The day starts like any other. You wake to a bright window, Dakota's joke text already waiting on your phone. In the hallway, Hannah greets you loud enough for half the dorm to hear, Priya tosses a pack of markers your way, and Beckett, late as usual, shows up at breakfast, stealing half your bagel.
You're laughing, hands full, voices overlapping with plans and memories and reminders for tonight's mural touch-ups. Jasper arrives a few minutes late, slipping his hand into yours and greeting you with a quick kiss on the temple.
At first, things feel easy. Jasper asks about your classes, Priya reviews her latest sketch, Beckett cracks a joke about Hannah's caffeine addiction. You're halfway through a story about your old camping trip when Jasper eyes you across the table and leans in as the others chat.
He says it quietly, tone light enough that it could be missed. "Funny how you always light up a little more with them. Especially Beckett. You have a whole different laugh when he's around. You ever notice?"
The comment lands with a sting, a little harsher than teasing, a little too sharp in front of your friends.
You freeze, managing a small shrug. The rest of the group doesn't notice, but you do. Suddenly, you're second-guessing every laugh, every inside joke, every word you say out loud.
After that, you don't talk as much. You pick at your food, listening more than contributing, letting Beckett and Hannah carry the conversation. Priya nudges your arm but you just smile, the color faded from your voice.
Jasper squeezes your hand under the table and gives you a small smile. You make yourself quieter, hoping he'll stop noticing the small things, hoping it will pass.
By the end of breakfast, the noise in the room feels a little too loud, and the friend you were just a few minutes ago feels further away.
You slip away as soon as breakfast is over, bag slung over your shoulder, ducking out before anyone can ask where you're going. The art studio is cool and quiet, paint-scented, sunlight sliced across the tables. You settle in by the big window, pulling out your sketchbook and letting your pencil drift.
The lines come out darker than you mean them to, heavy shapes, hunched shoulders, clouds instead of wild color. You scratch them out, try again, but the brightness you usually feel just isn't there.
You're so lost in the charcoal and smudges that you barely notice Beckett come in. He drops his backpack by the door and walks over, voice gentle.
"Hey. Priya said you vanished after breakfast. You've never been the mysterious artist type."
You try to smile and don't quite manage it. "Just wanted a little quiet."
He nods, but his eyes drift down to your open page. He takes it in for a long moment, a stack of tangled shapes, a storm splintered against a window, nothing like the bright murals or sunflare sketches you're known for.
He sits down beside you. "This is…different. Not bad, but...dark. Makes me want to turn the lights on."
You shift, closing the book halfway. "Sorry. Guess I'm just…drawing what I feel."
Beckett studies your face, dropping his usual easy grin. "Something's wrong, huh?"
You shake your head. "Nothing, I promise. Just a lot on my mind."
He leans in, voice low. "Jasper said something, didn't he?"
You hesitate, thumb pressed into the edge of your book. "He just… He notices things. Makes me notice them, too."
Beckett's jaw is tense, but his presence is warm. "If you ever want to talk about it, about anything, I'm here. You don't have to draw yourself into corners, Maren. Not for anyone."
You blink hard, swallowing the knot in your throat. "Thanks, Beck."
He ruffles your hair and picks up a brush, painting a silly shark in the corner of your page. "Next time you go moody, at least let me add some color."
You laugh, really laugh, just for a second, and the room feels a little lighter.
You find yourself alone with Jasper late in the afternoon, tucked away in the quiet back hallway behind the art studio. He leans against the doorframe, watching you pack up your supplies with a look that's both affectionate and reserved.
"You disappeared today," Jasper says. He keeps his tone soft, but there's an edge to it, a quiet challenge beneath the words.
You shrug, fussing with a charcoal stain on your palm. "Just needed some time to draw."
He steps closer, lowering his voice. "You know, I think about your friends a lot. Beckett, especially. Priya and Hannah too, but mostly him. Ever wondered why he sticks around? Why any of them do?"
