscar was never there to interrupt it.

And that’s when it hits him.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

Just the slow, sinking understanding that nothing he gained was ever really his. And for the first time, Oscar realised the version of him they wanted was never the one that mattered.

The laughs weren’t about him. The attention wasn’t for him. The belonging wasn’t real. 

It was borrowed. Conditional. Fragile.

And the people who had been his — the ones who’d known him before any of this — hadn’t needed a performance. Hadn’t needed proof. Hadn’t needed him to be anything other than himself.

Logan.

You.

He thinks of the way Logan used to look at him — exasperated, sharp, but solid. Thinks of the way you used to notice him in quiet moments, before there was an audience, before there was a deal.

Before he decided being seen meant being loud.

Oscar steps away from the square. No one notices him leave.

And for the first time, it doesn’t hurt the way he thought it would.

Because now he understands — he was never invisible. He just walked away from the people who could actually see him.

Later, Oscar tried to find you. 

You’d avoided his eyes throughout class, sitting away from your usual seat so he waited outside the lecture hall. You walked past him without looking up.

He messaged you. The message stayed unread.

He stood outside your apartment once, staring at the door until Lily came home and shut it gently in his face without a word. Said you were busy.

Every rejection was quiet. Polite. Final.

And somehow, that hurt more than if you’d yelled.

By the end of the day, Oscar sat alone on a bench near campus, watching people pass him by like he was just another background detail.

Invisible again.

Only this time, he didn’t want to be seen by everyone.

He just wanted you to look at him. And he didn’t know if you ever would again.

Oscar found himself standing outside Logan’s apartment, heart hammering like he was about to sit an exam he hadn’t studied for. He almost turned around twice. Almost convinced himself Logan wouldn’t want to see him.

Logan doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door. He just looks tired.

“Thought you’d forgotten where I lived,” Logan says, stepping aside anyway.

Oscar hesitates — then steps in. The flat smells the same. Coffee. Laundry detergent. Familiar things that make his chest ache.

“I didn’t forget,” Oscar says quietly. “I just… didn’t think I was welcome.”

Logan snorts, shutting the door. “You weren’t.”

Fair.

They stand there for a moment, neither of them moving.

Oscar swallows. “I fucked up.”

Logan crosses his arms. Doesn’t soften. “That’s not an apology.”

Oscar nods, eyes dropping. “I know. I’m just— I need to say it out loud before I lose my nerve.”

Logan waits.

“I left,” Oscar says. “I didn’t mean to, not at first. But I did. I stopped replying. I stopped noticing when you were in the room. I acted like the people who’d ignored me for years mattered more than the ones who never did.”

Logan’s jaw tightens.

“You didn’t just leave,” he says. “You replaced us.”

Oscar flinches. “I know.”

Silence stretches.

Logan exhales slowly. “Do you know what hurt the most?”

Oscar shakes his head.

“You didn’t look happy,” Logan says. “You looked… louder. And I kept thinking — if this is what he wanted, why does it look like he’s disappearing?”

Oscar’s throat burns.

“I thought being seen would feel different,” he says. “I thought once people noticed me, I’d finally feel… solid.”

“And did you?”

Oscar shakes his head again. “I felt emptier than I ever have.”

Logan studies him. Really studies him.

“And her?” Logan asks.

Oscar’s voice breaks. “I didn’t see her hurting. I thought she was strong enough to take it. I thought strength meant… not needing me.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make,” Logan says sharply.

“I know.” Oscar looks up then, eyes wet. “I know now. And I hate that it took losing her for me to see it.”

Logan’s shoulders drop — just a fraction.

“I get why you did it,” he says. “I really do. Wanting to be wanted isn’t a crime.”

He steps closer.

“But you don’t get to hurt people and call it accidental just because you didn’t mean to.”

Oscar nods. “I won’t.”

Another beat.

“I don’t know if she’ll forgive you,” Logan says. “And honestly? She doesn’t owe you that.”

“I know.”

