Weekend Away – Part One: The Perfect Son
The campus was quieter than usual. It was one of those long weekends where half the dorms emptied out and the other half lived on instant noodles and skipped showers. Mix packed slowly. His fingers hesitated every few minutes, brushing over old notebooks and sweaters that smelled like detergent and dorm dust.
He hadn't been home in months. Not since school started. Not since the world shifted beneath his feet and Arm became more than just a shadow in the corner of a memory.
"You okay?" Arm asked, leaning against the doorframe.
Mix nodded. "Just thinking. My mom likes clean collars and no sarcasm. I'm trying to remember how to shrink myself."
Arm didn't smile. He crossed the room and helped zip up the bag. "You don't have to do that."
"I kind of do."
"Then I'm coming with you."
Mix blinked. "What?"
Arm shrugged. "Your mom can meet the guy who used to laugh at your bullies and now wants to hold your hand. It'll be awkward. It'll be honest."
Mix stared. Then nodded. "Okay. Let's go home."
---
Mix stood by the shuttle pickup, bag in one hand, his expression unreadable.
Arm showed up five minutes late, out of breath, a small duffel slung over his shoulder.
"In sorry I forgot my charger?" he said while running towards Mux
Mix nodded away. "its okay."
'I'm looking forward to meeting your family, Arm said teasingly. Like what if your parents hate me?"He said Jokingly
"They won't," Mix said.
He didn't add because they'll be too busy trying to make me perfect again.
---
The drive was short, but the silence was long. Mix sat by the window, headphones in but no music playing. Arm didn't ask questions. Just watched the way Mix's jaw tightened the closer they got.
Mix's family home wasn't huge, but it had this curated warmth. Photos on the wall, clean wood floors, the smell of soup and something lemony hanging in the air.
"Mixton!" his mother's voice called from the kitchen. "You didn't say you were bringing a friend."
Mix flinched at the full name. Arm noticed.
"This is Arm," Mix said. "We're roommates."
His mother smiled. Big and practiced. "Well, any friend of Mix's is welcome here."
Arm gave a small bow like a polite guest. "Thank you, ma'am."
Mix hated how easy it was for Arm to be charming. Hated how it reminded him of every dinner table where he'd kept his shoulders square and his jokes tame.
---
The evening passed in carefully filtered conversation.
Mix helped set the table. Arm made polite conversation with his younger sister. His dad barely spoke at all, only nodding from time to time. He always liked things quiet.
"So," his mother asked over soup, "what are you how has your studies been?"
Mix answered. Slowly. Carefully. Every word measured.
Arm watched him like he didn't recognize the person speaking. Like this version of Mix was too small.
Later, when they were alone in Mix's roombstill painted soft blue from his high school days Arm sat on the edge of the bed.
"You're not this quiet with me," he said.
Mix tossed his bag onto the floor. "I have a quota to hit. One son, zero disappointments."
Arm didn't laugh.
Mix didn't expect him to.
---
They didn't kiss that night.
They didn't even touch.
Just lay side by side, not speaking, under the soft glow of an old ceiling light.
Some silences were safer than the truth.
---
Gun liked empty weekends. Fewer voices. More space to think.
And a chance to ask Peat out without the whole friend group hovering.
He knocked once on Peat's door, then cracked it open.
"You still good for the movie?"
Peat sat cross-legged on his bed, scrolling through his phone. "Yeah. You picking, or am I?"
"Let's do that indie one with the ugly poster and the weird trailer."
Peat looked up. "That's all of them."
Gun smiled. "Exactly."
---
The theater was nearly empty. A couple of strangers scattered across the rows, heads tilted toward the screen light.
Gun didn't make any big moves. No arm around the shoulder. No grand gestures. Just sat beside Peat like the silence between them meant something.
Peat handed him the popcorn halfway through the first act. Gun's fingers brushed his. Neither of them moved.
"You like it?" Gun whispered.
Peat shrugged. "It's slow. But it's honest."
Gun nodded, eyes still on the screen. "You could be describing us."
Peat didn't answer. But he didn't pull his hand away either.
By the time the credits rolled, the air between them had changed. Not charged. Just… softer.
They walked back under the half-dead streetlights, quiet except for the sound of shoes on asphalt.
At Peat's door, he paused. "Thanks for asking me."
Gun scratched the back of his neck. "Thanks for saying yes."
Peat hesitated. Then said, "You were better tonight. Like… less loud."
