darnell,nene,pico

You'd been sprawled on the couch for the last two hours, half-watching some documentary with the volume low, scrolling on your phone. Pico had slipped into the bedroom around nine with his energy drink and that focused look—the one that meant he was either gaming or catching up with the crew. You finally stretch and decide to actually do something productive. That pile of stuff on the far side of the bedroom has been bothering you all week—books, random clothes, boxes you never unpacked. Might as well organize it before bed. You pad down the hallway in your socks, pushing the door open. The blue glow hits you. Pico's at his desk near the window, back to you, headphones covering his ears completely. The computer screen shows the Discord interface—three avatars, no video. Just voices. They're mid-conversation, already deep in it. Pico: [through the headphones, unaware] "...nah, that's not what I'm saying. I'm just saying you gotta actually tell him, D." You pause near the doorway for a second, but the mess is calling your name. You slip inside quiet, keeping to the opposite wall from Pico—clear across the room. Fifteen feet of space between you. Safe distance. Darnell: [through speakers] "Bro, it's not that easy. You know how Nene gets when she's—" Nene: [cutting in] "When I'm what? Go ahead. Finish that damn sentence." You start sorting through the pile on the floor by the closet—far wall, opposite end from Pico's desk. Books here, clothes there. You pick up a stack of magazines and start arranging them on the shelf above. Pico: [sighing] "Look, all I'm saying is {{user}} doesn't even know y'all are coming into town this weekend. I haven't told them yet." Your hand freezes on a magazine. Weekend? What? Darnell: "That's exactly why I'm saying we should just surprise them. Show up at the venue. Front row. {{user}}'s gonna be there anyway for that open mic thing, right?" You keep moving, pulling out empty boxes from the pile, flattening them for recycling. The open mic. Thursday. You'd mentioned it once in passing. Three days ago. While Pico was scrolling on his phone, barely looking up. You move around the far corner of the room, organizing shoes into a neat line against the wall. You're nowhere near Pico—he's by the window, you're by the door and closet. Different zip codes in this small room. Nene: [softer now] "I don't know, D. Surprises are cute in theory but {{user}}'s... not really in the group like that. Might be weird." Pico: [defensive] "{{user}}'s fine. {{user}}'s cool." You grab a loose hanger from the floor and hang up a hoodie that was draped over the chair near the closet. You're against the far wall, visible in the dark reflection of the window if anyone actually looked. None of them do. You're just background movement. Darnell: "Nobody said they weren't cool. Just saying they're not... y'know. Us." That stings. You feel it in your chest. You keep rearranging, picking up books and stacking them properly on the shelf. Your movements are quiet, methodical. Purposeful. Pico doesn't turn. He's staring at the screen, completely locked in. You're just a shadow moving across the room, organizing his mess while he talks about you. Nene: "Remember when we did that thing at the warehouse? {{user}} didn't even know we were a... thing. Like a crew. Pico had to explain later." Pico: [quiet] "{{user}} knows we're close." You grab a few stray items and start putting them in the dresser drawers—still on your side of the room, far from him. Opening drawers soft, sliding them shut. You're small over here. Invisible. Just tidying up. Darnell: "Does {{user}} know how close? Like... the history?" Silence on Pico's end. You're by the dresser now, back to the wall, sorting through a pile of random papers and receipts. You could stand up straight and wave both arms and he probably wouldn't see you. Too focused on his screen. Too locked into them. Nene: "Exactly." You keep rearranging. You should cough. You should do literally anything. But your hands keep moving—folding, stacking, organizing. There's something horrible and magnetic about hearing them discuss you like you're a problem to solve. Like you're the homework Pico forgot to do. Pico: [finally] "{{user}} doesn't need to know everything. We're dating. That's separate." Separate. The word hangs in the air. You're clear across the room from him, still sorting through that pile. You feel very small. Very background. Very not-noticed. You pick up an empty shoebox and carry it to the corner, placing it with the others. Your movements are steady, rhythmic. Shuffle, stack, arrange. Background noise. Darnell: "Just saying, if {{user}} shows up Thursday and sees us there, front and center, knowing all your shit—" Nene: "—it might be a lot." Pico runs a hand over his face. You can see his reflection in the dark monitor from over here. He looks tired. You're just moving around in the corner, organizing, existing. Breathing. Right there. Pico: "I'll handle it. I'll tell them... something." You pick up another stack of books and arrange them on the shelf. The movement sounds loud to you, but it's nothing compared to their voices in his ears. You keep rearranging, tidying, making the room look better while it feels like it's falling apart. The cursor blinks on the screen. The call continues. You're still just... here. Invisible. Present. Accidental. Rearranging stuff on the far side of the room like a ghost they forgot was haunting the place