Julian Cross had perfected the art of disappearing in plain sight.
It wasn't magic—though sometimes he wondered if years of practice had worn grooves in reality itself, creating a Julian-shaped void that people's eyes simply slipped around. He could stand in the middle of Crestwood University's main quad, backpack slung over one shoulder, and watch five hundred students move past him as if he were made of air. Not one of them would see him. Not really.
He'd learned the trick early, back when being noticed in foster homes meant being moved to the next one. Keep your head down, speak only when spoken to, take up as little space as possible. The Hendersons had liked quiet children. The Morales family had preferred invisible ones. By the time he'd aged out of the system at eighteen, Julian had perfected the art so thoroughly that he sometimes forgot he existed at all.
The October wind cut through Crestwood's gothic revival architecture, sending dead leaves skittering across the stone pathways like tiny, brittle ghosts. Julian pulled his jacket tighter and climbed the steps to Whitmore Hall, home to the Art History department and, more importantly, his Advanced Renaissance Studies seminar. The gargoyles perched along the building's corners seemed to leer down at him with stone-carved sympathy, fellow creatures of shadow and silence.
Inside, the hallways buzzed with that particular brand of undergraduate energy—part caffeine, part existential dread, part desperate hope that this semester would be different. Julian wove through clusters of students discussing weekend plans he'd never be invited to, study groups he'd never join, parties that would happen in a parallel universe where people like him mattered.
"—totally bombed the quiz, but whatever, Professor Chen curves everything anyway—"
"—can't believe Marcus is still hooking up with that girl from Delta Phi—"
"—if I have to write another paper on the male gaze in classical sculpture, I'm literally going to—"
The voices blended into a familiar white noise. Julian found his usual seat in the back corner of the seminar room, three rows behind anyone else and positioned so he could slip out without being noticed if needed. He pulled out his notebook—the official one, not the sketchbook buried at the bottom of his bag—and prepared to blend into the wooden chair until class ended.
That's when she walked in.
Sophia Martinez moved through the world like she owned it, which, given that her father donated enough money to put his name on two buildings, she basically did. Dark hair that caught the light just right, clothes that probably cost more than Julian's entire semester's worth of textbooks, and that particular kind of confidence that came from never doubting you belonged exactly where you were.
Julian had been building up the courage to talk to her for three weeks.
It was pathetic, really. He knew this. Every rational part of his brain screamed that Sophia Martinez existed in a completely different stratosphere of human experience. She was the sun, burning bright and beautiful and surrounded by planets that orbited her natural gravitational pull. He was space debris, cold and forgotten and floating alone in the dark.
But she'd smiled at him once. Two weeks ago, when he'd held the door for her after class. A real smile, not the polite grimace most people managed when forced to acknowledge his existence. And last Tuesday, when Professor Vasquez had asked about the symbolism in Caravaggio's Judith Beheading Holofernes, Sophia had glanced back at him like she was curious what he might say.
Of course, he hadn't said anything. He never did. But the look had been enough to fuel two weeks of elaborate fantasies where he was the kind of person who could walk up to beautiful girls and make them laugh, the kind of person who mattered enough to take up space in someone else's thoughts.
Today was going to be different. Today, he was going to ask her if she wanted to grab coffee after class. Just coffee. A simple, normal human interaction that billions of people managed every day without dying of terror.
Professor Vasquez swept into the room, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun and her arms full of books that she deposited on the desk with a satisfying thunk. "Good morning, everyone. I hope you've all done the reading on Northern Renaissance art, because today we're diving deep into the relationship between religious iconography and political power."
Julian opened his notebook and tried to focus on taking notes, but his attention kept drifting to Sophia's profile three rows ahead. The way she tilted her head when she was thinking. The silver bracelet that caught the light when she wrote. The fact that in approximately fifty minutes, he was either going to ask her out or die of cowardice.
Probably the latter.
The class passed in a blur of discussion about symbolism and patronage systems, concepts that Julian usually found fascinating but today felt like background noise to the percussion of his own heartbeat. When Professor Vasquez finally dismissed them, Julian's palms were slick with sweat and his mouth felt full of cotton.
This was it. Now or never.
Sophia gathered her things with practiced efficiency, sliding her laptop into a leather bag that probably cost more than Julian's monthly food budget. She was almost to the door when Julian finally worked up the nerve to move.
"Um, Sophia?"
