Adrian spent Saturday with Isabella—brunch at the dining hall, studying together at the library, a movie in the evening. It should have been perfect. They were officially together now, no more ambiguity, no more "figuring things out."
Isabella held his hand during the movie, leaned against his shoulder, laughed at all the right moments. She was warm and present and everything a girlfriend should be.
Adrian's mind kept drifting to an empty dorm room and Dante spending the weekend at Marcus's apartment.
Sunday afternoon, Adrian was walking back from the campus bookstore—he'd bought the next book for his English class, trying to get ahead on reading—when he spotted Marcus sitting alone on a bench near the quad.
No Dante in sight.
Marcus saw him at the same time, raising a hand in greeting. "Hey, Adrian."
"Marcus. Hi." Adrian slowed, unsure if he should stop or keep walking. "Where's—I mean, how's your weekend?"
"Pretty good. Quiet." Marcus gestured to the empty space beside him. "You got a minute?"
Adrian hesitated, then sat down. Whatever this was, avoiding it wouldn't help.
"Congrats on the award," Marcus said. "Dante told me about it. Psychology research prize, right?"
"Yeah. Just a departmental thing."
"Don't downplay it. That's a big deal." Marcus was quiet for a moment, watching students cross the quad. "He was really proud of you, you know. Wouldn't shut up about it all weekend."
Adrian's chest tightened. "He said something?"
"More than something. He pulled up your paper on his phone and made me read the whole thing. Kept pointing out specific sections like, 'See? This is what I mean. He understands this stuff on a level most people don't.'" Marcus smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "It was sweet. Also kind of painful to watch."
"Painful how?"
"Because—" Marcus stopped, seeming to reconsider his words. "Can I ask you something? And will you give me an honest answer?"
Adrian's defenses activated immediately. "Depends on the question."
"What's really going on between you and Dante?"
"Nothing. We're just roommates with history. We've been competing since kindergarten. It's complicated."
"Competition. Right." Marcus's tone made it clear he didn't buy that explanation. "That's the official story. What's the real one?"
"That is the real one."
"Adrian, come on. I'm not blind, and I'm not stupid." Marcus turned to face him more fully. "Dante talks about you constantly. Knows your schedule better than his own. Gets weird whenever I mention your name. That's not normal roommate behavior. That's not even normal rivalry behavior."
"We have eighteen years of history. Of course he—"
"It's not about the history. It's about right now." Marcus's voice was gentle but firm. "Whatever's between you two, it's alive. It's happening currently, not just leftover feelings from high school."
Adrian didn't know what to say to that. Every deflection felt transparent, every denial obvious.
"Look," Marcus continued when Adrian stayed silent. "I like Dante. A lot. He's smart and funny and more vulnerable than he lets people see. And for about five seconds, I thought maybe we could be something."
"What changed?"
"You." Marcus laughed, the sound hollow. "You changed everything. Because I can like Dante all I want, but he's not available. Not really. His head and heart are somewhere else."
"That's not—I'm with Isabella. Dante knows that."
"Do you think that matters? Do you think feelings just disappear because they're inconvenient?" Marcus shook his head. "I'm not going to be someone's placeholder while they figure their shit out. I've done that before, and it sucked. I deserve better than that."
Adrian felt guilt settle heavy in his stomach. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I'm not trying to complicate anything for you."
"I know you're not. That's almost worse." Marcus stood up, shouldering his backpack. "Whatever you two have, it's bigger than what I can compete with. So either figure it out or let him go. Because this limbo you're both living in? It's killing him."
"Marcus—"
"I'm not saying this to be harsh. I'm saying it because someone needs to. You're both miserable, everyone around you can see it, and you're the only ones pretending everything's fine." Marcus started walking, then paused. "And Adrian? Stop using Isabella as a shield. She deserves better than being someone's proof that they're not in love with their roommate."
He left Adrian sitting on that bench, words echoing in his head.
This limbo is killing him.
Stop using Isabella as a shield.
You're both miserable.
Adrian sat there for a long time, watching the sun sink lower, campus gradually emptying as students headed to dinner or evening activities.
For the first time, he considered that maybe he wasn't the only victim in their eighteen-year story. Maybe Dante was hurting too. Maybe Dante had been hurting for a long time, and Adrian had been too focused on his own pain to notice.
The red crayon in kindergarten—had Dante taken it because he wanted Adrian's attention? The track race at age ten—had Dante's victory felt hollow because Adrian was upset? The basketball championship—had Dante spent that celebration looking for Adrian in the crowd, hoping for acknowledgment that never came?