“But,” Logan continues, quieter now, “if you’re asking whether I still know you — yeah. I do. You’re still the idiot who’d lend me lecture notes and pretend it wasn’t a big deal.”

A weak laugh escapes Oscar.

“And if you’re asking whether we’re okay…” Logan sighs. “We will be. Eventually.”

Oscar swallows hard. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

Logan meets his eyes. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Oscar nods. He won’t.

He spots you outside the library on his way home.

Not immediately — not like before, when his eyes would instinctively find you first. It takes a second. Maybe two. You’re standing near the steps, bag slung over one shoulder, phone in your hand, posture turned slightly away from the path like you’re already preparing to leave.

His chest tightens.

This is it, he thinks. This is the moment he’s been chasing since Friday night. Since the kitchen. Since the way your voice sounded when you said I hope it was worth it.

He moves before he can overthink it.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless, because he’s crossed the space too fast.

You don’t jump. You don’t look startled.

You just pause.

Then, slowly, you lift your eyes to his — and whatever he’d hoped to find there isn’t.

There’s no anger. No accusation. Just distance.

It unsettles him more than shouting ever could.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you,” he says quickly, words tumbling over each other. “I know I should’ve done it sooner, but everything’s been— I mean, I didn’t realise how bad it had got and I just—”

You nod once. A small, polite motion. Like you’re listening in theory, not in practice.

“I’m late,” you say quietly.

The words land harder than he expects.

“Oh. Right. I just— two minutes,” he says. “Please. I need you to understand something.”

You hesitate. For half a second, hope flares. Then you step back.

“I understood,” you say, not unkindly. “That was the problem.”

Oscar frowns. “That’s not fair. You didn’t let me explain.”

You look past him, toward the steps, the open campus, the way out.

“I explained,” you reply softly. “More than once. You just weren’t listening.”

“That’s not true,” he says, too fast. “I was just, I thought you were okay. You always seemed okay.”

There it is. The thing he didn’t realise he’d been saying all along. Your mouth curves — not into a smile, not quite into a frown.

“That doesn’t mean I was,” you say.

Silence stretches between you.

He searches your face for something — hurt, maybe, or longing, or even regret — something that would tell him this still matters the way it does to him.

But you’ve already folded yourself inward, already pulled away.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says finally, voice rough. “I swear. I just wanted to be someone. And I didn’t realise I was losing you while it was happening.”

Your fingers tighten around your bag strap.

“I know,” you say.

And somehow, that’s worse than if you’d said you ruined everything.

You take another step back.

“I can’t do this anymore, Oscar,” you add. “I can’t keep explaining myself to someone who only hears me when I’m gone.”

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

You nod once more — a quiet goodbye disguised as courtesy — and turn away.

He doesn’t follow this time.

He stands there, rooted to the spot, watching your back disappear into the crowd, and for the first time it hits him with full, brutal clarity:

Silence isn’t something you fill. It’s something you earn.

And he’s earned every second of this one.

~~

Logan doesn’t look surprised when Oscar turns up at his place. Again.

Oscar stands awkwardly in the doorway, hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he’s unsure where to put himself.

“I tried to talk to her,” Oscar says immediately, the words tumbling out. “She wouldn’t even look at me.”

Logan steps aside to let him in, then closes the door with more force than necessary.

“Yeah,” he says flatly. “That tracks.”

Oscar winces. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Logan lets out a humourless laugh. “That’s kind of the problem, mate.”

They sit — opposite ends of the couch, the space between them heavy with everything unspoken.

Oscar stares at the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. Or you.”

“I know,” Logan says. “But intent doesn’t erase impact.”

Oscar swallows. “I thought, I thought if I just got through the awkward bit — if we broke up clean like we said — it would settle.”

“Clean,” Logan repeats. “You broke up with her in public.”

Oscar flinches. “I didn’t realise—”

“You didn’t realise because you weren’t looking,” Logan cuts in, sharper now. “You were too busy checking if people were watching.”

That lands.

Oscar drags a hand down his face. “They stopped.”

