Ever since that conversation with Sterling, I've been juggling to meet all the damn scholarship requirements. History? Yeah, I don't have any. But with Ethan, I figure I can at least plug that gap—just enough so they don't grill me with questions I don't want to answer. The charade with him is a house of cards, and every day that passes, I feel the wind blowing harder, threatening to bring it all down.
The real problem is the recommendations and the activism. There aren't many ways out, and the only option that doesn't sound like suicide is the university's LGBT Activist Group. I've been talking to them these past few days, taking advantage of the fact that we share some biology classes. But damn, it's not easy. They're not convinced, and how could I blame them? My reputation at Stanford is an open book: Noah Whitman, the blond who's been through half the campus, the guy who always has a confident smile and a new conquest every weekend. When I stand there talking about inclusion and diversity, they look at me like I'm telling a bad joke at a party. And shit, people here really do have too much free time. I didn't know my sex life was the damn topic of the semester.
Still, I don't give up. I've managed to get some of them, like Jackie and Mason, to start letting their guard down, even if just a little. They don't look at me like I'm an alien anymore, but convincing them to sign a recommendation is like asking to borrow their favorite car: polite excuses, smiles that don't reach their eyes, and a "let's talk later" that sounds like a slam of the door. I have to make them change their minds, even if it means keeping up this act until the end.
All of this has me exhausted. There's no relief from my family, which is a minefield, or from my Alpha Centauri friends, who are too busy with their own disasters. There's only one person who keeps the weight from crushing me: Ethan.
Lately, I spend almost every night in his room, sleeping in his bed. I don't know if it's habit or because the silence with him is easier than the noise with everyone else. Except for one night, when I stayed late in the lab and slept in my own room. That night was a weird void, like Stanford had run out of oxygen, and my bed, usually comfortable, felt like a mattress of nails.
The campus always looks impeccable, with its light stone buildings gleaming under the sun and gardens so perfect they seem pulled from a postcard. But amid all that order, among students walking like they've got life figured out, there's a subtle, elegant emptiness that whispers that no one here is entirely real. I'm always pretending something: with my dad, with the fraternity, with the group. But with Ethan, I'm not. Or at least, not as much.
I've never been good at sleeping. I wake up with a heavy head, my body dragging sleep, like I haven't rested in years. But since I started spending nights with Ethan, that changed. I don't know if it's his bed, which is more comfortable than mine, or just him, lying beside me, breathing steadily. There's something about his presence that quiets the noise in my head. When I wake up in the middle of the night and see him, hair falling over his eyes, face relaxed, I feel an absurd calm, like the world can wait a while. I watch him sleep and, without realizing it, I smile. It's like silent therapy, something that shouldn't matter so much and yet, damn, it does. He looks good. Fucking good.
I like him when he's awake, with that way of his of talking without saying much, letting the silence fill in the rest. But I also like him when he's asleep, because I can look at him all I want without feeling like I'm crossing a line. Though, shit, lately I realize I'm looking too much. Sometimes I wake up to go to the bathroom and end up staying there for minutes, watching him, more than I want to admit. Other times, in the morning, I open my eyes and find him already awake, looking at me in silence. When he realizes I've noticed, he looks away with a clumsiness that makes me laugh… and at the same time, I like it more than I should.
Everything with him has become so fucking weird. Too weird. And yeah, I'm scared. Scared of noticing how much I like looking at him. Scared of realizing how much I enjoy being with him. Because this isn't like with Joe or Chris, not even close. I never spent the night with them, not even on fraternity bender days. The last time I slept in the same room with another guy was in high school, playing video games until three in the morning. But with Ethan, it's different. Everything is different. And damn, I like it. But at the same time, it terrifies me.
Sometimes, when I'm alone, I start wondering if all this—the nights with him, the looks, this charade—is just for the scholarship or something more complicated. I don't like guys. I've always been clear on that. My sexuality isn't a mystery. But Ethan… he's not a woman, and still, he makes me nervous, speeds up my pulse the way girls usually do.
Like this morning. I woke up and he wasn't in bed anymore. I turned over, half-asleep, and he came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel, hair damp and stuck to his forehead, steam escaping behind him like it was a damn movie scene. I don't know how long I stared, but my eyes wouldn't move. My body reacted on its own, without asking permission, and I hated myself a little for it. But another part of me, one I don't want to listen to, didn't want to stop. I want to believe that when my eyes traced his body, it was just the tension of this lie, a stupid reflex. But I'm not sûre. I'm not sure of anything.
