Adrian stared at his phone. 2:34 AM. Sleep was pointless—brain wouldn't shut off, kept replaying Dante's cracked voice: I'm so fucking tired of competing for someone who doesn't even see me.
Adrian opened the phone. Scrolled through apps without purpose. Found the old high school group chat buried under recent messages. Thirty-seven members, mostly inactive now, occasional birthday wish or wedding announcement.
Adrian scrolled up. Months back. Year back. Two years.
Found it.
March 15, two years ago. 11:47 PM.
Tyler: Dante, you ok? That was a brutal game.
Dante: I'm fine.
Tyler: You don't seem fine. You've been off since Adrian said he was going to State instead of Greystone.
Adrian's breath caught. Stopped scrolling. Read that line three times.
Since Adrian said he was going to State.
That had been—what? Two weeks before the championship? Adrian had announced his college decision at lunch, said State offered better financial aid, said Greystone was backup option.
And Dante had been off after that? Not because of the game. Because of where Adrian was planning to go.
Adrian kept reading.
Dante: It doesn't matter where he goes.
Tyler: Dude, just tell him how you feel.
Adrian's hands started shaking. Phone screen wobbling.
Dante: I can't. He doesn't see me that way. He never has.
Tyler: You don't know that.
Dante: Yes, I do. I've been trying to get his attention for eighteen years. At this point, I'm just prolonging the inevitable.
The phone nearly slipped from Adrian's grip. Had to set it down on the bed, hands trembling too badly to hold steady.
Eighteen years.
Eighteen years of trying to get Adrian's attention. Not competing against Adrian. Competing for Adrian.
Adrian picked up the phone again. Scrolled further. Six months ago.
September 2, 11:23 PM.
Dante: He got into Greystone.
Tyler: And?
Dante: I pulled some strings with housing. We're roommates again.
Adrian's stomach dropped.
Tyler: That's not healthy, man.
Dante: I know. But it's the last chance I'll have. After this year, we're done. Different career paths, different lives. This is it.
Adrian read that message five times. Then ten.
I pulled some strings with housing.
Not random. Never random. Dante had manipulated every single roommate assignment. Four years—middle school, high school, two dorms—all of it deliberate. All of it Dante pulling strings, calling in favors, doing whatever necessary to keep them together.
This is it. Last chance. Dante had engineered their freshman year rooming situation knowing it would be the final opportunity before their lives diverged permanently.
Everything recontextualized. Every close competition—Dante winning by one second, one point, one judge's score. What if Dante had been pulling punches? Keeping it close enough that Adrian stayed engaged, stayed fighting, stayed in Dante's orbit?
Eighteen years of rivalry. Eighteen years of Dante desperately, unsuccessfully trying to get Adrian to see him. To see him not as competitor but as—
What? Friend? Something more?
Competing for someone who doesn't even see me.
Adrian lurched out of bed. Grabbed phone. Texted Elena: Are you awake?
Response came within seconds: Unfortunately. What's wrong?
Can I come over?
Room 312. Door's unlocked.
Elena opened the door wearing pajamas and a psychology textbook in one hand. "This better be good. I have an exam at eight."
Adrian shoved the phone at Elena. "Read that. The messages from two years ago."
Elena took the phone. Scrolled. Read. Her expression shifted—surprise, then understanding, then something almost like pity.
"Oh, honey," Elena said.
"Everyone knew?" Adrian's voice cracked. "This whole time, everyone could see it?"
"Not everyone. But—" Elena handed back the phone. "Yeah. Most people who paid attention."
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Would you have believed us?" Elena sat on her bed, gestured for Adrian to take the desk chair. "You were so convinced it was rivalry. So committed to the competition framework. Anyone who suggested otherwise got shut down immediately."
Adrian collapsed into the chair. "The way he looks at me—you said that. That it's not competition. It's longing."
"It is." Elena's voice gentled. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way. But maybe this is better? Reading it in his own words instead of someone telling you?"
"He manipulated the housing assignments." Adrian couldn't stop focusing on that. "Four times. Since middle school. He planned this."
"Because he loves you." Elena said it simply. Statement of fact. "And he didn't know any other way to stay close."
"But he's with Marcus."
"Is he?" Elena raised an eyebrow. "Or is he doing exactly what you're doing with Isabella—hiding behind someone safe while wanting someone else?"
The parallel hit like a fist. Adrian and Dante both performing relationships with appropriate people while obsessing over each other. Both hiding. Both lying. Both slowly destroying themselves through denial.
"I don't know what to do," Adrian said.
"Yes you do." Elena stood. "You just don't know if you're brave enough to do it."
3:47 AM. Adrian stood in his dorm bathroom, fluorescent lights harsh against tile. Stared at his own reflection. Really looked. Not the quick glance of morning routine or teeth-brushing. Actually looked at the person in the mirror.
