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Minnesota felt like a whole new planet.
The trees were taller, the sky stretched wider, the wind cut sharper through Scott's hair when he biked across campus. He kept his head down that first week — new classes, new faces, a dorm room that still smelled like fresh paint and possibility.
Most nights, he lay on his narrow twin bed, staring at the ceiling with his phone clutched to his chest.
There were no new texts from Brian.
Not yet.
They'd promised to give each other space — to breathe, to grow, to try and see what this new world would do to them.
Some nights, Scott hated it.
Hated the quiet. Hated the distance. Hated that he couldn't roll over, bury his nose in Brian's neck, and drift off to the sound of his heartbeat.
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But then he'd remember the boy standing in the rain, eyes wide with love and fear and devotion — the boy who finally said, I'm yours. Always.
And the ache felt almost beautiful.
Like proof.
Like a bruise that said, You survived this. You loved this.
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One night, Scott was sitting on the dorm's front steps, knees pulled up to his chest, hoodie drawn tight against the cold. He watched a group of freshmen stumble out of a party, all giggles and sloppy kisses. One boy kissed another boy right there on the grass, and nobody flinched.
Scott caught himself smiling.
He didn't feel small or ashamed anymore.
Brian had given him that — the courage to be soft and strong, to hold someone's hand even if the world was staring.
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A week later, he got a text.
A simple one.
Brian:
Hey, you okay?
Scott's chest squeezed. He typed back with trembling fingers.
Scott:
Yeah. You?
It was almost nothing.
But it was everything, too.
A tiny thread that still held them together.
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When fall leaves started to paint the quad gold and red, Scott found himself at the big library window, watching the campus lights flicker on at dusk. He imagined Brian — probably in some noisy dorm in Oregon, basketball posters taped to the wall, new friends, a new court, a new version of himself.
Maybe he was out there, standing in his window, too — thinking about the boy who'd once called his name in the rain.
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Scott pressed his palm to the cold glass.
He didn't know if they'd find their way back — if someday they'd stand on the same street, hands entwined, laughing at how scared they'd once been.
But he believed they might.
Because some stories don't end when you turn the page.
Some love stays — in the beat of your heart, the back of your mind, the soft smile that catches you off guard when you least expect it.
Scott closed his eyes and breathed it in — the memory of that first spark, that first kiss, that wild, unstoppable feeling.
When he looked back, it didn't hurt as much anymore.
It just reminded him who he was — and who he still wanted to be.
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