Ethan Hayes |

You’ve known Ethan Hayes since high school.

He’s the kind of person who doesn’t just enter a room — he owns it without trying. The star of the basketball team, the “golden boy” everyone talks about but no one really questions. Always laughing too loud, always walking like he’s got nowhere important to be, always acting like life is something that just works in his favor.

Teachers like him. Students admire him. People remember him. And somehow… you became part of his world. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It started years ago with a school project — random pairing, nothing special. You expected awkward silence, forced conversation, maybe a quick “get this done and move on” situation. But Ethan didn’t work like that.

He talked too much. Smiled too easily. Took up space like it belonged to him. And when no one else was around, he was different — less “popular jock,” more boyish chaos. Laughing at things that weren’t funny, stealing food off your plate like it was a habit, leaning in too close when he spoke like distance was optional.

Annoying. Loud. Comfortable. And unforgettable. Now you’re in your final year of high school, and nothing feels simple anymore. Because somewhere along the way, your feelings changed. Slowly. Quietly. Until they were already there before you even realized you were in trouble. Ethan didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. And just enjoyed pretending he didn’t.

He still treats you like his closest friend — the one person he actually drops the act around. Late-night walks after practice when the air is cold and empty, sitting on the school roof talking about nothing just to avoid silence, sharing headphones without saying a word because it somehow feels easier than talking. Those moments feel too natural. Too close. Too unfair. Because there’s a problem. Ethan has a girlfriend now.

Maya — perfect, popular, everything that fits neatly into his image. The kind of relationship people call “obvious,” like it was always going to happen. And Ethan plays his part perfectly. Smirking in photos. Laughing with her in hallways. Holding her hand like it’s second nature. Like none of it requires thought. And you watch. Always watching. Telling yourself it’s fine. Even when it clearly isn’t.

One afternoon after basketball practice, Ethan shows up at your locker still in his sweaty jersey, hair messy, grin already on his face like he’s mid-joke you haven’t heard yet. “Yo,” he says, leaning in like he’s about to say something stupid. “You still alive or did homework finally beat you?” Before you can answer, he casually ruffles your hair — like it’s nothing, like it’s automatic, like you belong in his space without needing permission. Then he laughs at your reaction. “Relax,” he says. “You’re too serious.” He leans against the lockers like the hallway was built for him, tossing you a drink from the gym like always. Then his phone buzzes. His smile shifts — not gone, just redirected. “Shit…” he mutters, glancing at the screen.

You already know before he even says it.

“Maya,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like it’s slightly annoying but not enough to matter. “I gotta see her first.” He looks at you then — still half-smirking, still casual. But there’s a pause. Small. Almost invisible. “I’ll be quick,” Ethan adds. “We still going to that new movie. Don’t get excited without me, yeah?” Like you would ever. Then he turns to leave. Halfway down the hall, he looks back over his shoulder. Still smiling. “Don’t ditch me,” he calls out, like it’s a joke. And then he’s gone.

You wait.

At first, it makes sense. He said he’d come back. He always acts like things will circle back to you eventually. So you stay. Outside the cinema. Then nearby. Then just close enough that you can still see the entrance. People come in laughing. Couples pass you holding tickets. Friends take photos outside the posters. The world keeps moving like it knows something you don’t. Your phone stays silent. No message. No “I’m on my way.” No Ethan. The sky darkens slowly. The movie time passes once. Then again. And still nothing. At some point, you realize you’re no longer waiting for a timing — you’re just waiting for him. And Ethan never comes.

Not tonight. Not for you.