I wake up earlier than my alarm. This only happens when my nerves are raw with anxiety and anticipation.
For a while, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city outside my window and the cruel silence of my phone on the nightstand. Monday. The word sits heavy in my mouth. I roll onto my side and catch my reflection in the dark screen of my TV; messy hair, sleep still clinging to my face. Usually, I wouldn't care. I sit up and immediately feel it: that restless awareness, like my body already knows who I'm going to see today.
I shower properly. Not the quick, half-awake rinse I usually do. I wash my hair twice. I take the time to condition it. I actually dry it instead of leaving it damp and hoping gravity fixes the rest.
At the mirror, I hesitate, then reach for the concealer. Just under the eyes. Just enough to erase the shadows. I blend carefully, tap it in with my fingers until it disappears into my skin. No one will notice. That's the point. I smooth a little powder over it, so it doesn't shine, then pause, studying my face like I'm trying to decide what version of myself I'm allowed to be today.
I brush my hair. Style it. A small amount of wax, worked through the ends, pushed back just enough to look intentional without looking stiff. Soft. Controlled. I don't hate it.
My closet takes longer. I pass over my usual hoodies and grab a loose black knit instead: thin, draping, the neckline just wide enough to show collarbone if I move wrong. Tailored black slacks instead of jeans. Clean platform creepers. Silver rings that I usually forget about. I even paint my nails black; my left hand comes out nicer than the right, but it's good enough.
Before I leave, I spray cologne once at my wrist, once at my neck. Something subtle, clean, a little warm. Not aggressive. Close-range only. The kind you notice if you're standing too close without meaning to.
When I look at myself again, it hits me.
I tried.
I don't look overdressed. Maybe a little flashy. Like I cared enough to curate myself instead of rolling out of bed and letting the day happen to me.
I grab my bag before I can overthink it, keys clinking in my hand. Yuujin texted me, saying he took the morning off. No classes, just sleep. Typical. He'll show up later at soccer practice like nothing ever rattles him. I almost envy that.
Campus looks unfairly normal. Students laugh. Someone spills coffee. A bike nearly clips my heel, and the guy doesn't even apologise. Life keeps happening like nothing has changed, like I didn't spend two days unravelling over being pressed against Kai, a handful of pictures and a few lines of text.
I wanted so badly for this weekend to have been just a one-time thing, a glitch in the matrix, but the guilt and shame eating away at my soul were too hard to ignore. I don't even like him like that. What the fuck was I thinking?
My phone stays quiet in my pocket.
That's the problem. I feel so pathetic every time I open the chat to stare at the last message he sent.
takato.kai-:
I'll see you tomorrow, Ace.
Maybe he's just been busy. It's not like I care. It's not like I even replied to that last message anyway. So why am I reeling over the fact that he hasn't said anything since? Or even text back in the group chat that's been active all weekend? No new posts either. Not that I've been checking.
The words sit in my head stripped of tone, stripped of intent. Casual. Loaded. Maybe both. Every step toward the Faculty of Letters building feels heavier than it should, as if my body already knows where this day is headed even if my brain is pretending not to.
I don't make it past the psychology halls without slowing down.
The air feels warmer here, thicker, as if the building is holding on to too many bodies at once. Someone laughs too loudly behind me and a door slams. The smell of cheap deodorant and old paper hits the back of my throat, sharp and stale. It clings, like it's soaked into the walls.
It's automatic. My eyes flick over before I can stop myself, like muscle memory, like habit.
Kai is there.
Leaning against the wall like he belongs to it, shoulder pressed into the cool concrete, phone loose in his hand. Too relaxed. Too at ease. He's wearing one of those shirts that clings just enough to make my skin prickle, fabric stretched across his chest in a way that feels unfair. I can hear my own blood rushing, loud and intrusive, like static in my ears, like my body is broadcasting something I don't want anyone else to hear.
I expect the smirk.