“What?”

“The people,” he says. “Jimmy barely acknowledged me today. Carla pretended she had a lecture forgetting we’re in the same class. It’s like,” He trails off, then laughs weakly. “Like without her, I’m just me again.”

Logan’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. That’s usually how it works.”

Oscar looks up. “He actually said it. Jimmy. He said, without her, you’re just you.”

Logan doesn’t soften. “And?”

“And I realised I didn’t know who that was anymore,” Oscar says quietly. “Because I spent so long trying not to be invisible that I forgot I already wasn’t.”

That finally gets Logan’s attention.

Oscar’s voice cracks — not dramatically, not performatively. Just tired.

“I stopped answering your messages,” he says. “I stopped sitting with you. I told myself it was temporary, that I was just busy.”

Logan leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t just disappear, Oscar. You chose something else.”

“I know,” Oscar says. “And I hate that it took losing both of you for me to see it.”

Silence settles again — different this time. Less empty. More earned.

“I didn’t want to be noticed like that,” Oscar continues. “I just wanted to matter. To someone.”

Logan exhales slowly. “You already did.”

Oscar’s eyes sting. “I know that now.”

He presses his hands together, knuckles white. “She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I wasn’t safe anymore.”

Logan’s voice softens, just a fraction. “That’s what happens when you stop choosing someone and assume they’ll stay.”

Oscar nods, tears threatening but not falling. “I thought silence meant she was mad. Or hurt. Or waiting.”

Logan shakes his head. “Silence means she’s done explaining herself.”

That one breaks him.

Oscar bows his head. “I don’t care about being seen anymore,” he says. “I just want her to talk to me. I want to tell her I was wrong. I want you to forgive me.”

Logan studies him for a long moment.

“You don’t get to demand that,” he says finally. “But, if you’re going to try, you do it without an audience. No grand gestures. No pressure. And us— we’ll get there.”

Oscar nods immediately. “I will.”

“And Oscar?” Logan adds. “If she never does — if this is it — you live with it. You don’t rewrite it into something easier.”

Oscar meets his eyes. “I won’t.”

Another pause.

Logan sighs. “You were never invisible,” he says. “You just didn’t believe it counted unless everyone could see.”

Oscar leans back, staring at the ceiling, letting that truth settle where it hurts.

“I’d trade all of it,” he says quietly. “Every single person who knows my name now— just to hear her say it again.”

Logan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

Oscar understands what silence means. And why it’s the loudest thing he’s ever heard.

~~

You’d been avoiding them.

Not deliberately at first — it just happened. Different routes across campus. Different cafés. Sitting somewhere else. Leaving lectures early. Ducking your head when you saw familiar faces clustered together, laughter sharp and careless in a way that felt like it belonged to a life you’d stepped out of.

You told yourself it was easier that way.

You told yourself you didn’t want to see him — and maybe that was true — but it was also everyone else. Jimmy. Carla. The whole orbit that had swallowed Oscar whole and spat you back out.

So when someone said your name behind you as you walked through the hallway, clear and unmistakable, your first instinct was to pretend you hadn’t heard it.

“Hey.”

You stopped anyway.

Jimmy was standing a few steps back, hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets, expression uncharacteristically unsure. Carla hovered beside him, arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes flicking anywhere but at you.

For a second, none of you spoke.

Then Jimmy cleared his throat. “Can we talk?”

Your stomach tightened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“We’ve been looking for you,” Jimmy says. “Not in a creepy way. In a worried way.”

The word caught you off guard.

Worried.

You let out a small, humourless laugh. “That’s new.”

Carla flinched.

Jimmy shot her a look before turning back to you. “We know you’ve been avoiding us.”

You shrugged, defensive instinct kicking in. “I’ve just been busy.”

“With what?” Carla asked quietly.

You opened your mouth — a reflexive excuse already forming — and then stopped. Because the truth sat heavy and unmovable in your chest.

“With trying not to feel like I ruined someone’s life,” you said instead.

Silence settled between you.