When I see a girl on campus, like Amber, my eyes do the same: they trace her, linger on her smile, her hips. But with them, I don't feel guilty. With Ethan, I do. With him, I feel like I'm crossing a line I don't understand, but I know I shouldn't.
Shit, I'm overthinking. I want it to stop. I want this feeling to go away. I want the fear to disappear. But I don't want Ethan to leave. I need him more than he could imagine. Because even though I pretend not to notice, he trusts me. And that trust, the way he lets his guard down with me, is what I'm most terrified of losing.
"Hey, it's your turn," someone says, snapping me out of the spiral of thoughts I've been drowning in all morning.
"My turn?" I reply, confused, my mind still trapped between Ethan and the mess inside me.
I'm in the lab, surrounded by the metallic smell of instruments and the constant hum of the exhaust fans. The tables are covered in test tubes, pipettes, and flasks with labels half-erased by moisture. Clara, my lab partner, is standing in front of me, holding a notebook full of scribbles and a digital stopwatch blinking impatiently.
"Yeah, Noah, it's your turn to measure the sample," she says, with a tone mixing patience and resignation as she adjusts her safety goggles.
"Oh, right," I mutter, trying to snap back to the present. I grab the pipette and carefully load the solution, feeling Clara's and Ben's eyes—the other partner—fixed on me.
"If you don't drop anything this time, maybe we'll get a decent result," Ben tosses out without looking up from the monitor where he's checking the pH, and the group lets out a short laugh.
"It was an accident, asshole," I reply, focused on not repeating yesterday's disaster. The liquid falls slowly, clear and precise, until the reaction shifts the color—a subtle shade that confirms I didn't screw it up.
"There we go," Clara says, scribbling the data with a chewed-up pen. "Finally something works."
I exhale, resting my hands on the cold steel table, but the relief doesn't last. My head's still tangled. The bell cuts through the silence abruptly, and everyone starts packing up, the sound of snapping gloves and footsteps filling the air. I close the notebook and bolt out of the lab, still holding the pipette until Clara yells at me to put it down.
Outside the Sapp Building, the fresh Palo Alto air hits me, but the campus is still the same: students crossing under the arches, bikes piled up in the racks, the smell of freshly cut grass mixed with coffee from the nearby kiosk. Then I see her. Jackie. The most visible rep of the LGBT group, talking to someone at the foot of the Humanities building stairs, gesturing with an energy that seems to pull everyone in.
I don't think twice. I head toward her, dodging a guy on a scooter who nearly runs me over. I need to talk to her about the same thing that's been eating at me for days. About the damn recommendation that's still out of reach.
"Jackie! Wait up!" I shout, running to catch her as she speeds up, like she knows I'm coming.
She stops and turns with a sigh, her strands of blue, green, and purple hair shining under the sun. "Jesus, Noah, don't you ever get tired?"
"You know I don't," I reply, panting a bit. "Like that time I tried to hit on you freshman year… before I knew you were a lesbian."
Jackie lets out a dry laugh, crossing her arms. "Yeah, that was pathetic. For you, anyway."
"One of my worst failures," I joke, raising my eyebrows with mock pride.
"I doubt it," she says, with a half-smile that I can't tell is mockery or sympathy.
"Can we talk for a second?" I ask, lowering my tone, more serious.
"No, I've got a meeting with the group," she replies, starting to walk again.
"Perfect, I'll come with," I blurt out, following without hesitation.
"I don't think that's a good idea," she says, not stopping.
"Since when are good ideas my thing?" I retort, keeping pace.
Jackie huffs, but a smile betrays her before she gives in. "You're walking into the lion's den, Whitman."
"And I'm always the lion," I reply, with a confidence I don't fully feel.
"God, you're unbearable," she mutters, shaking her head, but she keeps walking.
We head to the Fire Truck House, where the group usually meets. The air is warm, thick with the scent of eucalyptus and the murmur of students passing with backpacks and earbuds. We go by the Marguerite, the campus shuttle, and hop on. Jackie stares out the window, distracted, as the bus rumbles softly. "You're really going to keep pushing this, huh?" she asks without turning.
"Just want to talk. That's all," I reply, though I know it's not that simple.
"You know everyone in the group. You know they don't trust you," she says, her tone not hostile but not friendly either.