I brace for it. My body actually braces, shoulders tightening, my insides dropping in anticipation, as if it knows the routine better than I do. Like it's been trained over the weekend to respond.
He looks up.
Our eyes catch and the world sharpens all at once. The fluorescent lights feel too bright, buzzing faintly overhead. The hallway narrows. I notice stupid things. The faint crease between his brows. The way his jaw shifts like he's thinking, like he's choosing something carefully. The slow inhale through his nose, measured, controlled, like he's very aware of the moment stretching.
No smirk.
Just his gaze, steady and unreadable, resting on me like a hand placed deliberately at the small of my back. Not touching. Worse than touching. Like he knows exactly how close he's standing without moving an inch.
A rubber band tightens around my heart.
That's worse.
The absence feels loud. Deafening. I feel exposed without it, like I walked into the moment expecting armour and found nothing there. Heat crawls up my neck, spreads across my face, settles low in my stomach in a way that makes me furious with myself. My fingers curl inside my sleeves like I need something to anchor me, like I might drift apart if I don't hold on.
For half a second, I think he might say something.
He doesn't.
He looks away first, attention dropping back to his phone like I wasn't just there, like nothing happened at all.
I keep walking, breath shallow, every sense turned up too high. The sound of my shoes on the floor feels wrong, too loud, too deliberate. The strap of my bag digs into my shoulder. I'm painfully aware of my body, of the way my pulse hasn't slowed, of the space I just left behind, of the fact that I wanted something from him and didn't get it.
And I hate how much I miss that stupid smirk.
I keep walking as if nothing happened, heart thudding, replaying the moment over and over. I tell myself it didn't mean anything. That I'm projecting. That I'm not craving the familiar curve of his mouth like a reassurance.
I hate that I am.
Lectures usually ground me. It's one of the few places where my thoughts line up neatly, where passion drowns everything else out. Today, the notes blur together. The professor's voice fades in and out. My fingers hover over the laptop's keyboard, moving on instinct while my mind is somewhere else entirely.
I check my phone again.
Still nothing.
I press a key on my laptop too hard.
The sound snaps and echoes through the hall, sharp and ugly, cutting straight through the room. A few heads turn. The professor pauses mid-sentence, eyes flicking toward me in that mild, disappointed way that somehow feels worse than being called out.
"Sorry," I mutter, even though no one asked.
I try again. Softer this time. My fingers stumble anyway, like my hands are arguing with each other. Muscle memory should carry me. Instead, everything feels half a beat late, like my body is lagging behind itself.
I adjust my posture. Roll my shoulders. Breathe in through my nose like I'm supposed to.
Still nothing.
My phone sits just within my peripheral vision, face down on the desk. I can feel it there; a weight I keep circling. Every quiet stretch between notes stretches something else too. I start assigning meaning where there shouldn't be any. Maybe he's busy. Maybe he's deliberately not opening the chat. Maybe he saw me earlier and decided that was enough.
Maybe the smirk was a one-time thing. Did the novelty of fucking with me wear off?
The thought slips in ugly and uninvited, and I hate how easily it sticks. Like maybe I was just something to poke at. A reaction to trigger. A bored weekend distraction that already lost its shine by Monday morning. My chest tightens like I've missed a step on the stairs. I press my foot flat against the floor, grounding myself, but my knee won't stop bouncing. I hook my ankle around the chair leg to keep it still.
The idea makes my chest ache in a way that feels stupidly disproportionate, like I'm mourning something that was never promised to me in the first place. I tell myself I should be angry. This is where I should reclaim my pride. That I should decide he's an asshole, write him off, laugh about how obvious it was. Coping dressed up as confidence. I cling to it a few seconds at a time before it crumbles under the weight of everything else I felt. Everything I still feel.
Because if it meant nothing, why does it feel like this?
