It's frustrating to watch Noah in that state. Seriously, you can tell he's giving it everything he's got, but it's not enough. He paces back and forth in White Plaza, a stack of flyers in his hand, trying to hand them out to students crossing the plaza like ants on a mission. Almost everyone ignores him, walking past with headphones on or eyes glued to their phones. The few who stop—almost always girls—don't seem interested in the flyers about mental, mental health and acceptance. Their flirty smiles and furtive glances at Noah make it clear what they want isn't information on self-harm or anxiety, but a piece of him. And damn, I don't blame them: Noah, with those jeans that fit him just right and his messy hair, is a magnet. But that doesn't make his effort any less pathetic to watch.
I've caught him stumbling over himself three times, clumsy amid the coming and going of backpacks, bikes buzzing like wasps, and coffee bags from CoHo and The Coffee House. He tries to keep his composure, but his discomfort shows in every gesture: he runs a hand through his hair, takes a breath like he's about to step into a ring. Every now and then he flashes one of those smiles of his, wide, almost blinding, that could convince anyone of anything. But it fades right away, as if the constant rejection chips away a piece of his energy. Still, he persists. He tries again, with a "Good afternoon!" or a "Want to support an important cause?" that sounds upbeat, though I know inside he's crumbling with every indifferent glance he gets.
The sunset light falls obliquely over White Plaza, tinting everything in a warm orange that makes the group's posters look more faded, as if the sun were tired of all this too. The air cools, and the wind lifts the flyers from the table, making them dance as if they want to escape. In the distance, laughter echoes, the murmur of scattered conversations, the strum of a guitar someone's playing near Hoover Tower. But here, in this corner, everything seems frozen, trapped in a bubble of indifference. People pass without looking, some hurrying their step as if the group were a plague, others pretending to check their phone to avoid eye contact.
And Noah is still there, tired but steady, sighing, biting his lip, grabbing another handful of flyers and smiling again as if nothing happened. There's something almost heroic in that stubbornness of his, in that way of pushing forward when no one seems to give a damn. He's not part of the group, he doesn't belong to this world, but he's here, putting in the body, the time, the effort. And damn, it pisses me off to see him like this, so out of place, so alone in the middle of a plaza full of people who don't see him.
I knew this was going to happen. I knew it from the moment he asked me to come. I knew no one would care. I've always known. Being gay teaches you to anticipate disasters before they arrive, to smell indifference from miles away. You see rejection coming, the glances that don't connect, and you can't even pretend surprise when it hits you. But when it's someone you care about, someone like Noah, standing there like an idiot trying to get attention, it hurts more. It hurts and it annoys. More than it should.
I don't even have faith in this group. Not in the idea, which is still important, but in what it's become. I understand why people walk past, why the rainbow flags and posters only draw quick glances. But seeing Noah in the middle of it, trying for something that isn't his, stirs something inside me. I want to help him. I really want to grab one of those damn flyers, stand beside him and speak with the same conviction he's trying to fake. But every time I think about moving, about taking that step, my stomach twists with pure helplessness. I stay still, leaning against this tree, watching like another coward.
"Ethan, right?"
Jackie's voice snaps me out of it, like someone turned on the light in a dark room. I turn, and there she is, with that calm of hers that always seems to hide something more. I have no idea how she approached without me noticing, with her dyed hair shining under the last rays of sun and that smile I can't tell is kind or measuring my every move.
"God, you scared me," I stammer, feeling heat rise to my face. "Sorry, it's just…"
"I've noticed you've been here for a while," she interrupts, tilting her head, with a playful glint in her eyes. She nods toward Noah, who's a few meters away trying to convince a girl who clearly just wants his number. "You've been watching him for a good while."
I try to say something, but the words get stuck. I only manage to look at her for a second before dropping my gaze to the ground, where a lost flyer moves with the wind. Jackie sighs, keeps her smile, and without saying more, hands me a handful of flyers, their corners bent and colors already faded by the cold air.
"Wouldn't you like to help us?" she asks, in a tone that doesn't pressure but doesn't let me escape either.
I look at the flyers, the group's logo, the letters talking about mental health and acceptance. It all seems so useless, so disconnected from what really matters. "No, sorry," I reply, staring at the paper, not daring to meet her eyes.
She just smiles, calm, as if my refusal were part of the script. "Is something wrong?" she asks after a short silence, her voice so soft it almost sounds caring, as if she really wanted to understand.
I stand there, trapped, with the campus noise in the distance and the wind dragging flyers across the ground, while Noah keeps trying to smile at a crowd that doesn't see him. Jackie watches me, waiting, and for a second I feel like the weight of everything I've been carrying is about to spill out.
"Call it perception," she says finally, breaking the silence, "but it's obvious you're uncomfortable."
I look up, surprised by how direct she is, though her tone remains calm, almost curious. "I didn't even want to be here, if I'm honest," I admit, trying to keep my voice steady. "I came because he asked me to."
Jackie tilts her head, and a half-smile forms on her face. "So you came because Noah asked you to. Interesting. Do you have a problem with us, Ethan?"