"That's why I'm here. If they're going to leave me hanging, let it be in style," I quip, trying to lighten the air.
Jackie lets out a short laugh, the first genuine one of the day. "You're an idiot."
"And you say that like it's news," I reply, smiling.
The bus stops in front of the Fire Truck House, a low building with brick walls and event posters plastered everywhere: talks, workshops, a rainbow march. Soft music leaks from inside, along with laughter and the clink of cups. Jackie pushes the door open, and we step into a room with cluttered tables, open laptops, and the smell of coffee. Three people are chatting around a table covered in flyers and empty cups. Eyes lift when we enter, and one of them, Mason, recognizes me immediately, his expression flickering between surprise and wariness.
Jackie points to an empty chair. "Sit. You've got five minutes."
I drop into it, keeping my eyes on them. Mason, in a loud red patterned shirt that demands attention, gives me a quick wink. "My favorite blond," he says, with a smile I can't tell is friendly or sarcastic.
I tense a bit but don't look away. "Here to push the same thing again?" he adds, leaning back against the table, his tone half-amused, half-exhausted.
"Just need a chance," I reply, trying to sound firm, though my leg won't stop bouncing under the table.
Jackie crosses her arms, her gaze a mix of authority and fatigue. "Noah, we already told you we don't think this is real, okay?"
"I know," I say, looking at the floor, feeling the weight of her words. "You made that clear. But this is my last shot. I want to talk it over with you and Mason. Alone."
Jackie and Mason exchange a quick glance, a wordless conversation. Finally, they nod. Jackie sighs and stands. "Fine. But make it quick."
They lead me to a small room in the back, with a round table, three chairs, and a flickering fluorescent light that looks ready to give up. The door closes, muffling the group's noise, leaving a heavy silence. Jackie drops into a chair, her rainbow dress glowing under the cold light, her bracelets clinking softly on her wrists. Mason, in pants impossible to ignore, sits across from me, twirling a leather bracelet on his wrist.
"What's up, Whitman? Changed your mind yet?" Mason says with a half-laugh.
"No," I reply, running a hand over the back of my neck where sweat is pooling. "Just… processing."
Jackie rests her elbow on the table, fingers drumming impatiently. "I said five minutes, and two are already gone. Get to it, Noah."
I take a deep breath, trying to sort my thoughts, but Ethan's image keeps slipping in, along with the knot in my chest. Finally, I dive in. I tell them everything. Or almost everything. I talk about my dad, how he wanted me to study Economics to follow in his footsteps, how I switched to Molecular Biology behind his back, and how, when he found out, he cut me off: cards, trust fund, everything. I tell them I work at the campus café, but it barely covers a decent coffee. That's why I'm here—the Diversity and Inclusion scholarship is my only way out. I explain that Sterling was clear: I need history, activism, recommendations. All the things I don't have.
I don't mention Ethan. I don't say I'm faking a relationship with him. If I do, it all collapses.
Jackie listens without interrupting, arms crossed, eyes fixed. Mason leans forward, fingers laced, never taking his eyes off me. When I finish, the weight in my chest lightens a bit, though the guilt is still there, gnawing.
"So," Jackie says, breaking the silence, "all this is for the scholarship?"
"Yeah," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. "It's all I've got."
Jackie sighs. Mason nods slowly, and the silence stretches, heavy with everything I'm not saying. "Noah, I'm sorry about your dad," Jackie says, with a hint of empathy, "but I can't help you with this."
"Why not?" I push back, trying not to sound desperate. "I'm not asking for much."
Jackie leans toward me, elbows on the table. "You're asking for a recommendation. You're asking for a story you don't have. You think being here is easy? That activism is a club you join for points? No, Noah."
Mason nods, calmer. "She's right. This isn't just showing up. It's more complicated. There's a story behind every one of us."
"I know it's complicated," I say, running a hand through my hair, frustrated. "But I'm desperate. I've got nowhere to go. And damn, I've done things for you guys, haven't I? Jackie, I carried those biology projects when you were busy with the group. I put your name on them. And Mason, didn't I get you Joe's number?"
Jackie raises an eyebrow, surprised, and looks at Mason. "You went out with Joe?"
Mason smiles, shrugging. "Yeah, one night. It was… nice. But it didn't go anywhere."
Jackie bursts out laughing, shaking her head. "I can't believe it."