What if every competition had been Dante's desperate attempt to make Adrian see him? And what if Adrian, trapped in his own hurt feelings, had never once looked beneath the surface?
Adrian pulled out his phone, staring at Dante's contact.
The real antagonist wasn't external. Wasn't some cosmic force keeping them apart. Wasn't even Isabella or Marcus or the complicated social dynamics they'd built.
The real antagonist was Adrian's own denial and cowardice. His inability to be honest about what he felt. His eighteen years of converting genuine feelings into rivalry because that was safer, easier, less terrifying.
He'd spent so long thinking of himself as the victim—the one who always came in second, the one who couldn't measure up, the one who lost. He'd never considered that maybe he'd been the one inflicting pain.
That maybe every time he'd pushed Dante away, every time he'd framed their relationship as pure competition, every time he'd refused to see what was right in front of him—maybe he'd been hurting Dante just as much as he claimed Dante hurt him.
Adrian's phone buzzed.
Isabella: Dinner tonight? Elena and Maya want to do that new Thai place.
Adrian: Can't tonight. Have to catch up on reading for class.
Isabella: Okay! Tomorrow then? ❤️
Adrian stared at the heart emoji, feeling like the worst person alive.
Adrian: Yeah, tomorrow sounds good.
He walked back to the dorm slowly, dreading and anticipating Dante's return in equal measure.
Room 447B was empty when he arrived. Adrian dropped his bookstore bag on his desk, changed into comfortable clothes, tried to focus on his English reading.
Seven PM came and went. Eight PM. Nine PM.
At 9:47, the door opened.
Dante walked in carrying his weekend bag, looking exhausted. His hair was messy, clothes wrinkled, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he hadn't slept well.
"Hey," Adrian said, closing his book. "How was your weekend?"
"Fine." Dante's voice was flat, emotionless. He set his bag down and started unpacking mechanically—dirty clothes in the hamper, toiletries back on his shelf, phone charger plugged in with precise movements that suggested he was operating on autopilot.
"Did you guys do anything fun?"
"Watched movies. Hung out. Normal weekend stuff."
"Cool. That sounds—"
"Adrian, I'm really tired. Can we not do small talk right now?"
The words weren't harsh, just exhausted, like Dante had used up all his emotional energy and had nothing left for pleasantries.
"Yeah, of course. Sorry."
Dante finished unpacking in silence, brushed his teeth, changed into sleep clothes, and climbed into bed facing the wall.
It was 10:15 PM. Dante never went to bed before midnight.
Adrian sat at his desk, pretending to read, actually watching Dante's still form across the room. His breathing was too controlled to be real sleep—Dante was awake, just pretending not to be.
This limbo is killing him, Marcus had said.
Adrian thought about all the times over the past weeks when he'd noticed Dante hurting—sitting on the roof at 3 AM, shoulders shaking with silent tears, looking devastated at the party, going rigid when Adrian mentioned Isabella, walking out into the October cold rather than finish a conversation.
He'd noticed all of it. Had cataloged it, had worried about it, had felt that twist in his gut every time.
But he'd never asked why. Had never offered comfort. Had never acknowledged that maybe Dante's pain was connected to him, to them, to eighteen years of misunderstood feelings and miscommunication.
Adrian had been so focused on his own hurt—on being second place, on losing competitions, on feeling not good enough—that he'd never considered he might be causing the same pain in return.
What if Dante had liked him for years? What if every competition had been Dante's way of staying close to the one person he couldn't have? What if losing Adrian to Isabella felt like the final defeat in a war Dante had been fighting alone?
Adrian lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, Marcus's words echoing in his head.
Either figure it out or let him go.
Except Adrian didn't know how to do either. Didn't know how to figure out feelings this complicated, this tangled up in history and hurt and eighteen years of being told that what he felt was rivalry, not love.
And he definitely didn't know how to let go of the one person who'd been the center of his universe since he was five years old, even if he'd spent most of that time pretending otherwise.
Across the room, Dante shifted slightly, the movement almost imperceptible.
Adrian wondered if Dante was lying awake too, trapped in the same spiral of confusion and guilt and feelings that didn't have easy names.
"Dante?" Adrian whispered into the darkness.
No response. Dante's breathing remained steady, controlled, deliberately even.
He was definitely awake.
"I'm sorry," Adrian said quietly. "For whatever I've done. For however I've hurt you. I'm sorry."
Dante's breathing hitched, just for a second, before returning to that careful rhythm.
Still no response.
Adrian closed his eyes, guilt settling like a weight on his chest.
He'd spent eighteen years thinking he was the one being hurt, the one losing, the one left behind.
He'd never considered that maybe he'd been the one doing the hurting all along.