Jimmy exhaled slowly. “That’s not fair.”

You looked at him sharply. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” he said, firmer now. “It really isn’t.”

Carla shifted, uncrossing her arms. Her voice, when she spoke, was smaller than you’d ever heard it. “We didn’t ditch Oscar because we found out about that deal.”

Your heart stuttered.

“We ditched him because he hurt you,” Jimmy continued. “Because I’ve never seen you as upset as you were that night and it was because of him.”

You frowned. “We’re all friends because of popularity. That’s what this was about.”

Jimmy shook his head. “That’s how it started. Years ago. We were the loud ones. The visible ones. But that’s not why we stuck,” He hesitated, then added, “You’re our friend, one of the best we’ve ever had if I’m honest.”

The words landed strangely — soft, but disorienting.

Carla swallowed, finally meeting your eyes. “And I owe you an apology.”

Your chest tightened again, instinctively bracing.

“I was jealous,” she said. “Not of him. Of you.”

You blinked.

“Everything looks easy around you,” she continued, voice trembling just slightly. “People settle when you walk into a room. You don’t have to try. I’ve been trying my whole life.”

She laughed weakly. “I even followed him to the beach,” Carla admits. “I thought if he liked you, maybe I could figure out why.”

Your throat closed.

“I didn’t want him,” Carla said quietly. “I wanted what you had. And I hated that I couldn’t figure out how you did it. It was pathetic and I am so sorry for everything.”

Jimmy nodded. “And for what it’s worth? None of us think exposing the deal was cruel.”

Your breath caught.

“You were hurt,” he said simply. “And he didn’t see it. That doesn’t make you the villain.”

You looked down at the pavement, emotion pressing hard behind your eyes. “I should’ve known better,” you whispered. “I knew what that world does to people. I dragged him into it.”

Carla shook her head. “He walked in on his own.”

A pause.

“And you didn’t drag him,” she added gently. “You showed him kindness. He just mistook the attention for love.”

Something in your chest loosened — not healed, but acknowledged.

“We miss you,” Jimmy said. “Not the version of you who fits in. Just— you.”

You nodded slowly, throat tight. “I don’t know if I’m ready to come back.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “Just don’t disappear.”

Carla offered a tentative smile. “And for what it’s worth? You didn’t ruin him.”

You flinch. “I did.”

“No,” she says firmly. “He made choices. So did you. Sometimes things just get messy.”

Jimmy nods. “You cared. That’s not a crime.”

Something in your chest loosens — just a little.

“We just wanted you to know,” Jimmy adds, “you weren’t disposable. You never were.”

You look at them — really look — and realise something quietly devastating.

None of this was fake.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

For the first time in days, the weight shifted — not gone, but no longer crushing. You’d just shown Oscar a door he’d already been leaning toward. And maybe the mistake wasn’t wanting to be seen — but believing visibility and connection were the same thing.

~~

Oscar doesn’t expect you to open the door.

He expects another excuse. Another silence. Another version of you that exists only in the negative space he’s been collecting for days now.

So when the door actually does open — when you’re there, real and tired and guarded — it almost knocks the breath out of him.

“Hi,” he says, stupidly.

You don’t smile. You don’t slam the door either. You just look at him, eyes unreadable, hand still wrapped around the handle like you might change your mind.

“I’m not busy,” you say flatly. “If that’s what you’re here to check.”

A beat.

“I know,” Oscar says. “You’ve been washing your hair. A lot. And apparently you’ve been out of the country twice this week.”

That gets a reaction — not a laugh, but a flicker of something sharp behind your eyes.

“Do you want to come in,” you ask, “or are you just here to catalogue my avoidance?”

You step aside before he can answer.

Your apartment feels exactly how he remembers it. Quiet. Lived-in. Real. It hits him all at once — how long it’s been since he’s been somewhere that doesn’t feel like an audience.

You don’t offer him a seat. You don’t sit either.

Oscar swallows.

“I won’t take long,” he says. “I just— I needed you to hear this from me. Not through Logan. Not through anyone else.”

