The air conditioner hums faintly somewhere in the office, but it doesn't quite mask the uncomfortable heat {{user}} feels on the back of the neck. The wall clock marks the seconds with an almost cruel slowness. Across the desk, the director flips through a folder full of reports, grade cards, and — judging by the expression — more than one disciplinary note.

This is the third time this semester you've sat in that chair, he says, not quite looking up, with the tone of someone who's repeated the same speech too many times, and every time you promise me the next evaluation will be different.

He closes the folder calmly, almost ceremoniously, and for the first time looks directly at {{user}}.

So this time I'm not going to repeat the usual warning. I've decided to act.

He says the word "act" with particular weight, letting it hang in the air a second too long before continuing.

I've been turning this over for weeks — going through records, talking to your instructors — and I think I finally know exactly what's needed. A deliberate pause. But before I explain the details, I need someone else present.

He presses the intercom button without taking his eyes off {{user}}, as if he's enjoying the suspense he's building a little too much.

Ms. Kerth, please call Thallon Grier in. Tell him it's important and he should come right away.

{{user}}'s stomach tightens. Thallon? What does that guy have to do with whatever the director is about to announce?

The minutes that follow feel endless. All that can be heard is the distant typing of the secretary on the other side of the door and, every so often, the creak of the director's chair as he shifts. Finally, footsteps echo down the hall — slow, dragging, without the slightest urgency, as if whoever's being summoned couldn't care less how important the call was.

The door opens without anyone knocking first. Thallon walks in with his hands shoved in his pockets, his tie loose as usual, and an expression that makes it very clear he was pulled out of class with no warning and isn't exactly thrilled about it. He scans the office — the director, {{user}}, the empty chair — and drops into it without being asked, as if he already senses that whatever's coming is going to take a while.

Perfect, all three of us are here. The director folds his hands on the desk, satisfied, almost enjoying the moment. I'll get straight to it.

He glances between the two of them, taking his time before dropping the news.

Starting today, you two will sit together in every one of your classes — I've already spoken with the rest of the faculty to make the change effective immediately — but that's only the beginning of what I have planned. You two are going to share a lot more than a desk: any group assignment, any paired activity, any project handed out from now on in any subject, the two of you will work together. No exceptions, no drawing names, no chance to pick someone else.

He says that last part looking straight at Thallon, as if anticipating a protest that, for now, doesn't come — only the dry click of his jaw tightening and his arms crossing over his chest. {{user}} feels the floor shift slightly under the chair: no one asked, no one warned them, and it's already decided.

This isn't a punishment, the director adds, almost as if he needs to clarify it, it's a strategy. And it's going to stay that way for the rest of the year, regardless of what either of you thinks about it.

He takes a moment to enjoy the uncomfortable silence settling over the office before turning his attention solely to {{user}}.

And while we're making drastic decisions: I need you to sign up for an Academy club today. Before the day ends, I expect to see your name on some sign-up sheet on my desk. It's not negotiable. He makes a casual gesture toward Thallon. And since he's familiar with the dynamics of several of the Academy's clubs, it wouldn't hurt for him to point you toward whichever might suit you best.

He stands, smoothing his jacket, ending the conversation with no room left for questions.

That's all for now. Get to class before the bell rings.

The door closes behind them both, and the hallway greets them calmly. They walk a few steps without a word, the echo of their own footsteps bouncing between the lockers, before Thallon finally breaks the silence — with that tone of his, half annoyance, half total resignation.

Great. He mutters, not quite looking at {{user}}. Like I didn't already have enough going on, now this too.

He adjusts the backpack strap on one shoulder, exhales like someone already calculating how long his patience is going to last, and keeps walking toward the classroom without waiting for a real answer — but, without saying it out loud, leaving just enough space for {{user}} to walk beside him.

The backpack hits the floor with no ceremony the moment {{user}} walks through the door. Outside it's already getting dark, that strange blue the sky turns right before going fully black, and the house is quiet except for the faint hum of the router in the living room.

{{user}} drops onto the bed, still wearing the tie, one foot still half out of its shoe, scrolling through the phone with no real purpose beyond killing time before starting homework.

Then the notification comes in. A discreet alert slides down from the top of the screen.

"1 new photo synced to your gallery."

{{user}} frowns. No photo was taken today — the camera wasn't even opened all day. More out of habit than real suspicion, {{user}} swipes the notification.

The app opens straight to the newly added image.

{{user}} bolts upright, phone almost pressed to their nose.

It's a photo {{user}} definitely didn't take, with a date in the corner that makes no sense: months ahead, a day that doesn't even exist yet on any calendar hanging on any wall. In the image, {{user}} is standing in front of what looks like a night festival — colored lights, food stalls blurred in the background — and behind them, Thallon has a hand resting naturally on {{user}}'s shoulder, as if they'd been doing that their whole lives. The most unsettling part isn't the pose — it's how genuine both of their smiles look.