The question hits me like a precise stone. I take a deep breath, feeling the cold air in my lungs. "Well… the truth is I…" I start, but the words fade. "I can't."
"Can't what?" she asks, not looking away, her eyes fixed on mine as if she could see through me.
I swallow, the knot in my chest tightening. "I can't be here. I can't stand this. Do you understand?"
Jackie crosses her arms, without losing her calm. "You could be clearer. Then I might understand you."
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. "I feel uncomfortable with you guys," I finally blurt out, pointing to the rainbow flags waving behind her. "With this. I'm tired of being the center of attention. Being gay is already enough for everyone to talk about you: those who know, those who suspect, those who pretend not to. And then there's you…" I take a deep breath, trying not to sound so harsh, but I fail. "Always shouting, making noise, arguing about everything."
She barely frowns, but doesn't interrupt, so I continue. "Every time the group makes a controversial decision, it ends up screwing over those of us who just want to live quietly, without explaining anything, without representing anyone. And yet, we always end up dragged into this." I gesture toward the posters, the flags, the flyers. "Whatever it is you're trying now."
My voice cracks at the end, not from sadness, but from pure exhaustion. That fatigue that builds up over years, with nowhere to let it out. Jackie watches me in silence, without judgment, just a long pause that weighs more than any response.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to raise my voice," I murmur, looking down at the ground, where a crumpled flyer gets stuck against my sneaker.
"No worries," she replies calmly, without a hint of annoyance. "I understand the point very well."
She crosses her arms and takes a step closer, her serenity throwing me off. "I'd like to know exactly what your viewpoint is on us, on this group, on what, according to you, we're doing now. I want you to tell me."
"Why?" I ask, confused, feeling like she's leading me into terrain I don't control.
"Because knowing all viewpoints is what allows finding a solution, don't you think?" she says with a slight smile, almost professional, as if she'd practiced that tone a thousand times.
I stare at her, disarmed by her calm. I've known many activists who jump to shout or defend their flag without listening, but Jackie doesn't. She listens, and that throws me more than I expected. I sigh and lean against the tree, the flyers rustling under my hands.
"The truth is the first time I heard about the group was… ten years ago?" I start, looking into the void. "I was a kid, just starting to notice things in myself that I didn't understand. I saw how they fought for our rights, how they wanted us to be who we were without fear. For a naive kid like me, that was… a relief. I felt like there was a place I belonged."
Jackie nods slowly, with a smile that tells me she knows what's coming. "But," I continue, my voice hardening, "none of that's left. What I saw before… vanished. It's like they lost their way."
She says nothing, just watches me, so I go on. "Now it seems they're more focused on fighting over what they want to be called, new labels, debates that seem far from the most urgent problems." I lower my voice, feeling like I'm crossing a line. "And meanwhile, the people who really need help, those who are alone, those who have no one to talk to, those who are truly suffering… get left behind. The group is no longer a refuge for many of them; it's a battlefield."
"Come on, keep going," she encourages, without mockery or judgment, just attentive, as if she really wanted to understand.
I swallow, the weight of my words falling on me. "What used to be hope is now noise. And I don't know if it hurts me more to see how it changed… or to realize I'm still waiting for it to be what it was." I pause, longer than I want. "That's why it's hard for me to be here. Because somehow I care. I don't even look gay," I add, lowering my voice, nodding slightly toward a group of guys from the collective laughing, gesturing freely, more effusive than I'd ever be. "Not like them. But I am. And I liked thinking that when we could all feel respected, it was something good. Something worth it."
Jackie says nothing. "But in recent years…" I take a deep breath, "every time someone mentions the community, it's to say how 'indoctrinating' it is. And damn, it breaks me."
"Do you think you're a bad person for saying it?" she asks, with a smile that doesn't judge.
"I don't know. Maybe." I pause, searching for words. "But it's that… this gender thing has become such a trend. How do you explain to a kid what non-binary is? How do you make them understand something adults don't even get? And what if it's not necessary to explain it? We're getting into such confusing territory that instead of bringing people closer, we're pushing them toward rejection."
Jackie crosses her arms, without interrupting. "For generations, people fought so we could live without fear, so loving someone of the same sex wasn't a sentence," I continue, frustration spilling out unfiltered. "And now… all that effort seems to fade. Everything gets twisted by discussions I can't make sense of, by extremes that take credibility away from what really matters. And it's ridiculous."
Jackie lets out a short laugh, not mocking, but as if she understands my agitation. "And meanwhile," I go on, almost without realizing I'm raising my voice, "trans people are still being murdered, abused, ignored. That does matter. That does hurt. And even if I agree on some things, like maybe they shouldn't compete in women's sports… I also know they're people who suffer, who are surviving a world that despises them."
I breathe hard, chest tight. "And instead of focusing the fight on protecting them, on preserving their lives, now everything seems to revolve around being called 'elle.'" I laugh, tired. "Isn't that bullshit?"
Jackie laughs with me, but her laugh is tense, as if she feels the chaos inside me too. "So you feel uncomfortable here because the values you thought the community had are gone?" she asks, calmly.
