POV: Zion
He saw it the moment Kevin started laughing a little too loud at jokes no one remembered telling.
The moment he began appearing everywhere, just a step behind Zion — in the library, in the courtyard, even at the lunch table he never used to touch.
"If I can't beat him, I'll join him," huh?
Zion had heard the whispers. The change in tone. The sudden interest in "bro talk."
It was all so transparent — like watching someone try to hide behind glass.
He didn't need confirmation.
He saw the cracks before Kevin even finished painting the mask.
That afternoon, Zion sat on the stone bench outside the drama hall, sipping from a cold can of peach soda. His blazer was off, tie loosened, shirt sleeves folded up to his elbows.
Kevin approached with two drinks, forced a grin, and handed one over.
"Figured you'd want something cold too," he said.
"Peach?" Zion raised a brow.
"Isn't it your favorite?"
"Funny. I don't recall telling you that."
Kevin's smile twitched — just slightly — but he recovered quick.
"Mabelle probably mentioned it."
"Right."
Zion didn't sip. Just stared.
He watched Kevin sit, too close, too casual, too calculated.
Everything about him felt like a staged photo.
Later, in the locker room after P.E., Zion caught snippets of the group chat Kevin tried to wedge himself into.
Mikey was leaning against a row of lockers, arms crossed, watching Kevin rant about how "some people think they're too good for the rest of us."
"Who are you even talking about?" Mikey asked flatly.
"C'mon, man. You know who—Zion. Always Mr. Perfect. You don't think it's annoying?"
Mikey didn't answer. He just shook his head and walked off.
Zion heard Isla whisper to Celeste behind the showers.
"Doesn't he realize Mabelle never even liked him like that?"
"He's embarrassing himself. And us."
Even Kevin's fake laugh sounded tired now.
Zion changed in silence.
He didn't need to say anything. The group was starting to see it on their own.
Kevin's bitterness was like cheap cologne — you couldn't escape the smell once it was on you.
He walked alone now more than ever, still pretending he was "in."
Still pretending it didn't sting that Mabelle's eyes never once searched for him.
Back in class, Zion caught Kevin trying to sit near him.
He gave a half-smile — polite, unreadable.
"You're trying so hard," Zion said quietly, "you might convince yourself you belong."
Kevin blinked, startled.
Zion turned back to his textbook before he could respond.
"But not me."
That night, Zion stared at his ceiling, earphones in, one hand behind his head, the other holding his phone as he scrolled through Mabelle's latest post — a candid of them at the arcade, him holding a giant plush bear like it weighed nothing.
"The definition of a soft win 🤍🐻"
He chuckled once, just under his breath.
Then whispered to himself:
"You can't fake your way to my level, Kevin."
"You don't even know what game we're playing."