You frown, uncertainty creeping in. "Because we've always been close. They care…"
Jasper shakes his head, a small, pitying smile tugging at his mouth. "People don't just care, Maren. They want something. Beckett loves the attention. Priya gets to play the wise artist, Hannah gets center stage. And you...maybe you don't see it, but they get something out of being with you." He pauses, staring hard enough to make you look away. "If you stop giving them what they want, how many do you think would stick around?"
Your stomach twists. "That's not fair."
Jasper shrugs. "It's just the truth. People use each other all the time. I just…" He softens, voice almost pleading. "I want you to see when it's happening. I don't want you to get hurt when you finally realize they don't really care. I care. I stay because I want you, not because of what I get from you."
You don't know what to say. His words crawl under your skin, burrow in, until you wonder if you've missed something all along, if maybe everyone has their own reason, their own take, their own price for sticking around. Who would stay if you stopped being useful?
You don't cry, but you stop talking. Your voice goes quiet, not just for Jasper, but for everyone. You tell yourself you're just tired, but the heaviness in your chest is sharper now, the colors duller, the laughter muffled even inside your own head.
When Jasper takes your hand on the walk back, you let him, drifting a little behind, convinced that if you do or say the wrong thing, something important might break for good.
You make your way back to your dorm, moving through the halls in a fog. Each hello sounds distant, muffled through a wall of self-doubt. You push open your door, drop your bag, and collapse onto your bed without turning on the light. For a while, you just lie there listening to the hum of the building, replaying Jasper's words, about Beckett, about everyone, until the weight feels almost unbearable.
A knock at your door snaps you out of it. You sit up, startled, and Beckett peeks his head in, concern written all over his face.
"Hey. Priya said you bailed after studio." He steps inside, hesitating in the middle of your room. "Just wanted to check. You okay?"
You think of all the times he's been here, easy and comfortable, never asking for more than a spot on the floor and a slice of leftover pizza. You want to say yes, tell him it's nothing, but the pressure inside you finally boils over.
"Why do you keep coming to check on me?" The words come out sharp, too loud in the quiet. "Why can't you just… just let me be for once?"
Beckett blinks, surprised, then softens his voice. "I care, Maren. I'm worried, that's all."
But his worry only stings more. "Do you have to 'care' every time something is off? Maybe Jasper's right. Maybe you want something, too, and I'm just… I don't know what anyone wants from me anymore."
The silence stretches. Beckett stares at you for a long time. "What did he say to you?" He finally says, voice still calm.
You scrub your hands over your face, frustration spilling out. "I'm so tired, Beckett. Of feeling like if I mess up, I'll lose everyone. Of wondering who's actually here for me, and who's just...waiting."
He settles on the edge of your bed, voice steady. "I'm here for you. That's it. Even if you yell at me, or kick me out, or don't talk to me at all."
You don't want the tears that sting your eyes, but you bite back the anger and look away. "Can you please just...leave me alone? Just for tonight?"
Beckett nods, standing slowly. "If that's what you need."
He pulls the door closed behind him with a quiet click, and you finally curl up under your covers, letting the ache spill out in the dark. For a long time, you're not sure if you want anyone to open that door again.
A few hours after Beckett leaves, you're still curled up under your blanket, drifting between restless sleep and the familiar ache of worry. The guilt from snapping at him nags at you, how easily you pushed him away when all he was trying to do was help.
The knock on your door is softer this time, followed by the sound of something being set gently on the floor outside. You wait, hesitant, until you finally get up and open the door.
On the hallway rug sits a small box, a bright blue ribbon tied messily around it, classic Beckett style, not quite perfect but unmistakably his. Beside it, a brown paper bag with your favorite pastries from the campus café, the ones you always buy on Friday mornings when things are good.
Tucked under the ribbon is a simple card, written in his hurried, angular handwriting:
Maren,
For the days you forget you're loved, here's proof.
No need to talk. No need to say anything at all.
Just know I'm rooting for you, no matter what.
- Beckett
You hold the box in both hands, some mixture of relief and fresh guilt swelling in your chest. Inside, you find all your comfort things. Your favorite artist pens, a packet of sour gummy candies, that silly cactus sticker you always thought was lucky, even a tiny sketchbook with the first page already filled in: Beckett's attempt at drawing a shark, goofy and grinning.