I nod, not daring to say more. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable," I murmur, looking at the ground.
"You don't make me uncomfortable at all," she replies quickly, with a soft smile. "Though it might surprise you, I'm closer to what you think than you imagine."
I look up, confused. She crosses her arms and sighs. "When I joined the group, it was because I went through things I'd rather not remember." She plays with a bracelet on her wrist, and I notice a thin scar on her skin, barely visible under the sunset light. "At first I was more… loud, I guess. But then I understood things were changing, and not for the better."
She pauses, looking at the plaza. "You're right, Ethan. We're losing our way. But there are also people who need to find theirs. Labels are a way to find themselves. Maybe some get a bit over the top demanding them, but it's because of how much they've fought with themselves and still are. It's true it seems we give more importance to something like this, and it's something we need to restructure so we don't conflict among ourselves."
Her voice is sincere, without drama. "Look at this," she says, pointing to the scattered flyers, the posters shaken by the wind, the emptiness around us. "This is what happens when people stop listening. No matter how much effort we put in, almost no one stops. No one asks what it's about."
She walks a few steps, and I follow, not knowing why. "And no, I don't think what you said is wrong," she continues. "It's something many think, but few dare to say."
I listen in silence, her calm disarming me. "The problem is power," she says, thoughtful. "Before, the community had nothing. Just drive, sweat, and people pushing from below. That's how we moved forward. But when we started having a voice, we also lost our north. Power tempts you, makes you want to change everything, even what doesn't need it. And that's where crazy ideas come, fights without clear sense."
She lets out a humorless laugh. "Before, if you went out with someone, everyone stared, pointed, yelled. What we wanted was for that to stop, for being who we are not to be a spectacle. But now… it seems we're going back. When a 'normal' couple goes out, no one pays attention, but if we do, we become a show."
I look up at her. "So you think the same?" I ask, almost without meaning to.
Jackie nods. "Yes, in part. And you're not the only one. There are many in the group who see it the same, who want to change things from within, get back to what matters."
She pulls a flyer from the table and hands it to me. This time I take it, the paper rough against my fingers. "We're not here to impose anything, Ethan," she says, her gaze softening. "It's not about labels or weird ideologies. We just want to talk about real things: mental health, depression, anxiety, acceptance. Many come from who we are, yes, but others don't. In the end, we're all dealing with something."
She falls silent for a moment. "This," she puts a flyer in my hand, "is what I want the group to be. What it should be."
She looks up, and for a second she seems more tired than sure. "And I understand you," she adds, with a half-smile. "If I didn't, I wouldn't be here. I know we're losing credibility, but I think we can get it back. Step by step, if we get back to the essentials."
I look at her, not knowing what to say. For the first time all afternoon, I feel like someone understands what I've been carrying for years. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I see Morgan's name on the screen. I answer quickly and when I look up, Jackie is still watching me, with that smile mixing patience and determination.
"So, want to help me?" she asks. "At least today."
I hesitate, the flyer heavy in my hand. She notices and continues, without pressuring. "I'm not asking you to belong to this, Ethan. You have every right not to. Liking men doesn't mean you're obligated to be part of the community. But do it… for that community you did like. The one you knew when you were younger. The one that fought for something important, not nonsense."
She hands me the rest of the flyers. I take a deep breath, let out a resigned sigh, and take them. "Shit, fine," I murmur, more to myself than to her.
I look toward Noah. In the distance, he's still trying to hand out flyers, his smile wavering between effort and exhaustion. Jackie follows my gaze and smiles slightly. "I don't know exactly what's going on between you two," she says, "but good luck with him. He's trying, isn't he? And he's got you surprised."
I don't respond, just feel heat rise to my face. Jackie walks away calmly, disappearing among the few students left. I walk toward Noah, feeling the ground crunch under my sneakers. When he sees me approaching, he looks up, and his eyes light up, as if he'd been waiting for this moment all day.
"You joining?" he asks, with a tired but genuine smile, his fingers clutching the flyers like a lifeline.
"You're doing it terribly," I say, trying to sound serious, but a laugh escapes that I can't hold back.
He laughs too, a laugh that sounds like relief, and hands me a handful of flyers. "Then come, improve my average."
"I'll try," I reply, taking the flyers, the paper rough against my skin.
And there we are, both handing out flyers in a half-empty plaza, the sun sinking behind Hoover Tower, not knowing if anyone is really listening. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm doing something that matters, even if just a little. And with Noah beside me, smiling like there's no tomorrow, I wonder if this—this moment, this plaza, this fight—could be the start of something I'm not ready to name.
****
Time passes, and Noah and I start finding a rhythm. Between us, we joke, throwing jabs while trying to hand flyers to the few students who stop. For the first time all afternoon, the tension gripping my chest loosens a bit. A guy from the group, with a Bowie t-shirt that looks like it came from a flea market, joins us, and the three of us form a kind of improvised team. We talk, laugh, throw absurd comments to break the ice with those who pass without looking. "Hey, it's free, don't be cheap!" I shout at a guy with headphones who pretends not to see me, and Noah doubles over laughing. The plaza is still half-empty, but for a moment, I don't care. We're here, trying to do something good, even if minimal.