"Come on, Jackie, haven't you seen how hot Joe is?" Mason jokes, and the two of them laugh, breaking the tension for a second.
"See," I jump in, with a tentative smile, "I even help with that."
Jackie calms down, but her expression hardens. "Noah, what you're asking isn't a small favor. You're asking us to lie for you."
"And that's bigger than you think," Mason adds, serious.
Silence falls like a curtain. Jackie watches me, not with hostility, but with a clarity that cuts. Mason twirls his bracelet, avoiding my gaze. I take a deep breath, but the guilt tightens harder.
"Noah, you're asking me to lie," Jackie repeats, her tone leaving no room for argument. "And then there's Ethan."
My heart skips. "What about Ethan?" I ask, trying to sound casual, but my voice comes out tense.
Mason leans back, elbows on the table. "You've made a spectacle with him. You held his hand in the plaza, practically shouted that he's your boyfriend to half the campus. You really think that looks natural?"
Jackie nods, with an ironic smile. "One day to the next, after sleeping with half the women on campus, you show up with Ethan. You expect no one to doubt it? It looks like you're playing, Noah. In movies, they call it queerbaiting. Using an identity as a prop to get by."
"It's not a lie," I lie, but the words catch, because I'm not so sure. The relationship is fake, but what I feel when I'm with Ethan… I don't understand it.
Mason watches me, brow furrowed. "Listen, Noah. We all live this. We have real stories, things that hurt. We're not here to fill out a form or make someone happy."
Jackie looks at him, then at me, weary. "Besides your dad, what's your story, Noah? What have you been through for being who you say you are?"
I go blank. The air feels thick, the fluorescent lights too cold. "Not all gay guys have a story of suffering," I say, more to defend myself than out of conviction.
"You're right," Mason replies, serious. "But this movement didn't come from those who haven't suffered. It came from those who did. The ones who were beaten, kicked out of their homes, humiliated." He lifts his shirt, revealing a thin scar along his ribs. "This was my dad, trying to 'fix' me. Those of us who live without fear today do it because others bled first."
Jackie looks down for a moment, then at me. "We all have stories, Noah. What's yours?"
I don't know what to say. My throat closes, and the weight of their words crushes me. I think about Ethan. What's his story? What has he been through? And the guilt hits harder, because while I'm using his name as a means to an end, he's probably carrying something real, something I have no right to touch.
"Noah, I'm sorry," Mason says, with a mix of discomfort and sincerity. "Really, I am."
My face burns, my hands tremble on the table. "You don't have to apologize," I mutter, looking away. "I'm the one who's sorry. Thanks for… opening my eyes."
I push back the chair and stand, the room feeling smaller. I walk to the door, but Jackie stops me. "Wait."
I turn. She's standing, arms crossed, but her gaze is softer, tired. "Listen, Noah. This group is about all of us being equal, no matter our sexuality. That includes you."
I look at her, not knowing što to say. She sighs, lowering her voice. "From your reaction, I can tell there's something in you that you don't understand. And that's why people like you matter here too."
"What do you mean?" I ask, my chest tight.
"I'm not going to lie for you," she replies, clear. "But I will give you a chance to earn that recommendation."
I look up, surprised. "How?"
Jackie glances at Mason, who nods, and turns back to me. "Tonight, later, the group is holding a flyer handout. Awareness about mental health: depression, self-harm, rejection. Things a lot of us know too well. We'll hand out flyers, talk to people, answer questions. It's an official part of the program."
She pauses, letting the words sink in. "If you want to show you care, join in. Get involved. Listen, learn, talk. Don't fake it—just do it. If you do, I'll consider recommending you."
I don't know how to respond. My chest tightens, not with anger, but with something stranger, like relief mixed with fear. "Thanks," I mutter, and it sounds more sincere than I expected.
Mason smiles, raising his eyebrows like he's saying "good luck." I leave the room, the air in the Fire Truck House feeling less heavy. The door closes behind me, and the campus murmur returns: laughter, bikes, the smell of coffee and grass. For the first time in this mess, someone left a door cracked open.
****
After the meeting with Jackie and Mason, I practically run out of the Fire Truck House, like the building might swallow me if I stay another second. The air outside is cool, with that eucalyptus tang floating around campus, but my head is still spinning, a whirlwind of guilt, Ethan, and the damn scholarship. I walk fast down the path, dodging buzzing bikes and students with earbuds living in their own worlds. The sun beats down hard on the Main Quad, making the stone buildings and perfectly trimmed grass gleam, but none of that beauty unties the knot in my chest. I head to the café, looking for Ethan, because if anyone can make sense of this shit, it's him.
