A week later
The gallery wasn't grand. Just a repurposed media hall behind the journalism building, strung with low-hanging bulbs and repainted with charcoal-grey panels to look intentional. Tonight, it pulsed with low music, a curated playlist of indie tracks and instrumentals that no one could name but everyone nodded along to. Small clusters of people drifted between photo boards and mounted canvases, half-looking, half-posing.
Mix stood near the back, coffee cup in hand, sleeves pushed up just enough to look effortless. He wore a clean jacket, something soft and too warm, but he hadn't turned back once after stepping inside. Tarn had texted the invite that morning, along with a smirking emoji and a photo of the exhibit sign. No poetry. Just lights.
Tarn was here early, of course. Mix had spotted him right away camera slung across his chest, black jeans, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy but on purpose. Tarn greeted people like he belonged, like this was his show even if his name wasn't on any wall. He lit up the room, and not just because he moved a lot. Mix watched him in flashes, eyes drifting every few minutes. The air was crowded with talk, but the corners stayed quiet, and that was where he lingered.
Across the room, Arm had just walked in. With Gun and Peat.
He hadn't planned on coming, not until Gun insisted they make an appearance. "Free food, soft lighting, and awkward vibes? It's the queer trifecta," Gun had joked.
Arm had agreed. Mostly because he didn't want to be alone.
Now he stood just inside the door, blinking against the dim. He spotted Mix immediately. Same posture. Same stillness. But this time, someone else was near him.
Tarn. Laughing about something. Eyes on Mix.
Arm swallowed and shoved his hands into his jacket pocket. The cold from outside was still clinging to his fingers. He didn't move toward them.
Gun had already peeled off, talking to someone from his sociology class. Peat followed, slower. Arms folded, head low. He hadn't said much on the walk over, hadn't held Gun's hand. Now he hovered near the edge of the food table, watching as Gun gestured wildly with a mini cupcake in hand.
Bave was across the room, by the east wall, helping align a misprinted title card. Her hair was pulled up high, held with a red clip. She wore earrings that caught the gallery lights when she turned, and right now, her expression was all business.
Until Jack walked in.
Late. Alone.
He looked like he just stepped off a stage. Shirt half-buttoned, coat flared out at the edges. A few heads turned when he entered, and Bave felt the shift immediately. A girl whispered something. Another nudged her friend. Jack flashed a lazy grin, nodded at the cluster near the front, and made his way toward the crowd.
He hadn't seen her yet. Or maybe he had and was pretending otherwise.
Either way, her jaw clenched.
Back in the corner, Mix set his cup down. Tarn had returned from wherever he'd gone and held out a tiny chocolate bar, unwrapped.
"Stolen from the snack table," he said. "They had a tray marked 'for children.' I don't care."
Mix smirked, took the candy. "You're five minutes from being arrested for cupcake theft."
"Let them try," Tarn said, mock-solemn.
Their shoulders bumped. Neither pulled away.
Arm saw it.
He wasn't sure if Mix saw him. Didn't want to find out.
He turned toward the opposite side of the room, suddenly fascinated by a black-and-white photo of rusted windowpanel.
---
The gallery's back room wasn't meant for crowds. It was quiet, softer. A few benches. Less light. The art on the walls was personal, handwritten captions pinned beside each piece. The kind that hurt if you read them too slowly.
Peat found this place first. He needed out. The lights in the main hall had started to feel too bright. Gun had been talking to someone from his film class too long, too familiar and Peat had felt himself fading from the room, like he wasn't even in the same evening anymore.
He sat on the farthest bench, staring at a painting of two boys with their foreheads touching. One was painted in full color. The other was made of smudges and fingerprints, fading at the edges.
Gun found him ten minutes later.
Peat didn't turn.
Gun sat down next to him. Said nothing.
Then, softly, "I didn't know it bothered you. That I talk to people."
"It doesn't," Peat said.
Gun waited.
Peat's fingers tightened around the edge of the bench. "It bothers me that I feel like I'm the only one checking the time. Wondering how long we've been off."
That landed.
Gun blinked slowly. "So what do you want?"
Peat looked at him for the first time all night. "To not feel like a background character in my own relationship."
Gun looked away. "I didn't know you felt like that."
Peat stood. "That's kind of the problem."
---
A few rooms over, Jack was cornered by two girls from his dance team. They were laughing, loud and effortless. One reached out and adjusted his collar, too casually.
Bave watched from a distance.
She wasn't jealous. That would've been easier. She was just… tired.
She stepped up finally, cutting into the small circle. The girls took the hint and peeled away.
"You forgot we came here together," she said.
Jack blinked like he hadn't even noticed her walking up.
"I was just"
"I know. You were networking. Or bonding. Or doing whatever someone almost famous is supposed to do."
Jack frowned. "That's not fair."
Bave crossed her arms. "Neither is feeling like you're chasing a dream that keeps stepping over me."
He didn't answer.
So she walked away. This time, she didn't look back.
---
And then there was Mix.
Standing by a sculpture shaped like broken wings. Tarn beside him, too close, talking about the art but watching Mix instead.
Arm had wandered closer. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. But now he was hearing everything.
"This piece," Tarn said, "feels like it was made for people who almost said what they felt."
Mix didn't speak.
Tarn looked at him, then said more gently, "You ever think about how different things would be if we didn't let timing ruin everything?"
It was a slow question. A heavy one.
Arm stepped forward. "Maybe timing isn't the problem. Maybe it's the people."
Mix froze.
Tarn turned. "That was direct."
"Maybe it needed to be."
Tarn took a slow breath and stepped back. "You want to talk? I'll give you space."
He nodded at Mix, then walked off.
The silence that followed was thick. Not angry. Not loud. But it pulsed.
Mix looked at Arm. "That wasn't your moment to ruin."
Arm's jaw clenched. "Neither was that your new beginning."
Mix shook his head. "You don't get to say when I begin again."
"I just didn't expect you to move on so easily."
Mix laughed. Not out of humor. "You think this is easy?"
"I saw the way you looked at him."
"Because he sees me," Mix said, voice cracking slightly. "Not as an echo of guilt. Not as some memory you regret. He sees me now."
Arm's voice dropped. "And what if I'm trying to see you now too?"
"You're late."
Silence.
Mix stepped back. "You don't get to chase me when you were the one who ran first."
Arm didn't follow.
He just stood there, surrounded by art that suddenly felt too honest. Too revealing. Like someone had painted what he never had the courage to say.
---
Outside, the air was colder. Mix leaned against the wall, eyes closed, pulse loud in his ears.
Tarn didn't come out.
Neither did Arm.
He stood alone, for once not between them.
Just himself.
And for the first time, he realized that might be the only place he could finally breathe.
---