The apartment greeted him with its customary silence.
No sound from the television this time, no scent of food being prepared. His mother was likely in her room; his father was still at his meeting in Manhattan. In the absence of them both, the apartment felt larger than its actual square footage—the way places often do when they lose their familiar soundtracks.
He dropped his bag by the door.
He opened the refrigerator, searching with eyes that didn't know what they wanted. He closed it. Opened it again. He pulled out a cold carton of orange juice and shut the door.
He sat on the sofa.
He did not turn on the TV.
Dinner was what his mother had left in a glass bowl on the counter: rice and lemon chicken, the kind of food that announces its scent even before you lift the lid. A small note sat beside it in her large, slanted handwriting: Twenty minutes at 180°C. Don't forget.
He heated it. He ate alone in the kitchen, standing at first before deciding to sit. The food was good—the kind of quality that requires no comment because it is so consistently present that it has become a given.
He ate slowly.
And he thought.
He didn't want to think.
That is the trouble with thoughts that decide they are important enough to refuse to leave; they don't ask for permission, and they don't wait for an invitation. They sit in the back of the mind, working silently until they find enough space to move to the front.
Daniel.
The way he had said "No" when asked if Ethan's name had been mentioned. A single word. Its weight was heavier than its literal meaning.
Then there was Ryan, and the way the conversation had taken over—how Ethan had stood there with a foundationless smile and finally decided that leaving was simply easier.
And before all of that: the bathrooms. The gray blazer. The damp floor. The crying that had escaped before he could decide to stop it.
He set down his fork.
He wasn't hungry anymore.
The desk in the corner.
He opened his laptop, the screen illuminating the semi-dark room with a soft white glow. Assignments first; that's what he had decided on the walk home—a clean, non-negotiable decision. Assignments first, then early sleep, then waking up with enough time to start the day normally.
He opened the English Literature file.
Keats. "Ode to a Nightingale." Five pages of analysis due by Thursday.
He began to write.
Literary writing was one of the few things that didn't require effort from him in the traditional sense; it required focus, but not strain, like walking a path you know by heart. The words found their way without much searching. He recalled his literature teacher once writing in the margin of his paper: This analysis reads as though you are speaking of something you know, rather than something you've studied. He hadn't understood at first if it was a compliment or a critique. Then, he decided it was both.
He wrote. One page, two, three.
Time advanced without him quite
Done.
Or done enough for the night. Three and a half pages ; the rest could be finished tomorrow before school or during lunch.
He leaned back, stretching his spine.
The room was silent. From the window, the street sounds were in their usual nocturnal state—muffled and filtered by distance and glass. The desk lamp cast a warm circle around him, leaving everything beyond it in a soft blur.
He opened a new tab.
Without any real conscious thought at first, he typed into the search bar : best universities creative writing programs US.
He pressed Enter.
The pages began to roll in.
Iowa. Columbia. NYU. Brown. Vanderbilt. He read the requirements, sampled the course lists, and checked the acceptance rates. One version of him scanned the words, filtering for what mattered. Another version was building something in the background—a plan with no definite shape yet, but present as a distinct feeling.
NYU was close. Right here in the city. He could stay and commute every day. Or, he could go somewhere else entirely—a place these streets, these buildings, and these faces didn't know.
The latter thought made him linger a little longer than the others.
A place where no one knew him.
A place where he could start from zero without carrying the weight of what he had built here—or what he hadn't.
He opened the page for Brown University. Providence, Rhode Island. Not too far, but far enough. A small college town, old stone buildings that looked in photos as if time moved a little slower there than in the rest of the world. He read about the program, the focus, and the atmosphere described in formal language that Ethan translated in his mind into something more personal.
A place to write.
A place to think.
Ethan felt a surge of excitement.
It wasn't a loud excitement, but the quiet kind that felt more like clarity than joy ; that moment when you see something in the future that had no shape and suddenly gains enough features to be taken seriously.
He opened tabs. Closed some. Reopened others.
He compared. He read student testimonials on forums. He looked for application samples. He found a list of authors who had graduated from various programs—names he recognized, which was enough to make the idea feel possible rather than just a fantasy.
Twelve o'clock.
Twelve-fifteen.
