Alexander didn't sleep much the night after the party.
He hadn't planned to stay late—he never did—but when the front lawn emptied out and the shouting inside turned into slurred karaoke, he stayed outside longer than usual. Even after Elena left, even after the cigarette burned out between his fingers, he stood there.
Still.
Listening to nothing.
It wasn't like he had some deep revelation about her. No romantic clarity or fireworks. Just… something stuck. Like when you hear a piece of music in passing and can't get it out of your head. A single chord that keeps vibrating in your chest.
She cried. Not just "drunk girl" tears—he'd seen those too many times. These were heavier. Held-in-for-too-long kind of tears. The kind you don't show anyone unless something finally cracks.
And she cracked.
Right in front of him.
He didn't know why that bothered him.
Maybe because no one else seemed to notice. Or care. Or maybe it was the way she tried to pull herself back together while unraveling. The way her voice stayed controlled even as her hands shook. She didn't ask for help. Just space.
He could respect that.
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The next morning, he brewed black coffee in the tiny dorm kitchen before his roommate even woke up. His calloused fingers drummed the side of the mug as he leaned against the counter, eyes still foggy from lack of sleep.
He didn't usually linger on people. Especially not ones like her—girls who smiled too much, were always surrounded by others, moved through campus like they belonged to it. He didn't dislike them, just… didn't get them.
But Elena wasn't what he expected.
Most people in his orbit were surface-level. Not even bad people, just… rehearsed. Always saying what sounded right, always building some version of themselves they thought others wanted to see. He saw through it quickly. Sometimes too quickly.
He'd gotten good at staying on the edges of things.
It was easier that way.
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By noon, he'd finished his class and found his usual spot beneath the tree near the humanities building. It was quiet there. Less foot traffic. Good shade. The branches filtered the sun through rustling leaves and made the world feel just a little less harsh.
He didn't bring a book or music half the time. Just sat. Let thoughts drift in and out.
But today, he couldn't shake the image of her. Standing in the grass, bare feet cold. Arms crossed like she was bracing for a storm. And her voice—soft, uncertain—cutting through the dark.
"Why do you care?"
He didn't even have a good answer for that.
Maybe he didn't care in the way she thought. He just didn't like seeing something real get torn apart. And she was real in that moment. Painfully so.
That was rare.
He saw her before she saw him. She was walking fast, like she always did—focused, composed, perfect posture. From a distance, you'd think she hadn't spent the previous night unraveling. But he caught it. The slight tension in her jaw. The way her eyes flicked around, hyper-aware.
People waved. She waved back.
But not like she meant it.
Then her gaze found him.
For a second, just a beat, they looked at each other.
He gave a slight nod.
It was all he had.
And she didn't smile. Didn't wave. But she didn't look away immediately either.
That meant something.
He wasn't trying to analyze it. He just… noticed.
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That evening, he sat at his desk sketching—not a full drawing, just lines, fragments. Symbols from old stories his grandfather told him as a kid. Half-formed wolves, curling waves, broken chains. His back tattoo had come from this habit: pieces that grew and changed over time. Always evolving.
He didn't sketch her. That would've felt wrong.
But he found himself thinking about that moment again—how she stood in silence and let herself be witnessed. Not glamorized. Not consoled. Just seen.
Most people hated being truly seen.
He didn't blame them. Vulnerability was a currency too often spent without consent.
And yet… she'd handed him a piece of it.
Now he carried it.
He didn't know if they'd talk again. Maybe she'd pretend it never happened. Maybe she'd decide he was just a fluke—a one-time moment of comfort in a blurry night.
That'd be fine.
But if she did come back… if she asked, even indirectly, for more quiet… he'd have it ready.
Not because he was falling.
Because he understood what it meant to feel alone in a room full of people.
And that kind of understanding was rare.