She turned, eyebrows raised in polite confusion. Up close, she was even more intimidatingly perfect—skin that probably had never seen a blemish, teeth straight from years of expensive orthodontia, the kind of casual beauty that came from good genetics and better skincare.
"Yes?" Her voice was pleasant enough, but there was already a subtle shift in her posture, the way someone prepares to deflect an unwanted interaction.
Julian's carefully rehearsed words evaporated. "I was wondering... I mean, if you're not busy... maybe you'd want to get coffee sometime? There's this place off campus that has really good—"
"Oh." The single syllable hit him like a physical blow. Sophia's expression shifted from polite confusion to something dangerously close to pity. "That's... really sweet, Julian, but I'm actually seeing someone. And even if I wasn't..."
She trailed off, but the unfinished sentence hung in the air between them like a blade. Even if I wasn't, it wouldn't be with someone like you.
"Right." Julian's voice came out smaller than he'd intended. "Of course. I just thought—"
"Maybe try someone more..." Sophia glanced around the nearly empty classroom, then back at him with that same pitying smile. "More your speed? There are lots of nice girls who would be perfect for you."
The kindness in her voice was somehow worse than outright cruelty would have been. It was the tone someone used when explaining to a child why they couldn't have a pony, gentle and patient and absolutely final.
Behind Sophia, Julian caught sight of Brad Morrison and Tyler Chen—two guys from his dorm who existed in the same social orbit as Sophia. They'd been lingering by the door, probably waiting to walk with her, and had heard every word of the exchange. Tyler was smirking. Brad was actively trying not to laugh.
"Sure," Julian managed. "Thanks for being honest."
He turned and walked toward the door, face burning with embarrassment. As he passed Brad and Tyler, he heard Tyler mutter something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "shot down in flames," followed by barely suppressed laughter.
Julian kept walking.
The hallway felt endless, every step echoing off the stone walls like a countdown to his own humiliation. By the time he reached the main exit, his hands were shaking and his chest felt tight with something that might have been anger if he'd been brave enough to let himself feel it.
Instead, it just felt like drowning.
Back in his dorm room, Marcus was bent over his anatomy textbook, highlighter in hand and earbuds firmly in place. The pre-med track didn't leave much time for socializing, which suited Julian fine. They'd worked out a system of polite coexistence—Marcus studied in the main room, Julian retreated to his single bedroom whenever possible, and they maintained the kind of distant roommate relationship that required minimal interaction.
"Hey," Marcus said without looking up, pulling out one earbud. "How was class?"
"Fine." Julian dropped his bag by his desk and headed straight for his room. "Just gonna work on some stuff."
Marcus had already returned to his studying, which meant Julian's humiliation would remain private. Small mercies.
Julian's room was tiny—barely large enough for a single bed, a desk, and a dresser—but it was his. The walls were covered with prints of famous paintings, carefully chosen masterpieces that he'd studied until he could reproduce them from memory. Caravaggio's dramatic lighting. Vermeer's impossible blues. Turner's landscapes that seemed to capture the very essence of longing.
And hidden in his bottom desk drawer, wrapped in an old t-shirt like some kind of sacred relic, was his sketchbook.
Julian pulled it out and sank onto his bed, flipping through pages of drawings he'd never shown another living soul. Portraits of his classmates drawn from memory. Gothic architecture studies of the university buildings. Abstract pieces that bled emotion across the page in charcoal and graphite.
He'd been drawing since he was seven, back when Mrs. Patterson from his second foster home had given him a set of colored pencils for Christmas. Art had been his escape then, the one thing that was entirely his in a life where everything else could be taken away without warning. It had followed him through twelve different homes, six different schools, and now into his first year of college.
But he'd never shown his work to anyone. Not the foster families who might have seen it as frivolous. Not the teachers who might have encouraged him. Not even Professor Vasquez, who taught his favorite class and seemed like the kind of person who might understand.
Because showing someone your art was like showing them your soul, and Julian had learned early that most people weren't interested in souls like his.
He flipped to a blank page and started sketching, letting his pencil move without conscious thought. The embarrassment from this afternoon still burned in his chest, but it was mixing with something else now—a familiar ache that went deeper than social rejection. It was the same feeling he'd carried since he was twelve years old and realized that his parents weren't coming back, that no matter how good he was or how small he made himself, he would always be fundamentally alone.