Your arms fold across your chest. Defensive. Not cruel.

“Okay,” you say. “I’m listening.”

He exhales.

“That night,” he starts, then stops. Recalibrates. “You tore me apart.”

Your jaw tightens.

“But you also,” he continues quickly, “you woke me up.”

You look away then, like the words landed somewhere too close.

“I didn’t understand,” he says, voice low. “I thought— I genuinely thought you were just better at this than me. At pretending. At letting things roll off you.”

“I told you not to do it like that,” you say quietly. 

“I know,” he says. “And I broke that promise. Not because I didn’t care — but because I didn’t realise how much I was already choosing something else.”

Silence stretches between you.

“I thought being seen meant being loud,” Oscar continues. “Being wanted. Being there.” He shakes his head. “But I was noticed the whole time. I just didn’t see it. I thought popularity was the point.”

“And I wasn’t?” you ask, softly.

His chest tightens.

“You were the point,” he says immediately. “You always were. I just lost track of that.”

You laugh under your breath — not amused. Hurt.

“I gave you something that mattered to me,” you say. “That place. That version of me. And I watched you walk it straight into a crowd.”

“I didn’t bring her,” Oscar says, quickly. “To the beach. I swear to you, I didn’t. She followed me. I went there looking for you.”

You close your eyes briefly. “I know, but that almost makes it worse,” you say. “Because it means you still didn’t see what it looked like.”

Oscar nods. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I ever made you feel like you were interchangeable. Or replaceable. Or expendable.”

His voice breaks on the last word.

“I don’t want that life,” he says. “I don’t want the attention. I don’t want the tables or the parties or being someone people only like because you made me legible to them.” He swallows. “I just wanted you. And I didn’t know how to hold that without losing myself. I got lost in it all, the attention, the popularity— I forgot what I started it all for, to help you, to be beside you, even just for a little while. I truly am sorry.”

You’re quiet for a long moment.

Then, finally:

“Thank you,” you say. “For apologising.”

Hope flickers in his chest — fragile, dangerous.

But then you continue. “I don’t know where we go from here. I think I need space.”

The words aren’t cruel. They’re honest. And they land harder than anger ever could.

Oscar nods slowly, forcing himself to accept it.

“That’s okay,” he says. “I’m not asking you to fix this. Or forgive me. Or pretend it didn’t hurt. I just want you to know I am truly sorry— for everything.”

You meet his eyes again.

“Pretending to date you,” he adds softly, “was wonderful. Even when it wasn’t real. Especially because it wasn’t.”

Something shifts in your expression then — not resolution, not relief.

But recognition.

You don’t tell him to leave. But you don’t tell him to stay.

And for the first time, Oscar understands that this — the not knowing, the waiting, the consequence — is the part he doesn’t get to skip.

Not anymore.

~~

It’s been a few days since Oscar’s apology.

Long enough for the noise to die down. Long enough for the ache to settle into something quieter — not gone, but no longer clawing.

He hasn’t tried to find you since. Not because he doesn’t want to — but because, for the first time, he understands that wanting doesn’t mean taking.

The beach is quieter than it usually is.

Not empty — never empty — but calm in that way that only happens late afternoon, when the sun has softened and the wind has gentled into something almost kind. The water moves in slow, even breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

Oscar sits where he always does now, shoes kicked off, sleeves pushed up, the sand cool beneath his palms.

He comes here for himself.

That’s the truth of it — the one he’s finally learned how to say without flinching. This place isn’t a hope anymore. It’s a reminder. Of who he was before everything went sideways. Of who he still is, if he lets himself be.

He watches the horizon, lets the sound of the waves fill the quiet spaces in his head.

He doesn’t check his phone.

He doesn’t wonder who’s tagged him, or who’s talking about him, or whether anyone is watching.

He just sits.

And still — traitorously, stupidly — some small part of him listens for footsteps.

For your voice.

Behind him, further up the beach, you stand frozen.

You’ve taken space — real space. The kind that hurts, but heals.

