It was late that same night. The kind of late where the house still buzzed with life, but the edges of conversation had softened into laughter and clinking cups.

Terrence had excused himself, retreating to his room with the excuse of being tired. Really, he just needed air—quiet. Time to think.

He sat on his bed for a long while, staring at the few things spread across his blanket: the skateboard, the junk food, his phone, now fully charged. They were just objects, but somehow, they held more weight than they should. They were… his. Given with intent. Thoughtfulness.

Down the hall, the living room hummed—friends had come over, apparently. A study night. Low music playing, paper rustling, the occasional chorus of laughter. The house wasn’t heavy anymore. It didn’t feel like walking on glass. It felt like people lived here.

And he, somehow, was part of it.

He stood, left the warmth of the bed, and made his way to the bathroom. Flicked the light on and stared at himself in the mirror.

His hair was a mess. Long in places, choppy in others—grown past his jaw in awkward layers. Too heavy. It hung in his eyes and dragged down his expression. Mrs. Grantham hated it. Dolores would’ve called it "unpresentable." He used to like how it annoyed people.

But now? It just didn’t feel like him anymore.

No playlist. No slow-motion montage. He opened the drawer, found the scissors, and started cutting.

Snip.

Snip.

The sound was quiet, but final. A small rebellion against the version of himself he was still shaking off.

His hand shook once. Then it didn’t.

When it was over, he looked… different. Not polished. Not perfect. But visible. His jaw looked sharper. His cheekbones more defined. His eyes—cool, pale blue against his tan skin—looked back at him clearly for the first time in months.

He tilted his head, dabbed at the ends with water, and reached for his skincare stuff. Just enough to tone down the redness from him crying earlier. There were still traces of the tired version of him under the surface. But for once, he didn’t feel buried under it.

A knock at the door.

“Terrence?” Genevieve’s voice, muffled but distinct. “Our friends are here. We’re hosting the study night—well, more like the study-lounge-snack talk hybrid.”

A pause.

“You’re not… hiding in there, are you?” she added, her voice carrying a light, uncertain humor. “And you’re not cutting your hair, I hope?” She let out a mock gasp. “I mean, not the hair!”

Terrence smirked faintly in the mirror. “What if I said yes?”

“You’d better come out before I send Augustin in,” she warned, then softened. “We’d really like you to meet our friends properly.”

His expression flickered. “Alright, alright. Give me a sec.”

He waited until her footsteps faded, then stepped out of the bathroom.

In his room, he changed into simple dark jeans and a neutral tee, throwing his hoodie over his arm just in case. His hair was still messy, but this time, it was intentional.

The living room fell quiet when he stepped in.

Eight people turned toward him—friends lounging on the couch, some cross-legged on the rug, others leaning against throw pillows. The conversation had been loud, then faded into a low thrum, before it died completely.

Terrence paused. His heart stuttered. He had thought it was going to be a small gathering.  There were more people here than he’d expected. Reflexively, he pulled the hoodie up over his hair.

Genevieve blinked, then covered her mouth in delicate shock. “You really did it.”

He shrugged. “Figured it was time. The long hair wasn’t doing me any favors.”

Augustin gave a quiet nod from the sofa. “It suits you.”

The air shifted subtly—eyes still on him, but not judging. Curious. Interested.

“You weren’t kidding, Gen,” one of the girls whispered with a grin. “He’s kind of... cute.”

Terrence’s face heated instantly. His stomach twisted, and he hated the sudden attention. “Alright, we don’t need a group evaluation,” he muttered, trying to brush it off.

Genevieve walked over without hesitation and took his wrist. “Sit with us. You’re not getting away now.”

He tried to backpedal. “Maybe I’ll—”

“Too late.” She tugged him down onto the couch, dropping him between her and Augustin.

He landed with a soft grunt, flanked on either side. Genevieve smiled. Augustin adjusted a pillow behind him, casual but firm—like this was exactly where Terrence belonged.

One of the boys looked up from his notebook. “So, you’re the Terrence. We’ve heard a lot.”

Terrence raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Mysterious. Troublemaker. Probably has a knife.”

“Basically,” someone else joked. “You don’t seem like that.”

Terrence glanced around at their open, curious faces. Then shrugged. “I moisturize now.”

That got a laugh.

“You’re different than I expected,” a quieter girl said. “Like... not what the rumors made you sound like.”

Genevieve smiled softly, looking down at her notes. “He tends to surprise people.”

“He’s also doing quite well in class,” Augustin added evenly. “Despite how much he complains.”

“Because no one warned me I’d be stuck with Mrs. Grantham getting on my ass every five seconds,” Terrence muttered, sarcasm lacing his words.

That earned a few more chuckles. The group fell into their usual rhythm—discussing assignments, sharing anecdotes, and offering gentle teasing. Terrence found himself drawn into the banter, his earlier discomfort melting away in the warmth of their acceptance.

From the kitchen, Mr. Verlice appeared with a tray of food—cut sandwiches, fruit, and a few small burgers. “Don’t study on an empty stomach. We’ve all done that enough for one week.”

Mrs. Verlice followed, setting out coke cans with clinking ice in glasses. She paused when she spotted Terrence and his new haircut.

She blinked. “We’ll talk about that later.”

Terrence froze. “Uh. Okay.”

But her tone wasn’t harsh. If anything, it was more amused than anything. Almost impressed.

As the trays were passed around and the low hum of voices returned, Terrence sat back against the couch. His knees brushed Augustin’s, and Genevieve offered him half of her burger like it was the most normal thing in the world. He didn’t say much after that. Just smiled when someone asked him a question. Kept his responses dry, light. Honest, when it mattered.

No one asked him to perform. To be more than what he was. They just let him exist.

And in that moment—surrounded by their calm tones, shared glances, and midnight laughter—he felt the weight lift a little more.

Maybe he did look good. Maybe he was different now.

Maybe this was just the beginning.