Grendale,
12:42pm.
The cafeteria hummed with the usual midday chaos—forks clinking, trays sliding across tables, loud laughter erupting from one corner to the next. Yet Sylan sat like a still shadow amidst the noise, planted beside Ely and her usual group of hyperactive friends, their conversation louder than the music playing faintly overhead.
Ely sat to his left, cheerfully biting into her sandwich and laughing at a joke one of the girls had told. Across from them sat Maddy, her eyeliner too thick and her words always too sharp; Vera, who couldn't keep a secret to save her life; and Dexter, who wore his dad's cologne like it was armor.
Sylan half-listened as they shared stories of their awkward family dinners and disastrous childhood crushes.
"My cousin tried to set me up with a guy from another town. Said he's quiet and mysterious," Vera said, rolling her eyes. "Turns out the guy only ever said like… two words the entire time. 'Nice weather.' That was it."
"Maybe he's got anxiety," Ely offered thoughtfully.
"Or maybe he's just boring as hell," Maddy snapped, smirking.
Laughter followed. Not from Sylan. He didn't laugh. He hadn't laughed properly in a while. He just stared into the remnants of his food, pushing a lone pea around with his fork like it had wronged him.
He could feel Ely glance at him now and then, checking if he was enjoying himself. He wasn't. He never did around her friends—they were too loud, too shallow, and too careless with their words. He tolerated them for her, and that was it.
It wasn't until Maddy's voice struck a new tone—giddy and mischievous—that Sylan's ears perked up, despite himself.
"So, you guys got your invite yet? The birthday party?"
"You mean the one happening at Velvet Nest Hotel?" Dexter asked, licking frosting off his finger. "I thought it was just a rumor."
"No, it's real," Maddy confirmed, eyes gleaming. "Some new friend of mine in town. He's gonna be here for only a few weeks, and he's throwing a big bash before he leaves. I heard he rented out an entire hotel resort for the party."
"Ugh, I love pool parties," Vera whined dramatically. "Imagine the fun. The drinks, that vibe, that lighting."
Ely grinned, "We should go. It could be fun. We pretty much never do anything outside Grendale."
Sylan's shoulders tensed slightly.
"Where's the hotel located?" Vera asked casually.
"Right in Heldale," Maddy replied. "Downtown side. Fancy part of the town."
Heldale.
The name hit Sylan's chest like a cold gust of air. His fork dropped with a faint clatter. None of them noticed—not even Ely, although she glanced at him briefly.
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.
Heldale... again? Why does everything lead back to that damn place?
Sylan knew it the moment the word Heldale rolled off Maddy's lips—Ely was going to persuade him.
She'd smile, sweet and wide, and say, "Just for a little while. You really need to get out more."
She'd lean on him, tease him, guilt-trip him if she had to. It was her charm, her soft manipulation. She always meant well. But this time, she had no idea what she would be asking of him.
He didn't want to go to that town.
He didn't want to even think about it.
Heldale was just a place on a map to most people—but to Sylan, it was a graveyard of emotion. A place that bore his name once, carved into its school walls, whispered behind the school's backyard, scribbled in bathroom stalls. A town where he and Kant had once lived… and lost.
Ely's friends kept chatting, still bubbling with excitement about the expensive resort and new places they had been to over the weekends. Sylan tuned them out.
His eyes lingered on a tiny water stain on the cafeteria table, his mind drifting—to something worse:
That day by the pond, when Kant had kissed him for the first time, all shy and furious and scared. When they'd carved their initials on a tree stump like it was enough to protect what they had.
K+S. Forever.
When they believed no one could touch them, not even the world.
He hated how easily those memories came flooding back, just from the mention of Heldale.
Even now, months later, the sound of that name struck like a rock against glass inside his chest. The idea of stepping back into that town—its streets, its air, its empty hallways—felt like walking barefoot over broken glass.
He didn't need that.
He had a life here in Grendale now. He had a name without baggage. He had Ely. Sort of. Enough.
But surprisingly, it didn't stop the ache.
------
The harsh white lights of the school's bathroom flickered for a second before settling into a steady glow.
Sylan stood in front of the mirror, his reflection paler than usual. Blood trailed from his left nostril to the curve of his upper lip.
Silently, he grabbed a piece of tissue from the dispenser, tilted his head slightly forward, and pressed his thumb and forefinger on the soft part of his nose. Just like he was taught. Just like he'd done dozens of times before.
His breathing shifted to his mouth—slow, measured inhales. He closed his eyes.
The hum of the bathroom fan sounded louder in the silence, droning like a mosquito in his ears.
After about five minutes, the bleeding stopped.
He opened his eyes, dropped the soaked tissue into the sink, and turned on the tap. Cold water rushed from the faucet. He splashed it onto his face, letting the sting of it wake him up—ground him.
The blood swirled into the drain like a thin red thread, disappearing as if it was never there.
His nosebleeds had gotten more frequent again.
Probably Stress
Or something else he wasn't sure.
He never told anyone. Not Ely, not even the school nurse.
They didn't need to know. He didn't want to feel like
But Kant—Kant had known.
He had been the only one who ever really knew.
The only one who noticed the signs he tried to hide well.
The one who always carried a spare handkerchief in his pocket, just in case.
The one who stocked Sylan's locker and bag with gel ice packs, saline spray, soft tissues, and nose clips like it was some emergency kit for an invisible war.
Sylan turned off the faucet and wiped his face clean with his handkerchief. His eyes lifted to meet his reflection again. He stared at himself, water clinging to his lashes, the corners of his lips trembling almost imperceptibly.
He hated this. The memory of being cared for—of being seen so fully.
Kant had made it so damn hard to forget. He was everywhere and nowhere, stitched into the seams of Sylan's mind like an old scar that wouldn't heal properly.
But it wasn't fair to think about him anymore.
Not now.
Not when they'd chosen different things in life.
Sylan tossed the handkerchief on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair. The wet strands clung to his forehead.
He inhaled deeply, blew out a tired breath. And left the bathroom minutes later.