"Alright, that's it," says Jackie, approaching with a tired but satisfied smile. "We did the best we could, and I want to congratulate you for that."
"What do you mean that's it?" protests Noah, waving the stack of flyers still left, as if they were a trophy of defeat. "We didn't even hand out half!"
Jackie lets out a soft laugh, adjusting her jacket against the cold wind starting to blow. "It's late, Noah. Let's wrap it up for today, okay?"
He looks down, frustrated, and I know him well enough to know it's not just about the flyers. Noah has that damn habit of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders lately, as if every flyer not handed out were a personal failure. I know it bugs him to think all this might not matter, that his efforts could vanish into the air like the dust the wind kicks up. And though he doesn't say it, I know the indifference hurts him.
"Hey, at least it wasn't a complete disaster," I toss out, giving him a soft elbow to lighten the mood, though my voice comes out more tired than I expected.
Noah glances at me sideways, and a small, almost shy smile crosses his face. "Thanks for the enthusiasm, Bennett."
"I mean it," I insist, with a half-smile. "You did it terribly, but at least you look good doing it."
He lets out a short laugh, one that sounds more like relief than mockery. "Idiot."
We keep joking while packing up, the posters rustling under our hands and the sky turning a deep blue. The wind moves the loose flyers, and the campus starts feeling quieter, as if the night were asking us to slow down.
"So here you were, huh?" booms a voice from the other side of the plaza.
We turn at the same time, and there's Morgan, walking toward us with a group of Alpha Centauri guys, all with a confidence that seems factory-made. Noah and I look at each other, surprised, like we'd been caught stealing cookies.
"We didn't know you were coming," says Noah, trying to sound calm, though I can tell he's nervous by the way he fiddles with the flyers.
"Neither did we, but…" replies Morgan, with a smile taking up half his face. "What do you think, Whitman? We had a meeting at the house, and noticed you two were missing."
"Sorry, it's just…" Noah starts, looking for an excuse, but Morgan raises a hand, cutting him off.
"Relax, we already know what you were doing." He pauses, looking at both of us with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "That's why we came."
"Why?" I ask, frowning, still lost.
Morgan nods, like it's obvious. "Because we came to help."
"Morgan forced me," says Nichols, crossing his arms with that scowl that seems tattooed on his forehead.
Morgan slaps him behind the head, not hard, but enough for Nichols to complain with an exaggerated "Hey!" while rubbing his neck. The rest of us burst into laughter, and even Noah, beside me, bends a bit, trying not to drop the flyers he's holding.
"You're here because you regret it and came to take it back," Morgan tosses out, with a smile mixing mockery and challenge, pointing at Nichols like a kid caught stealing cookies.
"Sorry," Jackie interrupts, approaching with hands in her jacket pockets, her voice calm but firm. "I appreciate the intention, but there's not much to do here." She points to the plaza, almost empty, with just a handful of students passing, their shadows lengthening under the streetlights starting to turn on. "People are gone."
"There's plenty to do," replies Morgan, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "If you want attention, give them a good show."
Morgan doesn't wait for a response. He shouts something to the fraternity guys behind, and in seconds, Joe, Chris, and other members appear as if waiting for the signal. They bring huge speakers, tangled cables, and an energy that makes the air vibrate. The music blasts, a catchy pop beat that drags you in even if you want to stay still. Some guys immediately take off their shirts, showing muscles and striking ridiculous poses that draw laughs and claps from the few still around the plaza.
Noah smiles, one of those smiles of his that always changes the air around him, and glances at me sideways. I just nod, without saying it, but thinking that, after all, something was worth it today.
Suddenly, everything changes.
The silence dominating the plaza breaks in seconds when the speakers roar with an upbeat song, the kind that gets in your blood and won't let go. Morgan, megaphone in hand, gives the signal, and it all turns into glorious chaos, full of energy. The Alpha Centauri guys move like it's a rehearsed circus: some juggle flyers, tossing them in the air and catching them with TikTok-video skill. Others chase students trying to dodge, running after them with lines like "Come on, it'll take a second!" or "I promise it doesn't burn!" All with such brazen humor it disarms even the grumpiest.
Little by little, the plaza transforms. The music mixes with laughs, improvised claps, and voices rising from the megaphone. Students who passed before now stop, curious, some taking flyers, others staying just to watch the show. Noah is in his element, moving among people, handing flyers with a wide, sincere smile that lights his face like the earlier exhaustion never existed. It's contagious, and for a moment, even I catch myself smiling while handing flyers beside him.
And most surprising, the group members start losing their shyness too. Jackie hands out flyers dancing to the music, laughing as she tries to catch a group of girls running past, her sneakers echoing on the pavement. Another guy from the group, the Bowie t-shirt one screaming "I'm alternative," turns up the speakers and starts singing along, moving his shoulders like he's at a concert. At one point, two more fraternity brothers take off their shirts and start joking, showing muscles and posing while people around clap and laugh. The strategy is so absurd it works: the crowd grows, attention arrives, and for the first time all day, the plaza feels alive.
