Tycho Hielene

It was midnight. The air was heavy with perfume and sweat, a tangle of alcohol fumes and thudding bass that made the walls pulse like a living thing. The party buzzed like static—slurred laughter, breathless flirting, and the occasional clink of shot glasses echoing in the chaos.

You didn’t belong here.

But then again, how did you end up anywhere these days?

Him.

The boy with the smile too sharp to be kind. The boy with wealth in his veins and charm on his tongue. He was the kind of person people didn’t say no to—not because they feared him, but because they never had to. He had always gotten what he wanted. Praise, affection, bodies, attention—it all clung to him like perfume, like he was dipped in gold and destined to be worshipped.

And yet, beneath the easy grins and the playful arrogance, he was starving. Not for attention. That was cheap. But for someone who could see through the glittering mask he’d been forced to wear since childhood. For someone who didn’t look at his face or his wallet but saw something lonelier. Something real.

That someone, somehow, was you.

You—the quiet girl with the fraying hoodie and shy eyes. The one who sat under trees feeding strays, who spoke so softly it made people lean in. A scholarship student, raised by a single mother with trembling hands and tired eyes. You’d never had time for vanity, for makeup, for popularity. Your life was spreadsheets and textbooks and microwaved dinners. The only thing you knew how to give was effort—raw, aching effort. Love was a foreign language. Affection? A myth.

And still, you looked at him like he was just a person.

He hadn’t meant for you to be anything more than a passing distraction. A game.

The first time he really noticed you, he was on the tennis court, surrounded by admirers, drunk on their laughter. He spotted you watching from the benches, fiddling with the sleeves of your oversized hoodie, your eyes focused not on him—but on the cat curled beside your shoe. A stray, just like you.

So he walked over, racket in hand, wearing his practiced grin like armor. He challenged you to a match. For the thrill of it. For the fun of watching you fumble.

But when you nodded shyly and stepped onto the court—when you pulled off your hoodie and tied your hair up with quiet determination—something shifted.

You were... beautiful.

Not in the way he was used to. Not with high heels and glossy lips. But in the way your eyes sharpened when you served, in the way your breath came fast but steady, in the way your form moved—graceful, grounded, unpolished but real. You looked like freedom. Like effort. Like fire carved from silence.

And you crushed him.

He laughed, breathless and stunned, when you won the match. He hadn’t expected it. And neither had you. You’d stood there, sheepish, thinking he’d be angry. But instead, he offered his hand and a lopsided smile.

“Damn, where’ve you been hiding?”

After that, it began.

You didn’t know what to call it. Friendship, maybe. Or something that pretended to be. He started walking beside you on campus. You’d sit under the trees and trade dumb jokes. He’d poke fun at the way you zoned out when you were thinking too hard, and you’d call him “a brat with designer socks.” He’d bring you iced tea you never asked for, and you’d show up to his matches with a crooked sign that said, “Win or I’ll tell everyone you cried during Titanic.”

It was fun. Silly. Like being kids in a world that never let either of you be children.

But even then, it was laced with something heavier. The way his eyes lingered when you smiled at your own joke. The way your voice would falter when his hand brushed yours.

And he wanted you.

Not just your body, though he started there. It was how he knew to connect. He flirted, pushed boundaries, teased until your cheeks went red and your words stuttered. He liked the power of it—at first.

But then you started showing up with small things. A tiny bandage for the scrape on his finger. A napkin folded into a rabbit. A note with “Don’t forget your 3 p.m. meeting!” and a lopsided heart. You didn’t know how to love the way others did. But you tried.

You gave him pieces of yourself in silence.

And he took them. All of them. Greedily.

It started with stolen kisses in hidden corners. Then late-night calls. Then your body in his bed, trembling and unsure. He coaxed you with soft words, with warm hands. But he never gave you the words you ached to hear. He never called it love.

He convinced you this was what affection looked like. You didn’t know any better.

It was always on his terms. His timing. His rules.

And so you found yourself at the party.

You weren’t even invited by him—but one of his friends, amused by your quietness, had extended a cruel sort of invitation. You came because you missed him. Because you thought maybe, if he saw you here, he'd smile. That he'd pull you aside, hold your hand, say something soft.

But he didn’t.

You found him half-drunk on a velvet couch, arms around girls with short dresses and loud laughs. One of them kissed his neck. He leaned into it, smirking.

Your heart cracked, quietly, like ice beneath water.

And then—he looked up. Saw you. Froze.

You stood there, wide-eyed, shoulders tense. Wearing that same hoodie. You looked so heartbreakingly out of place.

He laughed.

It wasn’t kind.

“What the hell are you doing here, hun?” His voice was sharp, mocking. A defense.

He hated the way his heart jumped at the sight of you. The way guilt curled in his throat. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to look at him like that. He didn't want you to see him like this.

You didn’t say anything.

His smile dropped.

“I asked you a question. You answer it.”

His tone cut sharper than he meant. He hated that, too.

He shoved the girls off his lap and stalked toward you, hands stuffed in his pockets, jaw tight.

You looked up at him like he could still be good. Like he hadn’t broken something sacred between you.

And that was the moment he realized—

He might’ve been the first to fall.

But you were the one who had the power to walk away.

And he didn’t know how to stop you.