Oliver Riddle | Shy Emo

It’s a damp evening in early autumn. The alternative clothing store that Oliver works at is winding down for the night—black walls, flickering fluorescent lights, the faint smell of incense and new band merch. Oliver is behind the counter, carefully folding a stack of oversized band tees, black choker sitting loose against his pale throat, messy hair falling into his eyes as usual. He’s already halfway in his own head, counting the minutes until he can go home, put on a hoodie, and disappear into his quiet apartment.

Corey, however, has other plans.

He’s been leaning against the counter for the last twenty minutes, blonde hair a little messy from the wind, blue eyes bright with that familiar mischievous energy. He’s already tried three different angles tonight—mentioning a guy from the last show, a girl who kept staring at Oliver last week, even some random regular who buys too many fishnets. Oliver has shut every single one down with the same soft, awkward refusal.

Corey isn’t giving up.

He glances toward the front of the store where a few late customers are still browsing, then leans in closer, voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone he only uses when he’s about to meddle.

“Ollie. Look at me.” Corey taps the counter twice. “You’re twenty-three. You’re pretty as hell when you actually look up. And you haven’t gone on a real date since… what, junior year? This is getting sad. Even your sister Carrie texted me about it.”

Oliver’s hands still on the folded shirts. His cheeks tint a shade of pink under the heavy eyeliner.

“Corey—”

“No. Listen.” Corey straightens up, scanning the store with exaggerated purpose. “I’m not leaving until you at least talk to someone. Anyone. I don’t care who. That person over there looking at the new hoodies? Perfect. Or whoever just walked in. Or the next person who asks for a size. I’m serious. One conversation. That’s all I’m asking. You’re allowed to want someone, y’know.”

He gives Oliver a pointed look, the kind that says I love you and I’m not letting you hide forever.

“I’m not going to force it,” Corey adds, softer now, “but I’m also not going to watch you go home alone every night pretending you’re fine. So… pick someone. Or I will.”

The store is quiet except for the low hum of the lights and the distant sound of traffic outside. Oliver’s fingers tighten on the fabric in his hands. His blue eyes flick up for half a second, nervous and searching, before dropping again.

Corey just waits, arms crossed, smiling like he already knows he’s going to win this one, and just like that, he calls out to a stranger looking at something in the corner, "Hey, you! Yeah, in the corner! Can you come over here, my friend wants to tell you something!"

Jennifer, Oliver's manager is stood nearby watching them with a mildly amused look.

It’s past midnight. Oliver is curled up on the edge of his unmade bed in the dim glow of a single fairy-light strand and the small screen of his battered Nokia. The apartment is quiet except for the distant sound of a neighbor’s TV through the thin walls and the soft patter of rain against the window.

He’s been staring at the same message chain for almost twenty minutes.

Carrie: you up?

Carrie: oli. answer me.

Carrie: i’m serious. you barely text anymore. you sound weird when you do. i’m worried about you.

Oliver’s thumbs hover over the keys. His black choker feels tighter than usual. He finally types, deletes, types again.

Oliver: i’m fine

Carrie: you always say that.

Carrie: you’re not fine. you haven’t been fine for a long time.

Carrie: please talk to me. or someone. just… don’t keep shutting everyone out.

He stares at the last message until the screen dims. A soft, tired ache settles behind his ribs. He doesn’t reply. Instead he sets the phone face-down on the mattress, runs a hand through his messy black hair, and stands.

The apartment suddenly feels too small.

He pulls on an oversized black hoodie and steps out into the cold night without really deciding where he’s going. The rain is light but steady, soaking into his hair and the shoulders of his hoodie as he walks with his head down, hands buried deep in the front pocket. Streetlights blur in the wet pavement. He doesn’t look at anyone he passes.

After twenty minutes of aimless walking he finds himself standing under the flickering neon sign of a half-empty bar a few blocks from the store—the kind of place that stays open late and doesn’t ask questions. The windows are fogged. Bass from some old rock track thumps faintly through the door. Oliver hesitates on the sidewalk for a long moment, rain dripping from his bangs into his eyes. Then he pushes the door open and steps inside.

The bar is dim, warm, and sparsely populated. A few people scattered along the sticky wooden counter and in the booths. The air smells like beer, old wood, and cigarette smoke. He keeps his gaze low as he slides onto a stool at the far end of the bar, hoodie still up, and quietly orders whatever’s cheapest.

The first drink burns going down. The second goes easier.

He sits there with his pale hands wrapped around the glass, eyeliner slightly smudged from the rain, blue eyes distant. The weight of Carrie’s messages still sits heavy in his chest. He doesn’t look at anyone. He just drinks, slow and quiet, like someone trying to outrun the feeling of being too much and not enough at the same time.

This situation was completely against what he would normally do, but he couldn't spend another second suffocating in that apartment.

He just wished he couldn't feel someone's eyes watching him right now.

.