It was sometime past noon the next day -- Halloween naw just a headache, a blur of red heels and mistakes.
Markus stood at the front door with a sinking feeling already brewing in his chest.
He knew it was locked. Somehow, he always did. But he still tried the handle -- just in case. Just for that faint, impossible chance that this one time, it wouldn't be.
He let out a tired breath and crouched down at the edge of the patio. In the far corner, under a loose time, the spare key was right where it always was -- taped up in a rusted little tin like a secret only he and Eric remembered,
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing it softly behind him,
The apartment was still. Quiet. Nothing looked out of place. No shoes moved. No lights left on. But there was a smell -- something faint and sour that clung to the air, like leftovers that had overstayed their welcome.
He didn't stop to think about it. Just headed strait to his room without a second's pause.
Once inside, he shut the door behind him and finally let his shoulders drop. He turned toward the mirror and froze.
His hair was oily and flattened in every wrong direction. The hoodie -- not his -- was stretched awkwardly and hanging off one shoulder. The black panties underneath were clearly visible through the thin fabric of the shorts, which looked two sizes too small. He looked ridiculous.
He sniffed his shirt, recoiled, and grimaced.
"God," he muttered. "I need a shower."
He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the dresser, slung them over his shoulder, and padded quietly to the bathroom.
The shower was quick. No deep thoughts, no dramatic water-on-forehead moment. Just hot water and soap and scrubbing the night off his skin. He didn't feel brand new afterward, but he felt better -- at least dressed like himself again.
Hunger crept in next.
Back in the kitchen, he rummaged through the fridge, half-focused, pulling things aside just to look underneath them. A takeout box. A lone pickle jar. Half a bag of shredded cheese.
"You look better," Eric said.
Markus glanced up and saw him -- calm, casual, leaned up agains the counter with a mug of coffee in his hand, watching with the easy grin of someone who had clearly been standing there for a while.
Markus blinked. "Jesus. I didn't see you."
Eric sipped his coffee. "Yeah, I figured." A pause. "So... where'd you end up?"
Markus closed the fridge and scratched the back of his head. "Monica's."
"That's all you are gonna say?"
"Pretty much," he said. "I just don't want to talk about the last hour of my life."
Eric raised his brows, but didn't push.
"Oh," he added after a beat. "Grayson stopped by. Late last night."
Markus looked up.
"She dropped off your phone," Eric said, almost offhandedly, with a small chuckle. "Said you left it at the party and figured you'd probably want it back."
Markus didn't respond.
"She's to good to you, man," Eric added. His tone had shifter -- softer now, like he wasn't just teasing. "Seriously. I wish I had someone like that looking out for me."
Markus opened his mouth, then closed it again.
That single gesture -- small, quiet, uncomplicated -- hit him harder than I should've.
He hadn't even realized his phone was gone. But she had. She thought of him. No text. No announcement. Just... kindness.
Monica would've sent a picture of it, made him beg for it back, turned into a joke -- or a fight. But Grayson? She just gave it back. Like it wasn't about anything. Like she didn't want credit. And that... stuck.
He didn't know what it meant. Just that it felt more like love than anything he'd been calling love lately -- and that scared the hell out of him.
⧫ ⧫ ⧫
Later that night, after too much pacing and not enough courage, I finally showed up.
I Just handed the phone to Eric and bailed like the building was on fire.
No explanation. No lingering. No small talk to cover the fact that my heart was doing that dumb fluttery thing it always does when he's involved. Because of course it was. Because I'm ridiculous.
It wasn't about the phone. I mean, technically it was. But let's be honest — I just needed a reason to show up without it being weird. Which, plot twist: it still was.
But at least I got to care about him in a way that didn't scream, "Hi, I'm in love with you and emotionally repressed!"
I shouldn't have stayed at the party as long as I did. I knew how it would end. I always do.
But he found me by the kitchen — like he'd been looking. Maybe he wasn't. But it felt like he was. And I let myself believe it for just long enough to forget that I shouldn't.
When he hugged me, it felt like something I wasn't supposed to still want.
His arms wrapped around me like they'd done it a hundred times before, like nothing had changed. The fabric of that ridiculous gown brushed my arm, and I just… stayed there. A little too long. Long enough to feel everything I'd been trying not to.
He was still talking when we pulled apart. Still smiling. Filling the space like he always did — fog machines, the stairs, how bad the music was. None of it mattered. I laughed anyway.
Not because it was funny. Because he was him. Because I still react to him like a reflex.
And then she called his name.
Of course she did.
And of course he went.
She's my best friend. Monica. She always has been.
We've been through everything together. Sleepovers, heartbreaks, the kind of loyalty that's stitched into your history whether you want it there or not. She knows every version of me I've ever been. She probably knows this version too, even if she doesn't say it.