Gun smiled. "I've been practicing."
Peat opened his door.
And for a second, Gun thought he might be invited in.
But Peat just nodded once. "Good night, Gun."
Then the door clicked shut.
---
Meanwhile…
Jack sat alone in the cafeteria, picking at a vending machine sandwich. He had planned to go home too, but his parents were out of town and it didn't feel worth the trip.
He saw Bave walk past the window, earbuds in, hoodie up, phone in hand.
He didn't call out.
Didn't wave.
But he watched her walk all the way past until she was gone from view.
Then he turned back to his sandwich.
And kept chewing.
--
Mix walked to the porch
The air was too still. The walls too white. His mom was already in the kitchen, hair pulled back, lips tight in that way she thought looked calm but wasn't.
"There's extra rice on the stove," she said without turning around. "Your father will be home late today" He stopped on his trail and traced his fingers on the wall, aborting the mission of going to the porch, Arm was still asleep.
Photos of Mix lined the shelf. All polished versions. No real expressions. Just stiff smiles from school awards, sports days, and family holidays that felt like performance art.
He decided to help set the table for breakfast.
---
Later that night
Dinner smelled like fried plantain, Spaghetti and soup, and too much performance. The table was set perfectly, forks and spoons aligned like soldiers. Arm sat to Mix's left, across from Mix's younger sister who was texting under the table and pretending not to listen.
"So, Arm," Mix's father said between small bites of yam. "What are you studying?"
"Architecture," Arm replied, voice smooth but soft. "I've always liked shapes and space."
Mix's mom gave a polite smile. "Very practical. And your family? Are they in the city?"
Arm nodded. "Yes ma. My mom runs a small bookstore. My dad's a civil engineer."
"Bookstore?" she echoed, like it was a hobby instead of a job. "That's… quaint."
Mix's grip on his fork tightened.
The silence stretched too long. His sister cleared her throat, but said nothing. His father nodded again, like ticking a mental checklist.
"And Mix?" his mom turned suddenly, like the spotlight had just shifted. "Are you keeping up with your reading? You never told us what electives you finally settled on."
"Music theory," Mix said, voice careful. "And composition. I'm doing okay."
His mother blinked. "I thought we agreed on Business and Psychology."
"We didn't agree," Mix said, eyes still on his food. "You suggested."
There was a silence sharper than the clatter of cutlery.
Arm glanced sideways at him but said nothing.
His father spoke again, almost absentmindedly. "You know what pays the bills, Mixton. Dreams are fine, but remember what kind of world we're in."
Mix nodded once. "Yes sir."
Arm shifted in his seat, clearly holding back.
Mix looked up, finally meeting his mother's eyes. "Arm's actually heard my latest track. He helped mix it."
"That's nice," she said. Not unkind, but dismissive. "But let's not get distracted by hobbies."
That was it.
Conversation drifted off after that. The clink of dishes. The occasional question about school. The gentle hum of a fridge that sounded louder than it should.
Arm smiled politely when needed. He helped clear the plates after. Said "thank you for the meal" with a bow of his head.
But once they were back in Mix's room and the door clicked shut, the mask slipped.
"That was… a lot," Arm said gently.
Mix tossed his hoodie onto the bed. "Welcome to dinner at my home.Starring our favorite disappointment: me."
Arm didn't correct him.
He just sat on the edge of the bed and said, "You didn't disappear in there. You just got quieter. You're still here."
Mix didn't reply.
But later, on the balcony, under stars that didn't judge, he leaned against Arm's shoulder and let the silence stretch into something that didn't feel like shame.
Arm didn't ask questions
He just leaned back and let the night speak for itself.
Mix eventually exhaled. "It's exhausting. Being this version of me. I keep thinking maybe if I play it right, they'll stop trying to redesign me."
Arm replied softly, "Maybe the real win is being someone they don't know how to categorize."
Mix chuckled. "That sounds scary."
Arm nudged his knee. "So do most things worth doing."
But Mix leaned his head against Arm's shoulder, and for once, didn't feel like he had to explain himself.
---
Back on campus…
Bave sat on the windowsill of the art block, hoodie up, legs pulled to her chest. Her sketchpad sat open beside her, but the pencil hadn't moved in an hour.
Her phone lit up.
Jack: Are you okay?
She stared at the message.
Typed nothing.
Locked the screen again.
Sometimes, silence was easier than honesty.
But it never stayed easy for long.
---