The sun hides behind the buildings, and the streetlights bathe White Plaza in warm light that makes every corner shine. Amid the music, laughs, and movement, everything feels different. Lighter. More real.
And for an instant, as I look at all those mixed faces—the group's, the fraternity's, the curious approaching—I think maybe this is how the fight should always feel: alive, human, and with some joy.
"So that's the famous Nichols," says Mason, suddenly appearing behind me. His voice startles me, and I turn to see him, with a smile promising chaos.
I follow his gaze to one of the tables. Nichols is there, hunched over a pile of flyers, handing them out listlessly. He barely looks up when someone approaches. His brow is furrowed, hands in pockets between handouts. It's clear he's uncomfortable, that he'd rather be anywhere else.
"That's him," I reply, raising an eyebrow.
"Alright, thanks for the info," says Mason.
He's with a couple of fraternity guys, walking relaxed, greeting group members like old friends. Some in the group watch with unease, not sure whether to take them seriously or stay aside though Mason is with them. The music keeps playing, upbeat, and the speakers vibrate with the rhythm. Suddenly, one of the guys pulls a small bag from his pocket and, without warning, tosses a handful of gold and pink glitter over Nichols. The shine falls on him in a rain that freezes him for an instant, shoulders tense, jaw clenched.
"What the hell are you doing, Mason?!" he exclaims, half-serious, trying to shake it off, while the gold dust sticks to his hair and shirt.
The group's laughter erupts immediately. Another guy tosses more glitter, and the next too. In seconds, Nichols is covered in shine, like he fell into a contemporary art trap. His discomfort is obvious, he runs a hand through his hair, sighs, and seems to debate leaving or playing along. But when someone shouts his name and everyone cheers him on, something in him gives. A smile escapes. Then another. And finally he's laughing for real.
He stands, takes off his shirt and tosses it aside, raising his arms as the streetlight highlights every particle on his skin. Claps and shouts fill the plaza, and Nichols, for the first time, seems part of it, not just a forced spectator.
The group members, who were watching from afar at first, approach little by little, some laughing, others tossing more glitter. The music turns up, and the vibe becomes a perfect mix of chaos and joy.
And then Noah appears. He stops a few meters away, watching the scene with an indecisive smile. For a moment I think he'll stay on the sidelines, that some resentment from the fight days ago remains. But no. Noah scoops some glitter from the ground and rubs it on Nichols' cheek, leaving a gold streak shining under the lights.
Nichols sees, smiles, and returns the gesture, marking Noah's face with a gold line. Both laugh, without tension, without pride, as if what happened before never existed.
Jackie claps from the side, and the others join the improvised party. The speakers boom, people passing stop to watch, some record on their phones, others approach to join. The plaza shines under artificial light and gold dust floating in the air.
I watch them. Days ago they couldn't stand each other, and now they laugh together, covered in glitter and music. And for the first time, I understand what this really means. It's not just speeches or flags, but moments like this, where everything seems simpler, more human.
The night still vibrates around us. Amid laughs, lights, and shine suspended in the air, I feel something was repaired without words. And I can't help thinking: I like it. I like it a lot seeing them like this.
"Having fun, Bennett?" asks Morgan, throwing an arm around my neck with a wide smile that seems to cover the whole plaza.
"Well… I have to admit this has improved a bit," I reply, laughing. "Thanks to you guys."
"Glad to hear it," he says. "If I hadn't heard from you that you were here, we wouldn't have shown up."
We stay watching the plaza. The music plays, people laugh, glitter shines suspended in the air like dust of light.
"You know?" I say after a while. "I used to think fraternities were a waste of time. Full of spoiled, arrogant guys who only thought about sex, alcohol, and parties." I let out a laugh, shaking my head. "But this… this is different."
Morgan glances at me sideways, with a genuine smile. "We're a brotherhood, Bennett. We really are." He pauses. "Sure, we love parties, alcohol, and sex," he says laughing, "but we're also here to support each other. No matter what, there's always someone backing you up."
I nod, still smiling. "When I joined Alpha Centauri," I tell him, "before meeting you, I thought you were the biggest idiot on campus." He laughs, and I do too. "But then I realized I was wrong. You're different, Morgan. You're respectful, kind… a leader. You care about all of us. And it shows."
Morgan lets out a guffaw and nudges me gently with his shoulder. "Stop saying that, you'll make me sentimental."
"All this was thanks to you," I reply, looking at him.
He gives me a smile back, and with a mischievous glint in his eyes says: "Ah, but it's not over."
Before I can ask what he means, a boom of drums and joyful shouts comes from the other end of the plaza. We look up and see them: the Delta Kappa Delta girls enter with unstoppable energy, waving pride flags, shaking colorful ribbons, and singing to the music's rhythm. Some carry drums, others tambourines, and all radiate that overflowing joy that drags anyone watching. Their shirts shine with sequins, and the rainbow flags wave like wings.