And somehow, in the quiet of it, the feelings didn’t fade. They sharpened.

He hurt you. Deeply.

But he owned it. He came back changed. And now, you’re ready to forgive him. Not forget — forgive.

Lily nudges your shoulder gently. Carla is on your other side, arms folded tight like she’s holding herself together by force of will. The others hover just behind — not pushing, not pulling. Just there.

This time, they’re here for you.

Your chest feels tight, not with anger or hurt, but something thinner and sharper.

Nerves.

You watch Oscar from a distance, the way he sits like he belongs here now. Like this place has chosen him back. There’s no audience. No performance. Just him and the sea.

Stripped back.

Real.

You’ve seen it elsewhere too — the way Logan laughs again when Oscar’s around. The way the weight between them has eased. He didn’t just apologise. He did better.

And something in you loosens.

This wasn’t my fault, you realised — gently, like a truth finally settling into place. He chose it. He chose the attention. But more importantly, he chose to come back from it.

Carla clears her throat. “If you don’t go now,” she mutters, “I’m pushing you.”

Lily smiles softly. “You’ve got this.”

You nod, even though your hands are shaking.

For a second, you hesitate — not because you’re unsure, not because you’re scared of him.

Because you’re scared of how much you want this.

Then you start walking.

The sand shifts under your feet, familiar and grounding. The wind catches your hair. The ocean sounds exactly the same as it did the first night you brought him here — the same rhythm, the same salt in the air.

Oscar hears his name before he sees you.

It’s quiet. Uncertain. Almost swallowed by the breeze.

He turns.

For half a second, his brain refuses to catch up.

Then his breath leaves him all at once.

You stop a few steps away, suddenly unsure where to put your hands, your weight rocking forward and back like you might bolt.

Behind you, there’s a very obvious cluster of girls pretending not to stare.

“Hey,” he says. It comes out softer than he expects.

“Hey,” you reply, just as quiet.

An awkward beat passes.

He rubs the back of his neck, lets out a small huff of a laugh. “So, not washing your hair today?”

You blink. “I told you. I was very busy.”

“You’re good,”  he asks, a smile tugging at his mouth. “At avoiding me professionally.”

You snort despite yourself, then press your lips together like you’re annoyed that he still knows how to do that.

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I come here a lot now,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the water. “Not to find you. I mean—” He stops himself, exhales. “Okay. Maybe at first. But now it’s just… quiet. It helps me remember things.”

You nod. “I know.”

He looks at you properly then — really looks — and his voice drops. “I know you said you didn’t know where to go from here. But I just want to say it again. Without messing it up.”

Your heart stutters.

“I hurt you,” he continues. “I broke the one thing you asked me not to. And I didn’t even realise I was doing it.” He swallows. “I don’t want to be that person. And I don’t want any of that if it costs me you.”

You inhale shakily.

“I used to think being noticed was the same as being seen,” he admits. “Turns out I was wrong. I was seen the whole time. I just didn’t know how to recognise it.”

Your chest tightens.

You step closer.

“I needed to see you like this,” you say softly. “After everything. Because I couldn’t come back unless you really meant it. Because this—” you gesture between you. “This is you. And I’m choosing you. Not because there’s anything to gain. But because there isn’t — and I still want you.”

His eyes sting.

“And for the record,” you add, voice steadier now, “this wasn’t my fault. You made choices. And you learned from them. That’s on you — not me.”

Something in Oscar’s face breaks open — relief, gratitude, something close to awe.

He nods once. “Thank you. For saying that.”

Another beat. The ocean breathes around you.

“So,” he says, tentative again. “Do you… maybe want to—”

“Ask me out?” you interrupt.

He freezes. “I— yeah. That was the plan.”

You glance back over your shoulder. Your friends are absolutely not subtle. Lily is biting her lip. Carla has her hands clasped like she’s praying.

You turn back to him.

“Okay,” you say, then hesitate — nerves surging. “But just so you know… I’m really bad at first dates.”