Twelve-thirty.
He didn't decide to sleep.
Sleep decided for him.
His head descended slowly until his forehead touched his folded arm on the desk. The screen remained illuminated, the image of Brown University open on the final tab, its quiet stone buildings staring into the void.
And Ethan slept.
He dreamed of something whose details he couldn't recall when he woke later, except that he was walking in a vast, unknown place where the air felt like the atmosphere right after rain.
« Ethan. »
A soft knock at the door. Once, then twice.
He didn't move.
« Ethan. »
This time the door opened. Footsteps on the carpet. A hand touching his shoulder.
« Ethan, wake up. »
He opened his eyes slowly.
The desk was before him. The screen. Brown University. His left arm was numb beneath his head.
Najwa was standing beside him, her hand still on his shoulder. She was already dressed ; a simple dark dress, her hair pulled back. She looked at the screen, then at his face, without commenting.
« It's seven-twenty. »
The number dropped into his brain like a stone into a still pond.
« What ? »
« Seven-twenty-seven, » she repeated, in the tone of a woman stating the truth twice because the first time hadn't been properly heard.
Ethan stood with a sudden movement where grace was not a priority. His knees needed a second to steady themselves.
« School is at eight, » he said, more to himself than to his mother.
« I know. » Najwa stepped back, arms crossed in the manner of someone who sees chaos and decides to manage it rather than slow it down. « Bathroom first. I'll put breakfast in a bag. Be out in ten minutes. »
He didn't wait for her to finish.
Ten minutes was effectively seven.
He emerged from the bathroom with damp hair swept back by a quick hand, a fresh shirt, the same trousers. He grabbed the bag by the door without fully checking its contents. His mother was waiting with a small paper bag.
« There's a boiled egg and an apple, » she said. « The egg is cold. »
« It's fine. »
« And juice. » She added it to the bag.
« Thanks. » He took it and opened the door.
« Ethan. »
He turned.
She was looking at him with a gaze that held a question she hadn't yet fully formulated. Then she settled for : « Go. »
The elevator this time. No time for the stairs.
Thirty seconds to the first floor. Through the lobby, hand on the glass door.
He opened it.
And he stopped for a moment.
Daniel was standing outside the iron gate, a hand in his coat pocket, his eyes on the street in the manner of one waiting without announcing they are waiting. When the glass door opened, he turned.
He saw him.
And Ethan saw that he saw him.
For a full second, Ethan didn't move. He stood in the doorway, paper bag in hand, backpack on his shoulder, hair still holding the dampness of the shower, his mind trying to solve this equation : Why was Daniel here ? How did he know the way ? When did he decide this ?
He stepped outside.
« Good morning, » Ethan said. The words came out in the tone of someone trying to sound as if this were perfectly normal, while everything inside him questioned if it actually was.
« Bonjour. »
Daniel replied with a smile that didn't ask permission to appear—a smile with a hint of light humor, like someone who knows the effect of his actions and finds a quiet, understated pleasure in it. His dark eyes carried that small spark that appeared when he was in a lighter mood.
Ethan felt the heat rise to his face before he could decide to prevent it.
« You—« he began. « How do you know where I live ? »
« We walked together yesterday, » Daniel said, starting off with a steady pace, expecting Ethan to follow. « I noticed the address. »
Ethan caught up. « You noticed. »
« I notice things, » he said simply, neither with pride nor false modesty.
They walked.
The early morning street carried a sharp, biting chill ; the air was clean in the way it only is after a cold night. Steam rose from their mouths in small puffs that vanished instantly. Ethan took a bite of the apple from the paper bag, holding the bag in his other hand in a way that was anything but elegant.
« Late night ? » Daniel asked.
« I fell asleep at my desk. »
« Studying ? »
« Researching. » He hesitated for a second. « Universities. »
« Which ones ? »
The question wasn't mere politeness. Daniel looked at him as he asked, his hand in his pocket and his face turned subtly toward him—a way of signaling that the question was genuine and the answer would actually be heard.
Ethan found himself answering.
« Brown. Columbia. NYU—but NYU is too close. »
« Too close in what sense ? »
« In the sense—« He paused. « I want somewhere new. »
He said it and added nothing more, offering no explanation, because explaining would require more words than he was willing to give on this sidewalk in the morning.