My heart rises to my throat without warning. I swallow hard and stare at nothing, willing the burn behind my eyes to calm down. I'm not going to cry over this. Over him. Over a smirk that didn't show up when I needed it to. Over a silence that feels louder than any message he could've sent.
I hate him for that. For how easily he can take something away just by doing nothing at all. And I hate myself for how badly I want it back.
I want the look. The attention. The way he made me feel seen and cornered all at once. I want proof I didn't imagine it, that I didn't invent meaning where there were only coincidences.
Buzz.
My heart jumps so hard it's embarrassing.
I flip the phone over.
Not him.
The soccer group chat. Someone is asking about practice. The relief comes first, sharp and brief, followed immediately by something sour and disappointed that makes my stomach twist.
I hate that part the most.
The realisation sneaks up on me then, unwelcome and precise: I wanted him to interrupt this. I wanted him to pull my attention out of the room, out of the lecture, out of myself. I wanted proof that he could still do that.
My fingers curl against the edge of the desk. Warmth pooling up my neck again, slow and humiliating. I force my eyes back to the screen in front of me, to the notes, to the professor's voice drifting back into focus like nothing's wrong.
But something is wrong.
The rest of the class passes in fragments. Sound without shape. Time without structure. When it finally ends, chairs scrape and people stand, the noise crashing back in all at once. I pack up too quickly, fingers clumsy as I slide tangled cables back into my bag. My phone sits heavy in my pocket, a constant, silent weight. Still nothing.
On my way out, I catch it by accident.
Kai's stopped just outside the psychology wing. A stunning girl stands too close to him, shoulder brushing his arm like it's deliberate. She's saying something animated, laughing a little too loudly, eyes tilted up at him. Her body leans in. He doesn't.
He listens. Polite. Distant. One hand in his pocket, gaze flicking down to her and away again like he's already bored.
She doesn't seem to notice.
That lump forms in my throat again.
Of course he has admirers. He looks like that. Carries himself like that. People don't approach him casually; they test the water first, like they're not sure if he'll bite. Some part of him reads as dangerous even when he's doing nothing at all.
And he lets them hover.
Not because he wants them. Because he doesn't care enough to push them away.
So, what does that make me? We clash. Nothing more than that.
I've never seen him with anyone. Kai doesn't do relationships. Doesn't do flings. Doesn't do anything that requires staying. That's the impression he gives, at least. Unattached. Untouched.
Which makes it easier to tell myself this was never about interest.
Just control. Just boredom. Just something to poke at when he felt like it.
I turn away before I can look too long, before I can start imagining things I don't want to imagine.
My phone buzzes once more.
Yuyu:
You alive? I'm heading over. Locker rooms in 10
Relief hits first. Familiar. Safe. Then dread curls around it immediately after.
I type: Yeah, on my way
The walk to the locker rooms feels longer than it should. Every hallway blurs together, my feet moving through the motions while my thoughts trip over each other. The athletics building smells different here; sweat, disinfectant, something metallic underneath it all.
I keep replaying it.
The way he stood there. That girl. His indifference. The quiet and careless distance.
My jaw aches before I realise that I've been clenching it. I force myself to loosen, to breathe as if this is just another Monday, not the culmination of a weekend I can't scrub from my head.
Lockers come into view. Rows of dented metal, half-open doors, the echo of voices bouncing off tile. And now I must push away the intrusive flashbacks of high school; the tunnel vision, the vivid humiliation and shame travel in time to reclaim me as their host.
Laughter cuts through the air, sharp and sudden. Someone whistles. Someone else swears loudly. The normalcy of it all feels almost offensive.
I hesitate at the entrance.
There's a faint buzzing under my skin, like I've had too much caffeine or not enough sleep. My hands feel restless, fingers flexing, curling, like they're searching for something to do besides betray me. I adjust the strap of my bag again, even though it hasn't moved.
This is where it's going to happen. Or not happen. Both possibilities are equally unbearable.