{{user}} pinches the image to zoom in, looking for something — anything — that would give it away as fake. A weird edge, a badly placed shadow, something.

Nothing. It looks real. Too real.

{{user}} lets out a breath they didn't realize they were holding.

It has to be edited. {{user}} mutters, though the words don't quite sound convincing even to themself. Synced from where? I didn't upload anything. Either someone hacked my account, or it's some weird filter, or—

{{user}} doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, scrolls through contacts and hits call before thinking it through too much.

The phone rings twice before Noelle's voice answers, with that same easygoing tone as always, music barely audible in the background.

Everything okay? Your voice sounds weird.

Nothing, I mean, yeah, but— {{user}} runs a hand through their hair, trying to figure out how to phrase the question without sounding completely unhinged. Hey, random question. Hypothetically. If out of nowhere you got a notification that a new photo synced to your gallery, but you never took any photo... what would you think?

Silence on the other end. Then, a short, disbelieving laugh.

What kind of question is that?

It's hypothetical. {{user}} insists, already a little defensive. Like, for a story. That I'm thinking about writing. That's all.

Uh-huh. It's clear Noelle doesn't believe a word of it, but decides to play along. Well, hypothetically, I'd think my cloud got hacked, or someone's playing a really messed-up prank on me. Why, what happened?

{{user}} hesitates a second, looking at the photo again — the festival lights, Thallon's hand on the shoulder, that date that shouldn't exist — and decides to pull the thread anyway, even under the excuse of "random curiosity."

Nothing, it's just— {{user}} sits on the edge of the bed. Do you know when the Academy festival is this year? The official one, I mean. I don't know, changed topic, ignore me.

Huh? Total random, but okay— the sound of a keyboard is audible in the background, like Noelle's checking something on the computer. I think they announced it for a few months out, still a while away. Why?

{{user}}'s stomach drops. The date on the Academy calendar and the blurry date in the corner of the photo start lining up in a way {{user}} would rather not be noticing right now.

No reason. {{user}} says, voice a little tighter than intended. Just curious. I'll let you go, I have homework.

You sound off today, but okay. Tell me if anything's up, yeah?

{{user}} hangs up before Noelle can push further, phone still warm in hand, heart beating a little faster than normal.

{{user}} lies there staring at the ceiling for a good while.

When {{user}} finally works up the nerve to open the gallery again, checking the notification one last time before sleep, trying to convince themself it'll be exactly where it was left...

It's gone. No photo, no notification, no trace it was ever there.

The phone buzzes once more. {{user}} nearly drops it from the scare. But it's not another cloud notification this time — it's a new text message, from a contact saved simply as "Thallon (desk)."

Thallon: Where can we meet up tomorrow? We need to start organizing the pair project, I'm not leaving it for the last day.

{{user}} stares at the message a second too long, the impossible photo still fresh in mind — Thallon, the hand on the shoulder, that genuine smile he never shows in real life — and suddenly that mundane, ordinary school-project text feels almost surreal next to what was just seen.

The screen lights the room in bluish flashes. It's a fairly predictable romantic comedy, the kind Corym picked without asking much, but {{user}} still enjoys following along with a half-goofy smile. He's had an arm draped along the back of {{user}}'s seat for a while now — not exactly around {{user}}, but close enough that anyone watching would get the message perfectly. Every so often he whispers some joke about the plot, steals popcorn from the shared bucket with obvious intent, and now and then presses a quick kiss to {{user}}'s temple, marking territory without needing a single word. It's, in every sense, the kind of date {{user}} always imagined having — the kind from the movies {{user}} loves so much, the kind {{user}}'s dreamed of for as long as {{user}} can remember.

That's why, when the phone buzzes in the pocket right in the middle of a particularly sappy scene, {{user}} almost ignores it. Almost. Until the notification catches the eye — barely a flash on the screen — "1 new photo synced to your gallery" — and something ice-cold runs down {{user}}'s spine, so suddenly that for a second {{user}} even forgets where they are.

Everything okay? Corym leans toward {{user}}, noticing the shift before {{user}} can fully hide it.

Yeah, yeah, all good— {{user}} forces a smile while already standing up, heart beating at a pace that has nothing to do with the movie. Be right back, going to the bathroom.

{{user}} leaves the theater, tripping over other people's knees in the dark, muttering rushed apologies, and walks straight to the bathroom, pulse still racing.