I push open the café door, and the smell of freshly ground coffee wraps around me, mixed with the sticky sweetness of muffins someone left burning in the oven (probably Ethan). The place is half-full: a couple of students hammering away at laptops, a girl ordering a latte with so much specificity it feels like an exam, and the constant hiss of the espresso machine. There he is, Ethan, behind the counter, focused on making a couple of lattes. The machine whistles, steam rises in white clouds, and he moves with that calm of his that always throws me off, like the world can wait for him. He's got his coffee-stained apron on, shirt sleeves rolled up showing his forearms, and his hair messy, a rebellious strand falling over his forehead, practically begging me to push it aside. And damn, without meaning to, I smile. It happens every time I see him lately, and that scares me more than I want to admit.
Ethan glances up when he notices me, his eyes meeting mine for a second before he frowns. "What are you doing here?" he asks, with surprise and caution. "It's not your shift."
"I know," I reply, leaning on the counter with a smile I hope hides the chaos in my head. "Just wanted to see you… pretty eyes."
Ethan rolls his eyes and lets out a tired sigh, the rag in his hand pausing mid-swipe. "Stop with that already," he mutters, turning his back to me as he scrubs the machine harder than necessary, the steam hiss punctuating his annoyance.
I laugh, because there's something about the way he gets mad that I find fucking adorable, though I'd never say it out loud. "Easy, easy," I say, raising my hands in surrender. "I didn't come to mess with you. Seriously. I came to ask a favor."
He stops, tilting his head, but doesn't fully look at me, his hands still busy with the machine. "What favor?" he asks, and his voice has an edge that puts me on alert.
"This afternoon, there's an event with the campus LGBT group," I explain, trying to sound casual, though my leg won't stop bouncing under the counter. "A flyer handout about mental health: depression, self-harm, rejection, stuff like that. I'd like you to come with me, participate together."
Ethan freezes, like my words stopped him cold. His shoulders tense, barely noticeable, but I know him well enough to catch it. He doesn't say anything, just presses his lips together and keeps wiping the counter with an intensity it doesn't need. The silence weighs heavy, and the café's buzz suddenly feels too loud.
"You okay?" I ask, leaning in a bit, searching for his eyes, because that reaction doesn't sit right.
"Pass," he finally says, curt, without looking up, the rag scraping the counter like he wants to erase it.
"Why?" I ask, confused, because I expected anything but that. "I thought you'd like the idea."
"No," he cuts in, his voice so restrained it sounds like it might break. "Not all gay guys are in the group, Noah. I'm fine without getting into that."
"Shit, I'm sorry," I say slowly, measuring my words, because I feel like I stepped on a live wire. "I didn't think of it that way."
Ethan sets the rag aside, plants his hands on the counter, and shakes his head, still not looking at me. "I don't know what you're up to, but pass," he repeats, and there's something in his tone, a mix of exhaustion and pain, that stabs me like a knife.
"Okay," I reply, though the word sticks, because it's not okay, not at all. But before I can take it back, I regret it. "No, wait," I add, stepping closer, the counter between us feeling like a damn ocean.
I run a hand through my hair, nervous, searching for words. "Remember that night with Sterling?" I ask, trying to catch his gaze.
Ethan finally looks up, a spark of surprise mixed with weariness in his eyes. "You finally going to tell me?" he says, crossing his arms, his apron crumpling against his chest.
"Sterling said, for the scholarship, I need a history with the group," I explain, lowering my voice, like the tables full of students might hear. "Activism, recommendations, all that."
Ethan stays still, his hands gripping the counter. Then he lets out a sigh and drops the rag with a soft thud. "You're doing this for the history?" he asks, and the hurt in his voice hits me harder than I expected. "That's why you didn't tell me?"
"I didn't want to worry you and have you mad at me… again," I reply, and shit, it sounds like a cheap excuse even to me.
Ethan takes off his café cap, runs a hand through his damp hair, and huffs, staring at the floor. "What if I am mad? Damn right I am," he says, looking up, his eyes locking on mine. "Faking with me is one thing, Noah, but faking with them? That's a whole other level."