His smile spreads slow and real. “Lucky for us, we’ve already had about a hundred.”

You step into his space before you can overthink it.

“Fuck it,” you murmur.

Then you kiss him.

It’s not polished. Not perfect. It’s a little clumsy, a little breathless — but it’s honest. He gasps against your lips and his hands come up like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like he needs to make sure you’re real. The world narrows to salt air and warmth and the way he exhales your name against your mouth.

The kiss isn’t rushed.

It’s not desperate or frantic or fueled by fear of losing each other again. It’s tentative at first — lips brushing, breath shared, the soft exhale you both release like you’ve been holding it since the beginning.

Then it deepens.

Not because either of you pushes — but because you lean in together.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself there, like if you let go he might fade back into something unreachable. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing your hairline, reverent. Careful. As if he’s learned something about what it means to hold someone without claiming them.

The ocean surges behind you, louder now, applause or heartbeat or both.

When you finally pull back, his forehead presses into yours like an anchor, like he’s holding himself still just to stay here with you. Breath tangled, smiles breaking through tears neither of you bother to hide.

“You know,” Oscar says, voice rough but warm, “pretending to date you was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

You laugh softly, pressing one more kiss to his mouth — slower, surer this time.

“Good,” you say. “Because this isn’t pretending.”

Behind you, your friends erupt into giggles and cheers you barely hear.

All you feel is him. All you choose is this. And for the first time, it’s enough.

~~

Epilogue

Finals season doesn’t feel like it used to.

It’s still busy — libraries packed, coffee cups piling up, notes spread across every available surface — but the panic has loosened its grip. The pressure no longer feels like it’s crushing your chest. It feels… manageable.

You’re sitting at a table near the back of the library, the same one you once claimed like a lifeline. Oscar sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours, not because either of you needs reassurance — just because it feels right.

Logan is across from you, frowning at a problem set and muttering under his breath. Oscar nudges him with his knee.

“You’re overthinking it,” Oscar says mildly.

Logan scoffs. “Says the man who once spent forty minutes explaining supply and demand with Lego.”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

Logan looks up, grins — real and easy — and shakes his head. “I missed this,” he says, like he doesn’t need to explain what this means.

Oscar doesn’t joke it away. He just nods. “Me too.”

That’s the thing now. He doesn’t dodge the quiet moments anymore. He doesn’t rush past them.

Outside of the library, things have shifted too — subtly, but unmistakably.

Jimmy still hosts parties, but they’re smaller now. Less spectacle, more substance. Carla shows up early, helps clean up, and sits with you on the couch like she’s always belonged there. She texts you about classes she’s struggling with. About how she’s finally booked time with a tutor.

Sometimes you catch Oscar watching the two of you talk, something thoughtful behind his eyes — not jealousy, not regret. Just awareness.

He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t perform.

And when people tag him in stories now, when notifications buzz in his pocket, he barely glances at them.

He doesn’t need to.

Because when he looks up, you’re already there.

Studying has become something else entirely.

You still quiz each other, still argue over concepts, still groan when neither of you can remember a formula — but there’s laughter woven through it now. Comfort. Ease. The knowledge that failing one exam doesn’t mean failing at life.

At some point, you catch yourself watching Oscar instead of your notes.

He’s focused, pen tapping absently against the page, brow creased in concentration. Not trying to be impressive. Not trying to be seen.

Just being.

You smile to yourself.

Once, you both thought being noticed was the same as being valued. You thought love had to be loud to be real.

Now you know better.

Oscar glances up, catching you staring.

“What?” he asks, soft.

You shake your head, reaching for his hand under the table. “Nothing. Just glad we’re here.”

He squeezes your fingers once — grounding, familiar.

“Me too,” he says. And you know he means all of it.

Later, when you leave the library together, the campus hums around you like it always has. People pass by, laughing, arguing, living loudly.

And for the first time, you don’t feel the need to compete with any of it.

You don’t need to be seen by everyone.

Because you’re seen by each other.

And this time, it’s real.