The tired ones stand, the curious approach, and the vibe transforms again. Amid lights, laughs, and music, the plaza seems to explode with life. Morgan looks at me, amused, as the girls mix with everyone else. "See? I told you the night wasn't over, brother."
And I can only laugh, because he's absolutely right.
Amber appears in the crowd with impossible-to-ignore energy. She walks decisively, moving to the music, her loose hair catching the streetlight shine. Her smile is so radiant it almost eclipses the glitter in the air. When she reaches us, she doesn't say anything: she just catches me by surprise and plants a kiss on my lips, quick and brazen.
"Oh, please!" exclaims Noah from the side, with a fake horror grimace that can't hide his laugh and some resignation.
I look at him and can't help laughing. "If you keep doing that we'll give him a heart attack," I tell Amber, gently pushing her back.
"He'll survive!" she replies, laughing, as she spins and returns to her group, dancing like the world is hers.
The Delta girls have turned the plaza into a spectacle. They wear eye-catching clothes, colorful ribbons, shiny makeup, and a provocative attitude that lights everything around. They dance, wave flags, play with the crowd, laughing, throwing knowing looks, making no one able to look away. The effect is immediate: students approach, first out of curiosity, then pure magnetism. Group members seize the momentum, mixing in, forming groups where they start talking about mental health, acceptance, community. There are real conversations, sincere laughs, connecting looks. Even the trans people who stayed on the sidelines integrate, sharing stories, listening to those who before just passed by.
The plaza breathes life. Everything feels different: free, light, honest.
"So here you are," says a voice behind me.
I turn and see Julie and Jackson approaching, their silhouettes outlined against the streetlights. "Julie? Jackson?" I ask, surprised. "Didn't expect to see you here."
Julie smiles, adjusting her backpack with a movement that makes her hair reflect the light. "We heard you were doing something and that you were involved, so we decided to come," she says with a tone between pride and mockery.
Jackson, beside her, nods silently, a bit awkward at first.
"We couldn't leave you alone," Jackson says, raising his gaze a bit.
Then Julie elbows him in the ribs, and he lets out a nervous giggle. "And… I love you," he says, looking down, visibly embarrassed.
I look at him for a moment before replying, and I can't help smiling. "I love you too, you idiot."
The three of us burst out laughing at the same time, and that laugh erases any remaining distance between us.
Then the plaza's noise grows. From the entrance, new groups arrive: all kinds of fraternities and sororities. I recognize Beta Theta colors, Delta Sigma, Lambda Alpha, and more. Some bring their own banners, others speakers, others just arrive with beer and energy, their laughs echoing the chaos already flooding the plaza.
"Oh no!" says a Beta Theta guy, approaching Morgan with a challenging smile. "We weren't going to let Alpha Centauri steal all the spotlight."
Morgan laughs, shaking his hand. "Seriously? I thought you were too busy competing over who has the bigger ego."
"That was last week," the guy replies, laughing. "Today we came to steal the show."
Behind them comes Gamma Phi, a mixed fraternity known for cultural events, with handmade colorful banners. Soon after, Delta Xi girls arrive, with portable speakers shaking the ground and posters that seem made with care contrasting the chaos. The plaza becomes an explosion of laughs, greetings, hand slaps, and hugs.
"Wow, looks like we have competition now," says Jackie from the side, watching the newcomers mix with the group, her voice blending with the drum rhythm.
The vibe turns electric. Each fraternity brings something: some organize improvised games, like juggling empty bottles; others hand out drinks and sweets, and several help the group distribute flyers, running through the crowd with energy that seems endless. What was once a space divided by labels is now a vibrant community, united by the night's pure chaos.
The music turns up, Delta girls' drums set the pace, and new speakers join the roar. Between songs, group members climb improvised stages—stacked tables, a wooden box someone found—and speak. They talk about mental health, acceptance, what it means to feel accompanied. Their words echo amid lights, color, noise, and the crowd listens, claps, shouts, as if finally understanding.
What started as a failed attempt ends as a gigantic celebration. The plaza vibrates with new, united, powerful energy. I look around—at Amber dancing like there's no tomorrow, Nichols and Noah laughing covered in glitter, Julie and Jackson hugging, Morgan laughing with guys from other fraternities—and feel something in my chest, a knot that's pride or relief. Maybe both.
This, I think, wasn't the plan. But it's much better.
And as the night keeps burning with lights, laughs, and music, I convince myself that all this, from mistakes to reconciliations, was completely worth it.
Suddenly, amid the chaos, I see Noah approaching. He has a rainbow flag over his shoulders, waving it like a superhero cape, walking with an exaggerated step like from a carnival parade. Glitter shines on his face, stuck to his messy hair, and the streetlights make the flag's colors flash like he's on stage. He stops in front of me, strikes a ridiculous pose, one hand on hip, the other pointing to the sky, and with a smile that could melt ice, asks: "How do I look?"
I look him up and down, the flag waving, shine stuck to his skin like he fell into a sequin factory. I can't help laughing, crossing my arms. "Like a unicorn threw up on you," I toss out, raising an eyebrow.