"That's not it," I shoot back quickly, stepping closer, my hands resting on the counter like I could reach him through the wood. "I'm not going to fake it with them, Ethan. What I said is true. I'm going to participate for real."
He watches me in silence, his eyes searching mine, like he's trying to figure out if I'm lying. The machine keeps hissing, and the café murmur fades into the background. "I want to raise awareness, Ethan," I add, my voice firmer, though my chest shakes. "Yeah, it started for the scholarship, but now… now I care too. For the first time, I want to do something right."
Ethan holds my gaze, lips tight, but says nothing. He nods slightly, almost imperceptibly, before turning to serve a customer with a complicated order. I watch him move, pouring coffee with calm, and I can't help thinking my words, though from the heart, might not be enough.
"Listen, I know you're pissed," I say, following him as he moves to the other side of the counter. Ethan grabs an empty pitcher, scrubs it harder than needed, and sets it down with a sharp clunk.
"I know a lot of the things I do are shit," I continue, taking another step, my voice low to avoid attention. "But this time it's different, I swear. It's coming from me."
"Do whatever you want, okay?" he replies, not stopping, his voice tense, with a contained anger that feels like a punch. "But don't drag me into it."
"The problem is I can't do it without you," I blurt out, quieter, almost a whisper, and the words carry more weight than I meant.
Ethan stops, his back to me. I see his shoulders rise and fall, his breathing tense, and I keep talking before he can walk away. "With you, I feel safe, Ethan. If you're there, even in a corner, even just watching from afar… I know I won't screw up. You don't have to participate, just come with me. Please."
Finally, he turns, and there's something in his eyes, a mix of surprise, exhaustion, and something else I can't quite read. He runs a hand through his hair, huffs, and starts pacing behind the counter, like he's fighting himself. "Fine, I'll go. Shit… why am I doing this?" he mutters, almost to himself.
"Because I'm your favorite idiot," I reply, with a tentative smile, trying to lighten the air.
Ethan shoots me a look that wavers between annoyed and amused, and for a second, the mood softens, like the sun broke through a cloud. But I know he's still mad, that there's a crack I don't know how to fix. Still, he said yes. And for now, that's enough.
"Just this once, Noah," he says, pointing at me with the rag like it's a threat. "But if you get me in trouble, I swear I'll make you swallow all the trash."
"Deal," I reply, with a laugh that comes out more relieved than I expected.
He turns to take another order, but before he walks away, he gives me one last look, and there's something in it—a spark, a doubt—that makes me think this, whatever we have, is about to get a lot more complicated.
****
When four o'clock finally rolls around, Ethan and I walk back to the Alpha Centauri house together. He's beside me, silent, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed ahead, like the campus ground holds all the answers. The air is calm at this hour, the sun softening, and the wind rustles through the eucalyptus trees. Distant laughter from students drifts from the Main Quad, mixed with the screech of a bike flying by. I try to say something to break the ice, but his silence shuts me down, and I just walk, feeling the weight of his earlier anger still hanging between us.
We get to the fraternity and climb the creaky stairs, each heading to our rooms. I stand in front of my closet, staring at my clothes like it's a test I didn't study for. Everything is designer, everything screams "money" even though my account is at zero. I want to look relaxed, not like I'm playing a part, but my wardrobe doesn't help: ironed shirts, jeans that look like they were cut by an invisible designer. Finally, I grab a white linen V-neck tee, fresh but not overdone, light blue jeans that don't look brand new, and decent white sneakers. I run a hand through my hair and head out.
Ethan's already waiting by the front door, leaning against the wall with a calm that throws me off. He changed: light blue shirt with sleeves rolled up, black pants, and worn black Converse. He looks relaxed, but I know that tension in his shoulders, the way he clenches his jaw when he's not fully comfortable. His eyes scan me for a second, and I swear I feel a tingle down my spine.
"Ready?" I ask, trying to sound casual, though my voice comes out a bit forced.
"I guess," he replies with a short sigh, pushing off the wall and starting to walk.
We head to White Plaza, the heart of campus. As we get closer, the sound of the crowd filters in: soft music, some indie stuff that sounds like a hipster café, scattered conversations, and the faint echo of voices that don't quite fill the space. The plaza is decked out with rainbow flags waving between the trees, their colors vibrant under the sinking sun. Tables are covered in posters and flyers about mental health, depression, self-harm, and acceptance, with free water bottles and stacks of rainbow stickers. Some students chat with volunteers, but most walk by, earbuds in or phones in hand, like this is just another campus backdrop.
