Tarn showed up just after ten.
Mix hadn't planned on going anywhere that night. He was still in a hoodie that smelled faintly of detergent, socks mismatched, one pulled halfway down his heel, highlighter uncapped in one hand, a textbook open in front of him like a dare. The pages blurred together, the words melting into noise. He didn't notice the time. Didn't hear the hallway until
Knock. Knock.
Two soft taps. Tentative. Like whoever was outside wasn't sure if they should be.
Arm shifted on his bed, tugging off his headphones. He blinked at Mix.
"You expecting someone?"
Mix didn't look up. He just shook his head. "No."
The air tightened. Arm didn't move, but his body tensed just enough to make his stillness feel loud. He watched as Mix stood, brushed his hair back with the heel of his palm, and padded to the door.
He opened it.
Tarn.
Grinning. Wind in his hair. Holding two paper cups, steam curling between them.
"You said I owed you coffee," he said.
Mix blinked, deadpan. "That was a joke."
Tarn extended the cup anyway. "Too late. Now it's canon."
He didn't step inside. Didn't assume. Just stood there like a page on pause, waiting. The hallway light carved gentle shadows across his face, catching in the little smile that didn't look rehearsed.
Mix reached for the cup, fingers brushing his briefly. The warmth was jarring. Real.
Inside, Arm shifted again. His phone screen lit up, untouched.
"There's a reading night down at South Café," Tarn said, voice low like it might scare the moment. "Fairy lights, bad poetry, good bread. You should come. No pressure. Just… come watch me bomb a sonnet."
Mix hesitated. He was still wearing sleep clothes. His planner was open on the desk, untouched for hours. His brain still echoed with the memory of Arm saying his name in his sleep like it meant something.
"I don't really do readings," Mix said quietly.
Tarn smirked. "Me neither. I do people."
Mix blinked.
Tarn flushed. "That came out wrong. I mean… I like people. Real ones. You don't have to say anything. Just hang out. Let me embarrass myself for you."
Behind them, Arm stood. Too fast. He stretched, unnecessarily.
"We have class tomorrow," he muttered.
Mix didn't answer.
Tarn's eyes held his. "You coming?"
The coffee was warm. The hallway was quiet. Arm's voice still hung somewhere in the room, clinging like smoke.
Mix nodded.
Tarn smiled. "Cool. I'll wait downstairs."
He stepped back. The door clicked shut behind him.
Inside, Arm exhaled like the wind had been knocked out of him.
"You don't even like poetry," he said, the words bitter and half-sighed.
Mix didn't look at him. He pulled a clean sweater from his drawer, sat on the bed to tie his shoes.
"You don't know what I like."
And then he left.
---
The door closed with the kind of finality that doesn't need to be slammed.
Arm stood in the center of the room like someone who had started a sentence and forgotten how to finish it.
The silence returned. It wasn't comforting. Not soft. It was the kind of silence that scraped.
He sat. No headphones. No scrolling. Just air and regret.
Mix had gone. With him. With Tarn. A guy with nice teeth, practiced charm, who probably knew what to say even when he wasn't trying. The kind of guy who could make anyone feel like they mattered, even if they didn't.
Arm stared at the note still pinned to his wall.
Why?
The word mocked him. He didn't have an answer. Not a good one. Not one that wouldn't make things worse.
Because I was scared.
Because I laughed and then hated myself for it.
Because I liked you before I knew how to handle it.
He threw his head back and stared at the ceiling.
The room felt too empty. Mix's absence was loud in all the wrong places. The rustle of planner pages, the click of pens, the small hum he sometimes made when reading—gone.
Arm got up again. Restless. He moved to Mix's desk. Reached out.
The sweater.
He touched it, just briefly.
Warm. Still soft. Still his.
He pulled back like it stung.
Problem. A deep, pulsing one.
---
Peat and Gun walked home beneath a purple sky.
They didn't talk. Not at first.
Peat clutched his coffee with both hands. His hoodie sleeves were tugged past his fingers. Gun noticed. He always noticed.
"You were quiet today," Gun finally said.
Peat hummed.
Gun kicked a pebble.
"You okay?"
Peat smiled. Not a happy smile. Not fake. Just thin. Like something worn from overuse.
"You always ask that when we're almost home," he said. "Like you're hoping I'll say yes so you don't have to ask again."
Gun winced. Not visibly. Just in his chest.
"That's not fair," he said. "You know I"
"I know you care," Peat interrupted. Soft. Not unkind. "But sometimes you miss the part where I'm not okay. And I don't want to be the one who always brings it up."
Gun fell silent.
At the dorm steps, Peat stopped. Keys in hand.
"You don't have to fix everything," he added. "I don't need you to. Just… notice when it counts."
He opened the door. Walked in.
"Night," he said.
Gun stood there. Still holding his coffee. Still trying to figure out what he missed.
---
Midnight.
The door creaked open.
Arm didn't move. But he wasn't asleep. He hadn't closed his eyes since Mix left.
He heard the keys drop. The bag settle on the desk. The rustle of fabric, the faintest sigh.
Mix didn't speak.
Neither did Arm.
Mix climbed into bed. The mattress groaned faintly.
Silence.
Then… a shift. A drawer opened.
Arm knew.
He didn't look, but he knew.
Mix stared at the little stash inside. The candy. Still untouched.
He picked one.
Turned it over in his hand. Slowly. Like it meant something.
Then unwrapped it.
A soft crinkle. Then the sound of it hitting his tongue.
Arm held his breath.
Then:
"I remember."
His voice cracked. Low. Raw.
Arm turned.
Mix was still facing the wall. But he was speaking.
"I remember the locker. The hallway. The sound of your laugh."
A pause.
"I remember how much it hurt."
Arm sat up. "Mix"
"Don't."
His voice wasn't loud. But it stopped everything.
"I didn't ask you to explain. I just… I need you to know I remember."
Then, quieter:
"I wish I didn't."
Arm said nothing.
Mix turned slightly, enough that their eyes met in the dark.
"I hated you for it."
A breath.
"I still might."
He rolled back over. The candy wrapper lay between them now. Open. Empty.
Arm stared at it.
At the ceiling.
And realized something that settled in his bones:
He hadn't just hurt someone.
He'd wrecked his favorite what-if.
And there might be no fixing that.
---