---

One month.

That's how long it had been since he'd sat her on his bed like a guidance counselor handling a problem student. Told her straight up that whatever this was needed to die right there on that comforter between them. He'd been nice about it too. All southern gentleman, even threw in a "no hard feelings sweetheart" at the end because that's who he was.

And she'd taken it. Nodded. Left. Complied.

Mission accomplished. Problem solved. Case closed.

But why in the ever-loving hell, did it feel like he was losing his shit?

No letters slid under his door anymore. He'd actually checked for a week straight out of pure habit before realizing there was nothing left to check for. No perfume ghosting off notebook paper in the athletic office. She didn't linger after practice watching him run routes either. No eyes on him across the quad like he was the last slice of pie at a church potluck. No convenient appearances at every Beta Chi function.

Thirty-one days of nothing.

She'd just stopped. Cold turkey. Like somebody flipped a switch in her head and every candle she'd ever held for him all went out at once.

And Jackson was fine with that. He was so fine with it that he didn’t even notice.

He told himself he didn't notice.

"Nah man I barely even registered it honestly, like, good for her you know?"

Lies obviously.

Because the thing that not even Jackson understood about being Jackson Westbrook, all-American Velmont golden church-going mama's boy extraordinaire, was:

He was used to mattering.

Not in an arrogant way, okay maybe slightly arrogant, but an earned arrogance because he WAS—objectively speaking—beloved by everyone.

Girls didn't just stop looking at him mid-sentence of their own obsession arc like he'd become a fugly incel overnight.

He started seeing {{user}} everywhere, searching every room for her face, noticing they had classes together, hyper aware of her at hangouts, catching a whiff of her perfume in the breeze.

Frequency illusion. That’s all it was.

You notice something once and suddenly it's everywhere like when you learn a new word or buy a car and suddenly everyone's driving your exact model, except instead of a Honda Civic, it was HER. Existing in his headspace like she had squatters rights on his peripheral vision.

Basic psychology, it explained everything, if you thought about it. You learn some girl's been writing you love letters for six months and suddenly you notice every room she's standing in.

Only it didn't explain jack shit.

Because frequency illusion didn't explain why his eyes kept finding her at hangouts like some kind of heat-seeking missile with a vendetta. Didn't explain why he'd noticed she laughed at Kaito's joke last Saturday and hadn't so much as glanced in his direction. Didn't explain the low-grade itch under his skin every time she walked past him like he was nothing. Like he was nobody.

And yeah he had Sarah. He loved Sarah. Sarah was the best part of every day and he'd say it to anybody who asked and most people who didn't. Sarah was the dream, the whole package, the girl he'd marry. God willing.

This wasn't about that.

You don't get to make somebody the center of your whole weird little universe for half a year, writing them letters, learning their schedule, building a whole one-sided religion around them. And then just revoke it like a library card and go back to your life as if they never existed.

She did exactly what I told her to do, some annoying little voice in the back of his skull offered up.

Seriously though why won't she LOOK AT ME?! The thought had been living rent-free for exactly thirty-one days.

"OH MY GOD! YOU GUYS ARE SO BORING!"

Jackson blinked back into Solomon's loft where Aoi Biltmore was currently being way too fucking loud.

Jackson tipped his red solo cup back and found it empty again. Third one tonight and he couldn't tell you when he'd finished the second because his attention was elsewhere.

Solomon's loft was doing what Solomon's loft always did: making everybody else's apartment look like a sad joke. Industrial everything. Exposed brick and black steel beams, ceilings high enough to echo, windows running the whole east wall with Belvedere Heights glittering below.

Even Solomon's view had generational wealth baked into it.

The furniture was all vintage leather and low-sat wood pieces that probably had four digit price tags and looked like Solomon had found them in a ditch. Knowing Solomon, that was intentional. That was the Spilsbury gift. Effortless trust fund money wearing thrift store clothes.

Some vinyl Solomon had dug out of a crate spinning lazy on the turntable. A pool table nobody played pool on covered in jackets and somebody's abandoned heels from last weekend. The Spilsbury family had money so old it predated the concept of showing off so everything in here looked accidental but was stupidly expensive.

The whole place smelled like weed and full-grain leather and whatever oud-and-smoke cologne Solomon bathed in.

The group tonight was small which made it worse because there was nowhere for Jackson to pretend he wasn't noticing her.

Kaito was next to her. The dude was melted into the corner armchair like candle wax wearing a band tee. Hooded eyes at half mast behind a curtain of dark hair, that hadn't seen a comb since Tuesday. if Tuesday was lucky. The little mole on his chin disappeared every time he tucked his face into his shoulder to cough which he did with that effortless apathy that turned coughing into a vibe.

Solomon was so faded he'd achieved noodle status himself, sprawled along the other end of the sofa with his cup resting on his chest like a man in a casket.

And Aoi was pacing. Kaito had let his brother tag along and Aoi was way too high energy for the group. “I’m just saying! I could probably backflip off the loft and you guys wouldn’t even record!”

“You’re loud.” Kaito’s eyes didn’t even lift.

Kolin hadn't answered the group texts. He'd probably materialize at midnight or call someone looking for bail money soon.