The drawing that emerged was dark and abstract—sharp angles and heavy shadows that seemed to pull the eye inward like a vortex. There was something almost alive about it, something that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Julian found himself adding layer after layer of detail, losing himself in the rhythm of creation until the light outside his window had faded to deep purple.
A crack of thunder made him look up from his sketchbook, blinking in surprise. The October afternoon had given way to evening while he worked, and storm clouds had rolled in without him noticing. Rain lashed against his window, driven by wind that made the old dorm building groan and settle.
Perfect. Even the weather was mocking him.
Julian set his sketchbook aside and walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. The campus below was nearly deserted, most students smart enough to stay inside during what was shaping up to be a serious storm. Lightning flickered in the distance, followed by another rumble of thunder that seemed to vibrate through his bones.
Somewhere out there, Sophia was probably curled up with her boyfriend, safe and warm and completely unaware that she'd just shattered what little hope Julian had been carrying around. Somewhere else, Brad and Tyler were probably still laughing about the pathetic kid who thought he had a chance with someone like her.
And here he was, alone in his tiny room, invisible as always.
The familiar weight of isolation settled over him like a heavy blanket. This was his life. This was always going to be his life. He would graduate in four years having made no real friends, no meaningful connections, no impact on anyone's world. He would move on to whatever came next—graduate school, maybe, or some solitary job that let him hide behind a desk—and he would continue to exist in the spaces between other people's lives, never quite real enough to matter.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the campus, and Julian made a decision that felt both impulsive and inevitable.
He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
"Going out?" Marcus asked, glancing up from his textbook with mild concern. "It's pretty nasty out there."
"Just need some air," Julian said, which wasn't entirely a lie.
The elevator was broken—again—so Julian took the stairs to the roof access. The door was supposed to be locked, but someone had wedged it open with a brick months ago and the maintenance staff either hadn't noticed or didn't care. Students sometimes came up here to smoke or make out or just escape the claustrophobic dorm atmosphere, but tonight Julian had the place to himself.
The storm hit him like a physical force the moment he stepped outside. Rain soaked through his jacket within seconds, and the wind was strong enough to make him stagger. But there was something cleansing about it, something that matched the chaos inside his chest.
Julian walked to the edge of the roof, where a low concrete barrier was all that stood between him and a six-story drop to the quad below. He wasn't suicidal—he'd never been that dramatic—but there was something appealing about the idea of disappearing entirely, of finally matching his external reality to his internal one.
Lightning split the sky again, closer this time, and thunder followed almost immediately. Julian tilted his face up to the rain and let himself feel the full weight of his loneliness, the crushing certainty that this was all there would ever be.
Twenty-four hours ago, he'd had hope. Pathetic, delusional hope, but hope nonetheless. Now even that was gone, stripped away by a few polite words and a pitying smile.
"Please," he whispered to the storm, his voice breaking as the words were torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "I know I'm not much to look at. I know I'm not the kind of person people dream about. But I'm good—I try to be good. I'm honest, I'm kind, I would never hurt anyone. So why can't anyone see that? Why can't anyone see the good in me?"
His voice rose, competing with the thunder, years of swallowed pain finally spilling out. "I just want someone to see me. Really see me, not just look through me like I'm nothing. I want someone to want me, to choose me, to think I'm worth something. I'll do anything—I'll give anything—please, just don't let me be invisible anymore. I can't... I can't keep being no one to everyone. Please."
The words were torn from his throat with a desperation that surprised him, raw and bleeding and completely honest. He'd never said it out loud before, never admitted the full depth of his need, but the storm seemed to demand that kind of truth.
Lightning flashed again, brighter this time, and for a moment Julian could have sworn he saw something in the brief illumination—a crack in the air itself, like reality had briefly split at the seams.
But then the thunder rolled over him, and the moment passed, and Julian was alone on the roof with nothing but the rain and his own echoing emptiness.
He stayed there for another few minutes, letting the storm wash over him until his teeth were chattering and his fingers had gone numb. Then, because there was nothing else to do, he turned and walked back inside, leaving a trail of water behind him like tears the building would cry until morning.
In his room, Julian peeled off his soaked clothes and climbed into bed, exhaustion hitting him all at once. Through his window, the storm continued to rage, and somewhere in the space between sleep and waking, he thought he heard something that sounded almost like an answer.
But that was probably just the thunder.