The pastries are still warm when you break one open. You sit back against your bed, card in hand, tears stinging, but softer now, edged with gratitude instead of anger.
For a little while, you let yourself just be: quiet, cared for, and not asked to be anything more.
A few hours after Beckett's delivery, the room feels warmer and softer around you, the familiar comfort things spread across your comforter, the scent of pastries lingering with the light. You're sitting cross-legged, flipping through your sketchbook, the card tucked carefully between the pages. For a fleeting moment, you almost feel okay.
But Jasper's knock changes everything.
He comes in with barely a glance, his energy buzzing, eyes darting around before settling on the pastry bag and the box with Beckett's unmistakable messy ribbon. He doesn't bother with hello, just lets his gaze roam your things, searching for clues.
"Wow," Jasper says, voice too loud. "Somebody got a surprise." He picks up the box, turning it over, eyebrows raised. "Let me guess. Beckett?"
You manage a soft, "Yeah. He was just being nice."
Jasper scoffs, not putting the box down. "Nice? Yeah, maybe. Or maybe he just likes the attention. Always swooping in, coming to the rescue. That's kind of his thing, isn't it?"
You bristle, but he's already moving, opening the lid of the box to inspect the gifts: pens, candies, the lucky cactus sticker, all your tokens of comfort. He waves the sketchbook at you before pulling out Beckett's card, squinting at the handwriting.
He reads Beckett's words aloud, voice cold and slow: "'For the days you forget you're loved, here's proof. No need to talk. No need to say anything at all. Just know I'm rooting for you, no matter what.'" Jasper laughs, dropping the card onto your lap. "Says all the right things, doesn't he? I wonder what he's really hoping for."
You reach for the card, cringing as Jasper sits on the edge of your bed, knees almost crowding you. "He's just trying to help."
Jasper shakes his head. "Help, sure. Or maybe he wants to make sure you never forget him. Wants you grateful. Wants you tied up in old memories so there's no room for anybody else." He leans in, voice soft but threaded with accusation. "That's what guys do when they're used to being the hero. Not because of you, but because of how they like being needed."
Your chest tightens. "That's not-"
He cuts you off, hand finding yours in a tight squeeze. "Look, Maren, I just don't want you hurt. I see things you don't. Priya? She gets to coach you. Hannah gets all the drama. Beckett gets to be the knight in shining armor. But me? Where do I fit?" He searches your eyes, holding your hand a little too firmly. "I'm the only one who actually puts you first. I actually want you for you, not the stuff you do or fix for everybody."
You shake your head, but his words are worming their way into the cracks Jasper's already created. "They care. They all do, in their own ways."
He moves closer, his tone lowering dangerously. "You say that, but come on, Maren. You really think people stick around just for your sparkling personality? No offense, but you had a hard day today, right? Beckett shows up with gifts. Your friends text. They want the fun you. What if you weren't always so generous, so willing to listen, so eager to please? How many would actually stay for you?"
You swallow, nudging the card under your pillow, your words shrinking. "I don't know."
He brushes hair from your eyes, trying for tenderness. "I do. That's why you need me. I'm the only one you don't have to perform for. I see who you really are: The good, the bad, all of it. Would Beckett stick around for you if you stopped cheering him on? Would Priya want you if you never painted again?"
You stare at the floor, every memory feeling suddenly suspect. You wonder if you've missed something, if maybe you're only as good as the last thing you did for somebody else. Loneliness gathers in your chest, heavier than guilt.
Jasper wraps his arms around you, pressing you close. "Just let me be the one, okay? Stop giving so much to them. You deserve someone who wants nothing but you. Don't make it harder."
You nod, letting yourself be held, overwhelmed and numb. When Jasper finally leaves, dusk filling your room, you unravel alone: comfort things untouched, the card buried deep, all your colors dim and your voice barely a whisper.
Your phone glows with a new text:
Beckett: Let me know if you need anything.
You turn it over, too tired to reply, wishing for clarity and getting only shadows.