Once inside a stall, {{user}} unlocks the phone with fingers that won't quite hold still. There are several photos this time, not just one: an entire little roll, dated with that same impossible day that still hasn't arrived on any real calendar. And this time, the setting is unmistakable — a photo booth, the vertical-strip kind, soft lavender light in the background.

In the first, {{user}} rests a head on Thallon's shoulder with a smile that doesn't quite feel like {{user}}'s own, so relaxed, so unguarded. In the second, they make a heart together with intertwined hands, cheek to cheek, his gaze fixed on the camera with something that isn't his usual seriousness. In the third, {{user}} is adjusting his tie with a gesture so intimate it almost hurts to look at — and he's looking at {{user}}, not the camera, with an expression {{user}} has never once seen from him in real life. In the last, they both flash peace signs, grinning ear to ear like it's the most natural thing in the world to be like this, together, in that future that shouldn't exist yet.

{{user}} stays staring at the screen for what feel like endless minutes, perched on the closed toilet lid, thumb absently tracing the edge of the screen, as if it could somehow touch those photos for real.

How can images exist of something that's never happened? Why is it always Thallon, over and over, never Corym? And why, deep down, can't part of {{user}} stop looking at that smile — so different, so unmistakably {{user}}'s own and yet not at the same time?

The distant sound of people leaving the theaters snaps {{user}} back to reality. The movie's already over. {{user}} puts the phone away, splashes water on the face to cool the heat in the cheeks, and takes a deep breath before heading out.

{{user}} finds Corym leaning against the hallway wall, checking his own phone with that easy, unbothered calm that never seems to leave him. He looks up the moment he spots {{user}} approaching, and his face lights up instantly — that easy, charming smile, the same one that won over half the Academy.

There you are. He says, pocketing his phone and reaching a hand out to {{user}}, as if the gesture were the most natural thing in the world. Was starting to miss you.

Sorry, took a bit longer than I meant to. {{user}} takes his hand, letting the warmth of the gesture anchor {{user}} back to the present, even if only a little.

They walk together toward the exit, fingers laced, Corym picking the conversation right back up where he'd left it, recapping the movie's ending in dramatic detail — the unexpected twist, the leads' tearful reunion in the rain, that final scene he thought was "predictable, but still nice, don't judge me" — gesturing with his hands, briefly mimicking the lead actor's deep voice just to make {{user}} laugh, and it works: {{user}} lets out a genuine laugh that, for a moment, pushes back the weight of what was just seen in the bathroom.

Reaching the theater's lit lobby, Corym slings an arm over {{user}}'s shoulders with his usual ease, pulling {{user}} a little closer.

Hey, are you hungry? He asks, briefly resting his chin on top of {{user}}'s head. We could grab something right here, at the food court. My treat.

Yeah, sure. {{user}} nods, letting himself be led, silently grateful for the distraction of food and noise and normal people around.

They head down to the food court together, still linked, Corym talking nonstop about anything — the next game, a video he watched that morning, whatever crosses his mind — with that easy way he has of filling any awkward silence before it even has a chance to form. They stop in front of one of the burger stands, and he checks the menu board with an unbothered attitude, already pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.

What are you in the mood for? You know I'm buying. He says, winking, a gesture that always gets a smile out of {{user}}, no matter how many times he repeats it.

{{user}} barely gets a glance at the menu when something — or someone — behind the counter stops {{user}} cold.

It's Thallon.

Wearing the stand's uniform, cap slightly crooked as always, finishing up with the previous customer with that same neutral, bored expression he always has. When it's finally their turn, he looks up at {{user}} and Corym... and there's absolutely no flicker of recognition on his face. Not one extra blink, not a pause that gives anything away. He looks at them exactly the way he'd look at any other pair of strangers walking up to the register on a Saturday night.

Welcome, what can I get you? He asks, in the flat, automatic tone of someone who's repeated that same line hundreds of times that same shift.

{{user}} freezes for a moment, not knowing what to say, heart lurching in a different way this time. Is he seriously not going to say anything? Not even a blink, something? After those photos, after everything I just saw half an hour ago... how can he look at me like this, like I don't matter at all?

Corym, completely oblivious to the silent storm {{user}} is going through, is already scanning the menu with total normalcy, arm still resting familiarly around {{user}}'s waist.

Two combos, the classic. He says, not looking away from the lit-up menu. What do you want, babe? He asks after, turning slightly toward {{user}}, with that same easy smile as always, assuming — as he assumes almost everything — that {{user}} will order the usual.

{{user}} opens their mouth to answer, but for a second, unable to help it, their eyes meet Thallon's across the counter.

And even though he keeps that perfectly neutral, perfectly rehearsed expression... there's something, just for an instant, in the way he holds the gaze a second too long before fixing his eyes back on the register screen.