That's the part that stings the most. I don't think she meant to hurt me. But maybe that makes it worse — that she didn't have to try.
She pulled him in like gravity, and I was just left watching, pretending I didn't notice the shift. Pretending I wasn't slowly getting edged out of a story I used to be part of.
It's not that I hate her. I don't. I couldn't.
Sometimes being her friend feels like loving something that keeps accidentally breaking you.
Like the night in freshman year when Grayson showed Monica her sketchbook for the first time — hands shaking, every page full of effort and little pieces of herself.
Monica had flipped through it with glossy lips and casual approval. "Cute," she'd said, smiling. "I mean, it's no Picasso, but it's not bad."
Then she laughed, kissed Grayson on the cheek, and said she was proud of her.
And that was the problem.
She never meant to hurt Grayson. Never tried to. She just did — in the way someone knocks over your favorite mug and doesn't notice the crack.
It was always like that. Compliments with caveats. Loyalty with blind spots.
And Grayson kept coming back. Because when Monica hugged you, it felt like you mattered. Like you belonged.
Even if you were slowly disappearing inside the friendship that used to hold you together.
And maybe that's why I brought the phone.
Not because he needed it.
Because I needed to feel like I still had a place in his orbit. Even if it's just for a minute. Even if it's just to remind him that someone is still thinking about him when the music fades and the night blurs.
It's stupid. I know it is. But there's something inside me that believes — really believes — that the things we do from the heart don't disappear.
They echo. They matter.
Maybe not right away. Maybe not to the people we want.
But I think love, the kind that doesn't ask for anything back… it leaves a mark.
Maybe if I keep showing up — not loud, not desperate, just honest — maybe one day, he'll see me.
Not as a friend.
But as the girl who kept choosing him… even when he didn't know it.
And if he doesn't?
Then at least I'll know I was real.
The car was still running when I stepped outside.
Chloe was slouched in the driver's seat, AirPods in, legs tucked under her like she owned the space. Her psych notes were fanned out across her lap, highlighted and scribbled on, like she was attacking them with glitter pens and caffeine.
She popped one AirPod out when I opened the door.
"I still can't believe I missed that party," she said, not looking up. "You better tell me everything. What was the ratio? Who was dressed like a slutty vampire? Did Kyle cry again?"
I just smiled weakly and pulled the door shut.
She glanced at me then. "Wait... you okay?"
I nodded, settling into the seat. "Yeah."
She arched a brow. "That was your fake yeah."
I didn't say anything.
Chloe pulled her notes into a messy stack and tossed them into the backseat. "Okay, spill. Why do you do this to yourself?"
"I don't know," I said, too quickly. Then added, softer, "I just... wanted to."
Chloe started backing out of the lot. "Right. Because it's super normal to hand-deliver a guy's phone at midnight when he's not your boyfriend."
I shot her a look. "I didn't have to go in. I just gave it to Eric."
She snorted. "Yeah, but your soul went all the way up the stairs with it."
I tried not to laugh, but she wasn't wrong.
The drive was quiet for a minute, the kind of silence that tastes like someone's about to say something annoyingly true.
I watched the city smear past the window — traffic lights, half-lit signs, someone dancing with a pizza box on a corner.
My chest still felt tight. Like I'd swallowed a balloon full of feelings and now it was stuck somewhere near my lungs.
Chloe tapped the wheel. I knew that tap. It meant she was about to say something I didn't want to hear but needed to.
"You're still in it," she said finally. "Even if you won't say it. I know you."
I kept looking out the window. I didn't trust my face. Or my voice. Or anything, really.
"I just wanted him to have it back," I said.
Which was true.
And also the biggest lie I'd told all day.
I didn't bring the phone because I'm helpful.
I brought it because I'm pathetic.
Because somewhere deep in my sleep-deprived goblin brain, I thought maybe seeing him — even for a second — would fix something.
It didn't.
Now I just felt like a lovesick Amazon delivery driver.
She turned into our complex and parked, then looked over at me — eyes clear, no teasing now. "He'll figure it out. Maybe not today. But he will."
I didn't answer. I didn't trust myself to.
We sat there for a second longer before she grabbed her bag and opened the door. "Now come inside so I can stop pretending to study."
And just like that, she was back to Chloe. Loud, bright, alive.
⧫ ⧫ ⧫
The apartment was unusually quiet for this late in the morning.
Light spilled across the floor, catching little dust motes in its path. A faint hum came from the fridge, and somewhere outside, a dog barked at nothing. Grayson sat curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, nursing a lukewarm mug of tea she'd forgotten to drink.
She'd been there a while — not doing anything in particular. Just thinking.
About the day. About maybe getting out.
There were a few options. She could wander over to the café on 8th and try whatever ridiculous seasonal drink they were pushing this month. Something with caramel and nutmeg, probably. Maybe cinnamon dust, if they were feeling generous.