I step inside. Warm air hits me immediately. Shoes squeak against the floor, cleats tapping. A locker slams somewhere to my left, the noise snapping through me harder than it should. I scan the room without meaning to.
I tell myself I'm looking for Yuujin, but I know that's a lie.
Every nerve feels tuned outward, alert, waiting. My pulse beats fast enough that I'm suddenly aware of it everywhere at once. Behind my eyes. In my wrists. Along my spine.
I spot Yuujin, already mostly dressed, minus the jersey. "Ace—you're over here!" Yuujin pats the bench next to him and then points to the new team jersey hanging in the space next to his. "Lucky bastard—of course, the left-winger gets to take number seven"
"Oh—" I mutter, a full sentence unable to form. Any other time, I'd be thrilled to take number seven on my jersey, but all I can think about is: Where the fuck is Kai? "Ahh—yeah—that's neat." is all I can muster.
Yuujin furrows his brow at me. "What's wrong? I thought you'd be stoked?"
"No—I am. Sorry, Yuyu, the lecture just dragged on today. Unlike you, some of us don't get to sleep the day away." I force a stupid smile. I feel so disingenuous.
Yuujin, I can't believe I spent the weekend obsessing over photos of the guy you know I hate. We've been messaging each other, and now he won't even give me a smirk. I hate Kai so much —it hurts, really, really hurts.
Yeah? No. I wouldn't expect anyone to actually understand. I know I'm the problem. I can't say anything.
Time stretches wrong in the locker room.
People filter in and out, changing, joking, shoving each other around as if this were any other practice. Too predictable.
Kai still hasn't arrived. I tell myself not to count the minutes. I do anyway.
The bench across from me fills. Another voice joins the noise. A coach's whistle shrieks somewhere down the hall. Cleats hit tile. Laces tighten. Still nothing.
A thought slips in sideways.
Has he quit again?
The idea lands wrong, sharp and sudden. I still my hands, fingers frozen halfway through unpacking. I stare at the knot like it might explain why my throat feels raw all of a sudden.
That's stupid. He wouldn't. He literally told me not to quit. Said it as if it mattered. Said it like he meant it.
Didn't he?
My jaw tightens, the fine hairs on my neck stand as another thought follows, nastier than the first.
Unless I gave him a reason.
Unless he got bored over the weekend and decided I wasn't worth the effort anymore. Unless whatever I thought was building was just me, spiralling alone while he stepped back like this was never serious to begin with.
It wouldn't be the first time.
Kai's name dropping off team lists like it never belonged there. The way he disappeared after my parents died, not dramatically, not cruelly. Just... gone. Quiet about it. Final.
I swallow hard.
For one awful second, my brain connects the dots in the worst possible way. Like I pushed too far. Like I made things weird. Like I did something wrong just by wanting.
Pathetic, the voice in my head supplies helpfully. You really thought—
The locker room door creaks open.
Every sound seems to dull around it.
I don't look right away. Pride, maybe. Self-preservation. My body still reacts before my brain catches up, shoulders going rigid, breath hitching like I've been caught doing something embarrassing.
Footsteps.
Unhurried. Familiar.
The air shifts. I swear it does. Conversations falter, then resume more quietly, as if the room itself has adjusted its volume. I glance up before I can stop myself.
Kai steps inside like he was never late at all.
Hair slightly damp, jacket slung over one shoulder, expression unreadable. He scans the room once, quick and assessing, before moving toward his locker. No rush. No apology. Like time bends around him instead of the other way around.
Relief hits me so fast it's almost dizzying.
Then it curdles.
Because he's here—but he didn't look at me.
Not even accidentally.
I drop my gaze immediately, heart knocking too hard against my ribs, suddenly furious with myself for caring this much. For letting a single absence unravel me. For letting him have this kind of power without ever asking for permission.
I stay frozen, standing in place while the world keeps turning for him.
He didn't quit.
He just...
made me wait.