Daniel nodded. He didn't ask « Why ? » Just a nod that said : I heard you.
That gesture alone felt lighter to Ethan than any question that could have followed.
« And you ? » Ethan asked. The words escaped before he could calculate if the timing was right.
« What about me ? »
« University. »
Daniel thought for a moment. « In New York, most likely, » he said in the tone of someone who had settled the matter long ago. « My family is here. »
« You want to stay close to them. »
« I want to stay close to certain things, yes, » Daniel said, in a way that suggested « certain things » was a much larger concept than a single sentence.
He didn't elaborate.
And Ethan didn't ask.
In that moment, there was something between them like a tacit understanding of the boundaries of what is said and what is left unspoken ; not an avoidance, but a kind of respect for the distance big things need before they find their names.
« Ryan. »
Daniel said it in a tone Ethan noticed carried notification rather than surprise.
Ethan looked up.
Ryan Collins was approaching from the opposite direction, walking with that same space-filling gait—his blue varsity jacket over a gray hoodie, a coffee cup in one hand and a phone in the other, his eyes on the screen until the very last second.
He raised his head. He saw Daniel. He smiled.
Then he saw Ethan.
Ryan's smile didn't falter. He gestured with his coffee cup in a brief salute.
« Morning, » he said to both of them.
He joined them in a natural motion, like someone stepping into an existing current. After half a step, he flicked his eyes back to his phone, then to Daniel, and began to speak.
The conversation was pure athletics.
Not in the metaphorical sense, but word-for-word : names, stats, and tactical shifts—a language with its own lexicon that required years of devotion or a primary, bone-deep interest to master. Ryan spoke with a controlled enthusiasm, the way one speaks about these things with people who inherently understand, and Daniel replied just enough to show he followed without over-immersing himself.
Ethan walked beside them.
His stride occupied enough space on the flank to say, I'm here. But his body performed the act of walking more mechanically than usual, left-right in a steady rhythm, while his mind caught words and let them slip away because there was nothing for them to grip.
Plays. Defense. Offense. Drills. Percentages. Coaches. Players.
Fragments. Fragments. Fragments.
The conversation moved forward without him in a perfectly neutral way ; no one was excluding him, yet no one was inviting him in. He was present in the physical sense, and absent in every other.
That slight heaviness returned.
The same weight from yesterday—when he had stood at the edge of the group, smiling at the wrong times, and decided that leaving was simply easier.
He squeezed the paper bag in his hand.
« Ethan. »
He turned.
Daniel was looking at him. Ryan had stopped mid-sentence and was looking, too.
« What's your take on the offensive line issues ? »
Ethan froze.
Ryan's gaze was one of genuine, neutral curiosity ; he wasn't looking for a specific answer, just waiting for whatever came next.
And Daniel was actually waiting.
Ethan opened his mouth.
« I—« He stopped. Closed it. Opened it again. « I actually don't really follow football. »
He said it. The words came out more directly than he expected, less apologetic than they would have been had he overthought them.
Ryan raised his eyebrows. « For real ? »
« Yeah. » Then, because the words were coming easier now : « I just never found anything in it that hooked me. »
A brief moment of silence.
Ryan looked at Daniel, then back to Ethan. « So, what are you into ? »
Ethan hesitated. « Literature. Music. Sometimes film. »
« What kind of music ? »
The question wasn't a challenge. It was sincere.
« Classical, mostly. And some other things. »
« Classical, » Ryan repeated, his tone holding no rejection—only honest surprise. « Like what ? »
This was the first time in Ethan's life that he had been asked about something he actually knew within a conversation he hadn't started.
It wasn't done in a forced way, nor as some polite social performance. It happened the way it does when someone notices a gap and decides to fill it because the people present actually matter to them.
Ethan looked at Daniel for a moment.
Daniel was looking straight ahead, his hand in his pocket, his face calm. But in the hidden corner of his features, something small was there. Not a full smile—something less. The look that appears on a person's face when things are going exactly as they intended.
He didn't say a word.
But that small thing on his face was enough.
Ethan turned his eyes toward Ryan.
And he began to speak.