The days slipped by like pages in a book Dylan wasn't ready to finish.
He hadn't expected Aaron to become part of his life so quickly. But somehow, by the end of the week, they had a rhythm. A quiet understanding. They didn't text constantly or talk about everything — but when they did speak, it felt like a space where both could finally breathe.
Aaron had that kind of calm. Like gravity without the weight.
They started sitting together during free periods — sometimes in the art wing, other times on the back steps near the theatre, where no one really went unless they were skipping class or chasing silence.
They didn't always talk. Sometimes Aaron sketched. Sometimes Dylan read lines from a play he was trying out for. They existed in the kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled.
And slowly, gently, Dylan let his guard down.
One afternoon, Aaron caught him off guard. They were sitting under a tree behind the auditorium — Aaron sketching in his notebook, Dylan rereading the same line in his script for the fifth time.
Aaron glanced over and said, "You always look like you're holding something in."
Dylan blinked. "What?"
"You smile with your mouth, but not with your eyes. Not unless you're performing."
Dylan swallowed, unsure of how to respond. "I guess... performing feels safer. You know who you are when someone tells you what part to play."
Aaron studied him, then handed him his sketchbook.
Dylan hesitated, flipping to the latest page.
It was a drawing — him, mid-monologue, head tilted slightly up, lips parted like he was just about to say something earth-shattering. His eyes were wide and open in a way he didn't recognize.
"You see me?" Dylan asked, barely above a whisper.
Aaron smiled, soft and sincere. "I think I'm trying to."
And just like that, Dylan's heart skipped something wild.
Across Campus — Where Things Fall Apart
Skie slammed her locker shut.
Conner was already walking down the hallway when she caught up to him.
"Hey!" she called.
He didn't slow down.
"Conner!"
He stopped, jaw clenched. "What?"
Skie stepped in front of him, breath sharp. "What is going on with you?"
"Nothing."
"Don't give me that." Her voice cracked. "You say you want to be more than friends, and then you disappear. Again."
"You leaned on me," Conner snapped. "You cried on my shoulder. Then you acted like none of it mattered."
"That's not fair—"
"No," he cut in, eyes blazing, "what's not fair is being your emotional crutch whenever things go wrong, then getting tossed aside when you're ready to feel better again."
Skie's face flushed. "That's not what I'm doing—"
"Isn't it?" he shouted, drawing attention from the lockers nearby. "You always come to me when you're hurting, but the moment you're okay, I vanish from your world."
"That's not true."
"You barely looked at me until Jason cheated. And now that you're single, I'm supposed to just—what? Be your safety net?"
Tears welled in her eyes. "You think this is easy for me?"
"I think you don't know what you want. And I'm tired of getting hurt because of it."
"Then maybe we shouldn't be friends anymore!" she screamed, voice shaking.
Silence.
The words hung between them like broken glass.
Conner's voice dropped, hollow. "Maybe we shouldn't."
And he walked away, not looking back once.
Skie stood in the hallway alone, fists trembling, chest heaving like she'd just run a marathon. People whispered. Watched.
But none of it mattered.
Because something inside her had just cracked in two.
Later That Night — A Quiet Return
Dylan sat on his bed, still thinking about the drawing Aaron gave him.
He traced the outline of the eyes — his eyes — and wondered how Aaron saw so much with so little said.
His phone buzzed.
Aaron: "Wanna go for a walk?"
Dylan: "Yeah. Meet you outside?"
A few minutes later, they were strolling quietly through their neighborhood — hoodie hoods up, sneakers brushing the sidewalk.
Dylan found himself talking more than usual. About the way theatre made him feel, how he never came out to his parents because he wasn't sure if he was brave enough, how being Korean and gay in a small town sometimes felt like trying to exist in two different skins at once.
Aaron didn't interrupt. He didn't offer advice.
He just listened.
Then, near the park, Aaron stopped walking. He looked at Dylan for a long moment.
"You don't have to be brave for me," he said gently. "You don't have to be anything except real."
Dylan's breath hitched.
The streetlamp above them flickered once, like even the world was holding its breath.
And though they didn't kiss — not yet — something passed between them. A promise. A beginning.
A feeling Dylan hadn't dared let himself imagine until now.