"So we'll meet at Rossi's at seven," Elena said, scrolling through her phone while waiting for the elevator. "The group chat said most people can make it."
Adrian looked up from his own phone. "What group chat?"
Elena's thumb stilled. "The—oh. Um. The basketball social one? I thought you were..." Elena's expression shifted. Realized. "Never mind. Different group."
"Who's in it?"
"Just—Dante, Marcus, some of the team guys. And their friends. It's nothing." Elena's voice went deliberately casual. Too casual. "Anyway, I have to get to class."
The elevator arrived. Elena disappeared inside. Doors closed on Elena's carefully neutral expression.
Adrian stood in the hallway, phone in hand, something cold settling in Adrian's chest.
Excluded. Deliberately excluded.
That evening, Adrian waited. Heard Dante's key in the lock at 9:47 PM. Let Dante get three steps inside before Adrian reached past Dante and twisted the deadbolt. Click. Locked.
Dante's shoulders tensed. "What—"
"Why am I not in the basketball social group chat?" Adrian asked.
Dante set down his backpack. Carefully controlled movements. "It's the basketball team chat. You're not on the team."
"Bullshit."
"Adrian—"
"Elena's in it. She's not on the team. Sam is in it. Also not on the team." Adrian's jaw clenched. "So try again. Why am I not in it?"
Dante's hands flexed. "Because you don't need to be."
"Why are you cutting me out?"
"I'm not—"
"Bullshit," Adrian repeated, voice rising. "You barely talk to me. You're never here. You're planning your entire life around avoiding me. If you want to switch rooms, just say so. I'll request a transfer. We don't have to keep doing this."
Dante's careful control shattered. "I DON'T want to switch rooms!" The words came out almost shouted. "I want—"
Stopped. Caught himself. Visible effort to pull back from whatever Dante had been about to say.
"I want—" Dante tried again. Couldn't finish. Took a breath. "This is impossible."
"What is?"
"You." Dante's voice dropped lower, harder. "Us. This whole fucking situation."
Adrian's chest tightened. "I don't understand."
Dante laughed. Sharp, bitter sound. Then Dante's face shifted—something cracking beneath the anger. Vulnerability bleeding through like fault lines in concrete.
"Do you know what it's like?" Dante's voice went quiet. Dangerous quiet. "Watching you with her? Pretending I'm fine? Coming back to this room every night knowing that you're probably texting her, thinking about her, while I—"
Stopped again. Dante's hands curled into fists at Dante's sides.
Adrian's throat went dry. "While you what?"
Long silence. Dante's hands were shaking. Actually shaking. Tremors visible even from six feet away.
"Forget it." Dante turned toward the door. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"No." Adrian stepped forward. Closed the distance between them. "Finish what you were going to say."
"Why?" Dante's eyes flashed. "So you can feel sorry for me? So you can have another thing to win?"
"This isn't about winning!"
"ISN'T IT?" Dante's voice cracked on the word. "Everything with us is about winning! Every conversation, every interaction, every—"
The words broke. Dante's jaw clenched, visible effort to maintain control, but Dante's voice had fractured and couldn't be forced back together.
"I'm tired, Adrian." Quieter now. Exhausted. "I'm so fucking tired of competing for someone who doesn't even see me."
The words landed like physical blows. Adrian's breath caught.
"What are you—"
But Dante was already moving. Grabbed keys, phone, wallet. Headed for the door.
"Dante—"
"I need to go." Dante twisted the deadbolt open. "I can't—I just need to go."
The door opened. Closed. Dante gone.
Adrian stood in the sudden silence. Stared at the closed door. At the space Dante had occupied seconds before.
Competing for someone who doesn't even see me.
Adrian moved to his bed. Sat down heavily. Replayed the conversation in fractured pieces.
Watching you with her. Pretending I'm fine.
Isabella. Dante meant Isabella. Watching Adrian with Isabella caused—what? Pain? Jealousy? Something strong enough to make Dante's voice crack, to make Dante's hands shake.
Coming back to this room every night knowing that you're probably texting her, thinking about her, while I—
While Dante what? While Dante wanted something else? While Dante needed something else? While Dante felt something else?
Competing for someone who doesn't even see me.
Competing. That word. Not competing against Adrian for awards or achievements or victories. Competing for Adrian. For Adrian's attention. For Adrian's—
Adrian's stomach dropped.
No.
No, that wasn't—
Except.
Eighteen years. Eighteen years of Dante showing up everywhere Adrian went. Eighteen years of Dante knowing Adrian's schedule better than Dante's own. Eighteen years of Dante talking about Adrian constantly—Marcus had said that. "He talks about you constantly."
The coffee shop "accident." The basketball game where Dante guarded Adrian personally, aggressive defense that required constant physical contact. The psychology group project where the tension was so thick the meetings ended early. The dinner where Dante barely spoke, jaw clenching every time Adrian mentioned Isabella.
Dante still tracking Adrian's location. Dante choosing to return to this complicated dorm room instead of staying at Marcus's comfortable apartment. Dante watching Adrian in group settings more than engaging with Marcus—his actual boyfriend.