Among the crowd, I spot Jackie by a table piled with flyers, her hair shining like a beacon. When she sees me, she raises a hand and walks over, a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Whitman," she says, her tone mixing surprise and caution. "Looks like you kept your word."
"I promised," I reply, with a confident smile, though the knot in my chest tightens. "Let me introduce Ethan."
Jackie extends her hand, and Ethan shakes it with a tense smile, like he's at a job interview he didn't apply for. Mason, beside her, with a look that seems to scan you, watches them in silence. I know they both notice Ethan's discomfort, the way his shoulders are stiff, like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Nice to meet you," Ethan says, looking down at the ground, his voice low but polite.
"Likewise," Jackie replies, kindly.
The flyer handout kicks off without much fanfare. Jackie grabs a portable speaker and starts talking, her voice echoing across the plaza: she explains the importance of mental health, the signs of depression, self-harm, and how asking for help isn't weakness. Her words get lost fast, swallowed by the campus noise: bikes, laughter, the buzz of a drone someone's testing near the Hoover Tower. Some students stop out of curiosity, listen to a couple of lines, and move on. Others don't even turn their heads, too caught up in their phones or their own worlds.
They hand me a stack of flyers, and at first, I try passing them out with a smile that feels faker than my activist résumé. "Hey, interested?" I say to a guy with earbuds, who looks at me like I'm offering a telemarketing contract. Most walk by; some take a flyer out of obligation, fold it, and stuff it in their backpacks without a glance. After a while, I give up. I plant myself by a table, flyers heavy in my hands, watching Jackie rally the few who stop by and Mason chat with a girl who seems genuinely interested, his hands moving as he explains campus resources.
The sun dips behind the Hoover Tower, bathing the plaza in a warm golden light that makes the flags glow. The heat hits the back of my neck, and I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, taking a deep breath. I'm not used to this. To people looking at me without knowing who I am, without the shield of my last name or my reputation. Worse, I'm not used to being ignored. I've always been the center of attention, the guy with the easy smile and stories everyone wants to hear. Here, I'm just some dude with a stack of flyers no one wants.
While a volunteer talks over the speaker about anxiety signs, a memory hits me: all the times I walked through this plaza without stopping, ignoring events like this, colorful posters, and tables full of flyers. I always thought they were someone else's thing, problems that didn't touch me. Now, being here, trying to understand something I never cared about, makes me feel out of place. Worse, it makes me feel guilty. How many times did I see someone like Jackie or Mason and not think about what they carry? How many times did I ignore Ethan before all this started?
A girl approaches shyly, grabs a flyer from the table, and asks me, "Do you guys offer counseling too, or just info?"
I open my mouth, but my brain blanks. "Uh, well, the diversity department has… stuff, you know, trained volunteers," I stammer, feeling like an idiot. Before I can sink further, a guy from the group, in a rainbow shirt and with a confidence I envy, steps in and answers smoothly, explaining the campus counseling services. I nod like I know what he's talking about, silently thanking him for saving me.
I look to a corner, where Ethan is, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, watching everything from a distance. He's not talking to anyone, his expression neutral, like he's in a bubble separating him from the chaos of colors and voices. The flags wave, the posters shine, but he seems detached, his gaze lost somewhere in the plaza. For a moment, I wonder what he's thinking, what keeps him here when he clearly doesn't want to be. When our eyes meet, I shrug, trying to smile. He doesn't smile back, but he doesn't leave either. He stays there, watching me, and for some reason, that's enough.
"Hey, Whitman, don't fall asleep," Jackie says, appearing beside me with a new stack of flyers. "If you want that recommendation, get your ass moving and talk to people."
"I'm on it," I reply, with a nervous laugh, though I feel like I'm failing at every step.
"Try for real," she insists, her tone half-joking, half-warning. "It's not enough to be here. You have to connect."
I nod, but when she walks away, I look at the flyers in my hands and feel the weight of what I'm doing. It's not just the scholarship. It's Ethan, watching me from that tree. It's Jackie, giving me a chance I don't deserve. It's this knot in my chest I don't know how to untie. For the first time all day, I feel like I'm not faking as much. But I also feel that if I keep going, this lie that started as a stupid plan might break something I'm not ready to lose.