Noah bursts into laughter, throwing his head back, and the flag slips a bit, catching more glitter in the air. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Bennett," he replies, winking before turning to keep handing flyers, the flag waving behind him like it's part of his essence.
I stay watching him, laughing, heart beating faster than I'll admit. The plaza keeps vibrating, full of lights, laughs, and gold dust floating in the air. And as Noah moves through the crowd, with that rainbow flag and that smile that doesn't fade, I think this messy chaos, this crazy night, is exactly where I want to be, and that maybe, just maybe, this moment with him is the start of something I'm not ready to name.
****
The event is finally winding down.
The plaza, which an hour ago vibrated with music, laughs, and waving flags, now starts falling silent. The ground is covered in confetti, trampled flyer remnants, and glitter stains shining under the streetlights like someone spilled a liquid rainbow. The air smells of damp cardboard, sweat mixed with glitter's metallic sweetness, and that satisfied exhaustion after giving it all. Jackie, Mason, and the others from the group pack up amid laughs and hugs, their voices echoing softly in the plaza that now seems too big and too empty.
I stay a bit apart, leaning against a tree, watching everything fade little by little. The speakers are off, tables folded, and the wind drags the last loose flyers, making them roll like dry leaves. It's like the plaza is exhaling after a day it didn't expect.
"Pretty eyes…"
I recognize the voice without turning. Noah is behind me, messy, with gold glitter stuck to his face and smiling. His shirt is wrinkled, and there's a glitter stain on his cheek screaming "I was here."
"Thanks for being with me today," he says, coming closer, his voice low but warm, like confiding something. "If it weren't for you, none of this would have turned out like this. If you hadn't sent that message to Morgan, no one would have come."
I smile back, looking down at the ground where a crumpled flyer gets stuck against my sneaker. "I did it because you were right." I shrug, trying to sound casual though I feel heat rising in my chest. "You're my favorite idiot."
Noah laughs, a short and genuine laugh that makes me look at him again. "Your favorite idiot? I can live with that."
We stay silent a moment, watching Joe and Mason carefully fold the flags, like relics. Noah sighs, pats my shoulder with a familiarity that makes me feel at home, and walks away to help, his steps crunching over confetti.
"So… you like him, huh?" says a voice behind me.
I turn. It's Jackie, arms crossed and a half-smile that seems to know more than she says. Her eyes shine under the streetlight, and there's exhaustion in her posture that doesn't hide her determination.
"What?" I ask, feigning confusion, though I feel heat rising to my face.
"I still don't get exactly what's going on between you two," she says, lowering her voice a bit, coming closer like sharing a secret, "but I do know that supposed relationship you have is a lie. However… it shows, Ethan. You're falling for him."
I feel my face burn, like I've been caught red-handed. I shrug, looking at the ground to not give myself away more. "I don't know what you're talking about," I lie, but my voice sounds weak, and Jackie knows.
"Just be careful," she continues, her tone softening, almost maternal. "Noah Whitman isn't exactly famous for his romances with guys… but with girls."
I nod, silently, feeling a knot in my stomach. Jackie gives my arm a pat, her smile warm but firm.
I'm about to join the others when an unfamiliar voice breaks the calm:
"Very interesting everything you did today."
We both turn. An older man, in a light suit and impassive expression, approaches with measured steps. It's Mr. Sterling, Director of Diversity and Inclusion. His tie is perfectly knotted, but there's exhaustion in his eyes he doesn't hide.
"Mr. Sterling," Jackie greets, kind but cautious, straightening like preparing a defense.
"I want to congratulate you," he says, looking at the plaza, his voice calm but with a weight that doesn't go unnoticed. "It was a good event. The effort shows." Then he turns to me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Ethan, right?"
"Yes, sir," I reply, feeling tension climb my back.
"Ah, yes," he says with a light, almost calculated smile. "You're supposed to be Noah Whitman's boyfriend, correct?"
I stay silent a moment, surprised, heart pounding my chest. "That's right," I finally reply, firm tone, though inside I'm waiting for him not to ask for proof.
Sterling nods slowly, though his smile turns more serious. "Be careful, boy. Don't do anything stupid with that kid… not for a scholarship."
I frown, irritation rising like bile. "With all due respect, sir, I don't know what arguments you have against us, or why it bothers you so much, but… Noah is my boyfriend. And everything that happened today was thanks to him. Believe it or not."
"When Noah said he'd find a boyfriend, I let it pass thinking it was nonsense, but I see he went far. He won't get that scholarship without the recommendation."
Sterling watches me, pondering my response, his gaze like a scalpel trying to cut beyond my words.
Before I can say more, Jackie steps forward with impressive calm. "He'll have it, Mr. Sterling. Tomorrow first thing in your office will be Noah Whitman's official recommendation, signed by our group."
Sterling raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Oh, really?"
"Yes," Jackie confirms, without hesitating. "And also, I'll send a formal letter to the dean's office. A complaint about the way applicants are required to have a 'tragic' history or some trauma to be considered. That's not only discriminatory, but ethically absurd."