Every single day, Dante had whispered in the darkness. Every single day Dante wished things were different.
The puzzle pieces clicked together. Obvious. Undeniable. Terrifying.
Dante wasn't avoiding Adrian because Dante hated Adrian.
Dante was avoiding Adrian because Dante—
Adrian stood up. Sat back down. Stood again.
No.
But yes. Obviously yes. How had Adrian not seen it?
Adrian's phone buzzed. Text from Isabella: How's your night going?
Adrian stared at the message. Should respond. Should say something. Should maintain the performance of good boyfriend who was definitely not having a breakdown in his dorm room.
Adrian locked the phone without responding.
Competing for someone who doesn't even see me.
Adrian had been so focused on his own suffering—his unrequited feelings, his jealousy watching Dante with Marcus, his inability to move on—that Adrian had completely missed that Dante was experiencing the same thing. The exact same thing. Parallel suffering. Mutual pain.
They'd both been competing for each other while dating other people. Both hiding. Both pretending. Both dying a little every day from the weight of unacknowledged truth.
Adrian's award-winning paper flashed through Adrian's mind. Competition as Emotional Proxy: How Rivalry Masks Attachment in Long-Term Relationships. Professor Chen's words: "Rivalry often functions as socially acceptable framework for obsessive attention that would otherwise require examination."
Adrian had written thirty pages analyzing exactly what was happening. Had won recognition for explaining the dynamic with academic precision.
And still hadn't understood that Adrian was living it. That Dante was living it. That they'd been living it for eighteen years.
I'm so fucking tired of competing for someone who doesn't even see me.
Adrian saw now. Finally, belatedly, terrifyingly—Adrian saw.
And seeing changed everything because seeing required response. Seeing demanded action. Seeing meant Adrian couldn't keep hiding behind Isabella, couldn't keep pretending rivalry explained the obsessive awareness, couldn't keep calling it hatred when it was obviously—always had been—
Adrian's hands shook. Mirroring Dante's earlier tremors. Physical manifestation of internal chaos.
What was Adrian supposed to do with this information? Confront Dante? Confess matching feelings? Risk the eighteen-year relationship—toxic as it was—for the possibility of something else?
What if Adrian was wrong? What if Adrian was reading too much into emotional vulnerability and exhausted confessions? What if Dante meant something else entirely and Adrian was projecting his own feelings onto Dante's words?
But—
Competing for someone who doesn't even see me.
There was no other reasonable interpretation. No other way to parse those words that made sense.
Dante had been competing for Adrian. For Adrian's attention, for Adrian's affection, for Adrian.
While Adrian competed for Dante.
While both of them dated other people and pretended and performed and slowly destroyed themselves through denial.
This limbo is killing him, Marcus had said. And Marcus was right. The limbo was killing Dante. Was killing Adrian too.
Adrian needed to do something. Say something. Break the pattern that had sustained for eighteen years.
But what? What could Adrian possibly say that wouldn't make everything worse? That wouldn't destroy the fragile dynamic that at least kept Dante in Adrian's life even if it kept Dante at distance?
Adrian's phone lit up again. Isabella: Everything okay? You're usually faster at responding.
Right. Isabella. Adrian's girlfriend. The person Adrian was supposed to be committed to. The person Adrian had planned to ask to be official girlfriend.
The person Adrian was using as shield against feelings for Dante.
Sage's words came back: You're both hiding behind other people instead of being honest.
Adrian typed: I'm fine. Just tired. Talk tomorrow?
Isabella: Of course! Sleep well 💕
The heart emoji glowed on the screen. Sweet. Caring. Everything a girlfriend should be.
Adrian felt nothing looking at it.
11:34 PM. Dante hadn't come back. Probably at Marcus's apartment despite the pattern of returning to the dorm. Probably couldn't face being in this room after revealing so much.
Adrian lay down on the bed. Stared at ceiling. Seven water stains plus one shadow. Familiar geography offering no answers.
Competing for someone who doesn't even see me.
Adrian saw now.
And the terror wasn't about whether Dante had feelings for Adrian. That was obvious now, undeniable.
The terror was about what came next. About whether Adrian had the courage to acknowledge what Adrian saw. About whether admission would fix everything or destroy everything.
About whether eighteen years of calling it rivalry could transform into something else. Something real. Something that didn't require disguise or competition or careful distance.
Adrian didn't know.
But Adrian couldn't unknow what Adrian knew now. Couldn't unsee what had finally become visible.
Dante loved Adrian. Or had loved. Or was trying not to love while failing miserably.
And Adrian—Adrian loved Dante. Had loved Dante. For how long? Years, probably. Maybe always. Just called it hatred because hatred was easier, safer, more socially acceptable than the alternative.
The room felt too small. Too big. Wrong dimensions entirely.
Adrian closed his eyes. Didn't sleep.
Just replayed those words on infinite loop: I'm so fucking tired of competing for someone who doesn't even see me.
Adrian saw now.
The question was: what was Adrian going to do about it?