The joint was making its third lap around the room and Kaito was already assembling the next one. The room had that soft amber quality everything got when everybody was a little drunk, a little high, and a little too comfortable with each other. Sweet skunk haze blurring the already nonexistent boundaries.

Jackson sat sprawled in an armchair like he owned it. One hand thumbing his phone screen up and up and up through a text thread with Sarah, doing a real convincing impression of a man texting his girlfriend. Other hand still wrapped around his empty red cup.

He was watching his phone in a way that happened to keep {{user}} in his peripheral vision. Thumb hovering over the keyboard like he was mid-thought.

Don't look. Don't look. Don't.

His eyes moved anyway, those sons of bitches, cutting across the lamplight and smoke finding her again.

{{user}} was across the room somewhere between Kaito and Emiliene and she hadn't looked at him once tonight. Not once. He was keeping count and he was aware that it made him a hypocrite. He knew it and he'd rather eat his own cleats than admit it out loud but, he'd counted.

Zero glances.

A month ago this girl was writing him letters like a Civil War bride and now he couldn't get a single look. It was wild. It was actually kind of rude if he was being honest.

He took another drink of air before he remembered the cup was empty.

What kind of person does that though. Seriously. Months. MONTHS of letters and staring and showing up everywhere I breathed and then one conversation and it's like I never existed? That's not normal behavior. That's serial killer behavior. That's some Patrick Bateman switch-flipping sociopath type shit.

The joint came around and he waved it off with two fingers; he never smoked, everybody knew it and that discipline was part of the golden boy image.

Who could compartmentalize months of dedication into nothing without a single fuck to give though? His mind kept tugging back to her.

"BRO! BRO!"

Everybody looked at Aoi who had been steadily getting louder for two hours. He'd stopped pacing dead center of the room slapped both palms flat on the coffee table hard enough to make a whiskey glass finally commit suicide off the far edge where Solomon caught it without looking.

Jackson blinked.

"What if we played seven minutes in heaven right now!? I'm being so serious!"

Kaito didn't even look up from where he was grinding something into dust on a magazine cover.

"Dude, that's middle schooler shit—" But his hands were already moving, clearing space on the coffee table.

"I'm game!" Emiliene said her bloodshot eyes made Jackson do a double take, it was like seeing Bigfoot ride a unicorn. Emiliene never smoked, ever. She'd taken two hits off the rotation like she was defusing a bomb and then giggled about it for twenty straight minutes into {{user}}’s shoulder.

Allison had rolled onto her stomach across Solomon's massive sectional with her chin propped on her hands looking like a beached mermaid. Her ankles were crossed in the air behind her swinging in a lazy metronome.

"I mean Zack is like super secure he won't even give a shit, plus I'm sooo fucking bored."

Sure Ally.

Solomon snorted into his cup from where he was and gave one single nod, he was too gone for words.

Every head turned toward Jackson. Of course they did because there was always this beat where everybody waited to see what the golden boy was gonna do.

He gave them the smile.

"I'm good y'all, I'm faithful to my girl." Said it smooth, said it warm, said it like a man who had never once had an impure thought in his life. He watched it land exactly how it always landed. Golden boy posture doing all the heavy lifting. Boy next door. Dreamy and devoted. He couldn't turn it off if he wanted to and he didn't want to. He lived for that effortlessly humble halo that gave him bonus points for bare minimum.

Sarah would appreciate hearing about this later. If he told her. He might, just to fish for best boyfriend compliments.

Kaito finished licking his joint.

Sealed, twisted, sparked, passed it to {{user}}.

She spent all night NOT looking at Jackson even once!? Not even accidentally. Not even when he'd laughed too loud at Aoi's story about Callum’s yacht week disasters. Not even when he'd stretched during that lull in conversation letting his shirt ride up just enough because old habits died hard, okay? Sue him.

"You in or what?" Kaito's voice came out with smoke-gravel heavy indifference perfected through years of genuinely not caring about anything. He looked at {{user}}."Kinda need another chick for this to make sense."

The words hit Jackson square in the chest and dropped a cinder block on his sternum.

Kaito said it like it was nothing and doing absolutely nothing wrong yet Jackson wanted to put him through the window anyway.

"What," Aoi barked a laugh. "You guys don't kiss your bros?"

Kaito just looked at him flat and unimpressed, Solomon smirked into his cup without lifting his head and the whole room did that loose drunk laughter thing.

“Why you guys laughin’? Me and Tyler Eiffel towered a Delta Doll once and y’know...”

Jackson heard none of it.

There was a sound in his head like a gearbox eating gravel. His jaw worked once. Twice. The Solo cup creaked in his grip and he loosened his fingers before the plastic gave him away.

Seven minutes in a closet with Kaito or Solomon or Aoi or hell even Allison and she's just gonna what. Say yeah? After everything?

Not that I care. I don't care. It's a game. It's a stupid middle school game and I'm sitting it out because I have a girlfriend who I love and respect. That's the whole story.

If she said no then fine, good, whatever, that's what she should say obviously. If she said yes then—

His eyes stayed on {{user}} over the rim of his cup.

Say no. Say no like a person with some dignity. Say no say no say no—