The man sighs, shoulders dropping slightly, as if the day's weight caught him. "Jackie… I'm not your enemy."
"I know, sir," she replies serenely, but with a spark of challenge in her eyes. "But there are things that need fixing. You know it as well as we do."
Sterling looks at her a few seconds, then nods, almost reluctantly. "I expect the documents tomorrow morning. Good work today," he says finally, and walks away calmly, his figure fading among the trees bordering the plaza.
Jackie watches until he disappears, her expression a mix of relief and exhaustion. Then she sighs and turns to me. "Was that for real?" I ask, still half-incredulous, pulse still racing.
She smiles, amused, adjusting her jacket. "Totally. If it weren't for you guys, this wouldn't have been a success." She steps toward me and taps my shoulder, her gaze softening. "It's good to have allies like you."
I smile back, feeling unexpected warmth in my chest, as I watch her head to the group. The plaza is almost empty, lights turning off one by one, and the wind lifts the last shiny paper remnants from the ground, making them dance like small colorful ghosts.
I look where Noah talks with Mason and Jackie, laughing, his face lit by the last streetlight, his hair catching glitter shine like he has lights on him. And, for the first time in a long time, everything feels in place.
Yes. It was completely worth it.
Jackie barely finishes talking to me when a strong voice erupts from the other end of the plaza. "This isn't over!" shouts Jake, climbed on a folding table creaking under his weight. His voice booms strongly amid the silence starting to form, and his silhouette stands out against the still-on lights like the star of an improvised show.
Everyone turns to look. Jake raises his arms, smiling, face lit by the spotlights. "Now it's time to celebrate!" he adds, and his shout multiplies in the crowd, drawing whistles and claps.
The fraternities respond immediately. Beta Theta, Lambda Alpha, Delta Xi, and more start chanting, clapping, whistling. Laughs mix with shouts, steps with improvised drum beats on tables. In seconds, the plaza vibrates again, as if the event's energy reignited, refusing to fade.
Jake jumps down from the table, waving his arm like an orchestra conductor. "To Old Campus, everyone! Let's celebrate properly!"
The groups start moving in a herd, a river of laughs, chants, and friendly shoves spilling through campus paths. Some sing at full lung, others laugh, others just follow the flow, their shadows lengthening under path lights. In minutes, the plaza empties again, this time amid joyful, messy noise fading in the distance.
When the bustle dissolves, the contrast is total. Silence returns, broken only by wind rustling trees and trash bags moving with the air. The group members stay, working in the dim. Jackie folds flags with almost reverent care. Mason loads a folding table, grunting a bit at the weight, while others store boxes, ribbons, and remaining decor. No one says anything. They move with a calm that seems resignation, like they're used to being the last to leave, when everyone else is gone.
In the distance, fraternity laughs still echo, a joyful fade. Here, a different serenity reigns: exhaustion, satisfaction, and that silent void after giving everything.
Then, two figures come running from the other end of the path, breaking the quiet. "Hey!" shouts Amber, waving arms, her voice cutting the air like a firecracker. "What are you still doing here?"
Beside her, Morgan smiles, breathing hard from the run. "We're waiting for you!"
Jackie straightens, blinking, clearly surprised. "Waiting? For what?"
"To celebrate," says Morgan, still smiling, like it's obvious. "To Old Campus! This is yours too."
The group falls silent. No one answers right away. Jackie looks at them, then at Mason and the others, like seeking a sign in their tired but content faces.
"We have to pack all this," she says finally, calm tone, no excuses, pointing to scattered boxes and flags.
Amber smiles with a mix of affection and mischief. "Then let's do it fast."
Morgan nods, turns to the path where the others left and shouts: "Hey, Centauri! Come back! Help a bit!"
A few voices answer from afar, amid laughs. Soon, several guys return running, joking, pushing each other like the night's energy has no end. They bring that vitality defying exhaustion, sneakers echoing on pavement.
Without a word, they start helping. Mason hands a flag, one guy folds tables with an exaggerated grunt, another gathers empty boxes, stacking with surprising precision. Jackie watches, still surprised, as Amber and Morgan join the work, laughs mixing with box rustles.
Noah appears among them too, shirt half-unbuttoned and a calm smile seeming to light the dim. He takes a box from the ground without a word, lifts it and sets it with the others, movements fluid but tired. No one comments. Just steps, occasional laughs, and things settling, like the plaza giving one last sigh before sleep.
In less than ten minutes, everything is packed. The plaza is clean, empty, and silent again, with only wind whispering through trees. Jackie adjusts her jacket, sighs, and crosses arms, looking at the space like wanting to memorize it.
Morgan looks at her, smiling. "Well, now yes," he says, "it's over."
Amber whistles and points to the exit, energy intact. "Come on, the party's waiting!"
Jackie turns to her people. For a second, she hesitates, eyes scanning her team's tired but happy faces. Then she smiles slightly. "Alright," she says finally. "Let's go."
Amid soft laughs and knowing looks, everyone starts walking to Old Campus. The night air is cool, and path lights guide them like scattered embers, toward the bustle still echoing afar.