Who was Adrian Hayes? What did Adrian want?
The answers came easier than expected. Maybe because it was almost 4 AM and exhaustion stripped away the usual defenses. Maybe because reading Dante's messages had cracked something fundamental. Maybe because there was no point in lying to a mirror.
"I'm in love with Dante Alaric." Adrian said it out loud. Voice hoarse but steady. "I have been for years."
The reflection didn't react. Just stared back with the same haunted eyes.
"And I've been too much of a coward to admit it because loving him means admitting that every competition, every fight, every moment of rivalry was just me trying to be close to him the only way I knew how."
Eighteen years. Christ. Eighteen years of mislabeling, of calling it hatred when it was always something else.
Adrian's phone buzzed in his pocket. Text from Isabella: Can you meet me tomorrow? Need to talk about something.
Tomorrow was already today. 4 AM counted as today.
Adrian typed: Yeah. When?
Lunch? 12:30 at the union?
See you then.
Isabella sat across from Adrian at a table near the windows, spring sunlight streaming in despite the cold outside. Looked beautiful—always looked beautiful. Smart, kind, everything a girlfriend should be.
Everything except the person Adrian actually wanted.
"I got into the study abroad program," Isabella said without preamble. "Six months in Thailand. Medical clinic in Chiang Mai."
"That's—that's amazing. Congratulations." Adrian meant it. "When do you leave?"
"January. Right after winter break." Isabella folded her hands on the table. "And I think... I think we both know this is the right time to make a clean break."
Relief flooded through Adrian so intense it felt like betrayal. Followed immediately by guilt that relief was the first response.
"Isabella, I'm sorry—"
"Don't." Isabella's voice was firm but not unkind. "I knew what this was. Maybe I hoped it would become something else, but..." Sad smile. "You can't build a relationship with someone whose heart is somewhere else."
Adrian's throat tightened. "I did care about you. I do."
"I know. And I care about you too." Isabella reached across the table, squeezed Adrian's hand once. "But caring isn't enough."
They sat in silence for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just honest.
"Go talk to him, Adrian." Isabella pulled her hand back. "Before you both waste any more time."
"What if—" Adrian stopped. Started again. "What if I ruin everything? What if being honest destroys even the rivalry?"
"Then at least you'll know." Isabella stood, gathered her bag. "And at least you won't spend the rest of your life wondering what if."
She left. Adrian watched Isabella walk away—graceful, certain, moving toward Thailand and medical clinics and a future that didn't include Adrian.
Adrian felt nothing but relief.
And that—that was the final proof, wasn't it? If Adrian could watch Isabella leave and feel only relief, feel grateful she'd been brave enough to end what Adrian couldn't, then Adrian's heart had never been available. Had always been somewhere else.
Had always been with Dante.
Adrian walked back to Sutton Hall. 1:47 PM. Dante might be at practice. Might be at Marcus's apartment. Might be anywhere.
Adrian unlocked the door to Room 447B. Empty, as expected.
Sat on the bed. Stared at phone. No more excuses. No more Isabella to hide behind. No more pretending the rivalry was just competition.
The phone buzzed in Adrian's hand. Text from Dante.
Can we talk?
Adrian's heart slammed against ribs. Like Dante had known. Like Dante had sensed the shift, the removal of obstacles, the moment when pretending stopped being possible.
Adrian typed one word: Yes.
Stared at the sent message. Simple. Final. Irrevocable.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Tomorrow? After your physics lab? I'll meet you at the dorm.
Ok.
Adrian set down the phone. Looked around the room. Dante's perfectly made bed. Dante's desk facing Adrian's space. Dante's clothes in the closet. Eighteen years of accumulated proximity and deliberate engineering and desperate attempts to stay close.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow Adrian would talk to Dante. Tomorrow everything would change—would either break completely or transform into something neither of them had language for yet.
Tomorrow Adrian would stop being a coward.
Today—today Adrian just sat with the knowledge. Sat with the truth that had always been there, buried under competition and mislabeled hatred and eighteen years of not seeing what everyone else apparently saw.
Adrian picked up the phone again. Reread those messages. I've been trying to get his attention for eighteen years.
"I see you now," Adrian said to the empty room. "I see you."
Tomorrow Adrian would make sure Dante knew it too.
The phone stayed silent. The room stayed empty. But something had shifted. Some fundamental change that couldn't be reversed.
Adrian was in love with Dante Alaric.
And tomorrow—tomorrow Adrian would finally tell Dante the truth.
If Adrian didn't lose courage between now and then.
If Dante didn't run.
If eighteen years of rivalry could become something else.
If.
Adrian lay back on the bed. Closed his eyes. Didn't sleep.
Just counted hours until tomorrow. Until the conversation that would change everything.
Until the moment when pretending stopped being an option and truth became unavoidable.
Eighteen years.
After eighteen years, what was one more day?