Or she could swing by the bookstore. Trade out the ones on her nightstand for something different. She wasn't sure what she was in the mood for — something quiet, probably. Something where no one gets chosen last.
Or maybe she'd go shopping. It'd been a while since she bought something for herself that wasn't on sale or out of necessity. Maybe today was a "feel good for no reason" kind of day.
She was still debating when Chloe's bedroom door slammed open like a gunshot.
"SHIT!"
Grayson blinked.
"Shitshitshitshit—God—FUCK!"
Chloe came tearing into the hallway barefoot, a shoe in one hand, her phone in the other, mascara smudged across her cheek like war paint.
Grayson blinked again, calmly setting her mug down.
Chloe disappeared into the bathroom with the grace of a tornado. There was the sound of hairspray, a drawer slamming, then a muffled scream of frustration.
Grayson leaned her head against the back of the couch. "Didn't know you had it in you to care this much about a test."
No response. Just more rustling. A thud. Something fell. Possibly the brush.
Then Chloe shot back into view, still half-wet from the sink, tugging her backpack onto one shoulder.
She glanced at Grayson. Not a word. Just that dry, annoyed look — like she wanted to respond, but time and rage were in limited supply.
Grayson smirked to herself as the front door slammed shut behind her.
The silence returned almost immediately, like the apartment had exhaled.
Grayson stretched her legs out across the couch and picked up her tea again.
Still warm enough.
She took a sip, the faintest smile on her lips.
Grayson got up and stood in the kitchen for a while, debating — bookstore? A walk? Maybe just stay in sweats and scroll through nothing?
But the coffee shop on 8th kept tugging at her.
She wanted the noise of other people, the comfort of something warm, and the illusion of normal.
So she went.
The place was slow. Mellow. Indie music hummed low over the speakers, and the air smelled like cinnamon and espresso. She ordered one of their seasonal drinks — not because she needed it, but because it felt like something soft to hold onto.
She settled by the window.
That's when she saw him.
Markus.
Crossing the street with hurried steps — hoodie slipping off one shoulder, bare feet against the pavement, and neon pink shorts hugging his hips like they weren't meant for him. Because they weren't.
Grayson's chest tightened.
Not in embarrassment. Not in shock.
Just that quiet, aching kind of sympathy that sneaks up on you — the kind you feel when someone you care about looks like they've just survived something, but they're still pretending they didn't.
He didn't see her. Didn't glance her way. Just kept going, head low, trying not to exist too loudly.
Still, her cheeks warmed — like somehow, by knowing him, by seeing him, she'd been pulled into the moment too.
"Grayson?"
She blinked and turned toward the counter.
Her name, gently spoken, snapped her out of it.
She stood, accepted the drink, and returned to her seat. By the time she looked outside again, he was gone.
Grayson finished her coffee slowly, barely tasting the last few sips.
Her mind kept circling the same question:
How in the world did Markus end up wearing Monica's clothes?
And not just clothes — those clothes. Neon pink athletic shorts and a hoodie that didn't even sit right on his shoulders.
It was the beginning of November. There was frost on windshields that morning. He had been barefoot.
She couldn't stop picturing it.
Not in a cruel way — but with that strange, quiet concern that sinks its teeth in and doesn't let go.
What happened last night?
And why did it feel like she wasn't supposed to ask?
Eventually, the café's comfort wore off.
The buzz of the room dimmed, the warmth of the mug faded, and her body grew restless. Her thoughts looped in quiet circles that never quite landed.
So she left.
She wandered down Main, stepped into a boutique she always meant to visit but never did. Bought a sweater. Two tops. Tried on boots she didn't need and bought them anyway.
It helped. A little.
Something to hold. Something to do. Something to make her feel like she wasn't just stuck in place.
But She didn't want to go home yet. Not with that image still burning behind her eyes — Markus, flushed and wide-eyed, walking like he was trying to outrun something.
It wasn't just the clothes. It was the way he moved. The way his shoulders curled inward, like he'd been seen too clearly.
And now her brain wouldn't stop looping questions she had no business asking.
Was he okay? Why was he even out there like that? Was Monica with him?
She wasn't supposed to care this much. She wasn't supposed to notice the way his hoodie hung off one shoulder or how he avoided every eye around him.
But she did.
And now, instead of letting it go, her feet started moving. No plan. No script. Just… the need to make sure he was okay — even if she didn't know what she'd say when she got there.
So she walked — toward his apartment, heart picking up speed with every step.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she paused, hand hovering just above the door.
But before she could knock—
"Grayson?"
The voice came from behind her. Lower. From the bottom of the steps.
She turned.
Monica was standing there, brow furrowed, keys in hand.
"What are you doing here?"