Nico 

Over a month had passed. Long enough for the details to grow soft. Long enough for Nico’s brain to start rewriting parts of it. The sound of Jordan’s voice and the heat of his hands were all still there, but distant now. 

At some point, Nico told Theo. He had to. The weight of it had been sitting on his chest for weeks, too heavy to carry alone. He didn’t spill everything, just the top-line version. A careful, edited summary he could pass off like it didn’t mean much. He made Theo swear not to tell a soul. Not even as a joke, not even by accident. Theo had rolled his eyes, but he promised.

Saying it out loud helped, sort of. But not in the way Nico had hoped. It didn’t shrink the memory or make it easier to forget. It just pushed it a little further away, like naming it had locked it in time and now all he could do was circle it from the outside. 

Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, Nico let his mind drift to what it would be like to see Jordan again. Not in some dramatic movie scene, just… casually. Accidentally. Maybe he’d be in a bookstore, thumbing through the sale bin, and look up to find Jordan in the next aisle, half-smirking over a pretentious hardcover. Maybe Jordan would say something dry and perfect, and Nico would pretend not to care. Or maybe it would be raining, and Jordan would offer him a ride, and the whole car would buzz with unspoken things. He knew it was stupid, people like Jordan didn’t just reappear. They moved forward, they curated. But still, the thought lingered, dressed up in dozens of different versions. In all of them, Jordan looked at him like he remembered. 

But when one door closes, another opens. And this time, it came with a phone call.

A number he didn’t recognize, but picked up anyway. Nico hadn’t expected much. Probably a spam call, he had thought. Maybe someone from school. But what he got instead was opportunity.

After Nico’s second performance at The Rookery, Frank had invited him back. Not every night, but enough to start building something steady. One evening, during one of those sets, a man in the crowd had stopped to listen. There was something in Nico’s voice that caught him, the man had said over the phone. 

Nico had barely remembered that night. He’d been distracted, his hands moving across the keys on autopilot, head somewhere else entirely. Still, somehow, the music had found its mark.

And now, it had led to a local radio performance.

For the first time in days, the weight in his chest loosened. Not because he’d forgotten Jordan, that wasn’t happening anytime soon, but because something bigger had stepped into the room. A reminder that Nico wasn’t made to wait around hoping to be seen. He was meant to be heard.

That call had been four days ago. Now, with the radio performance set for tomorrow, Nico lay sprawled across Theo’s bed. His legs dangled over the edge, his head tilted back until it hung upside down as he watched the screen from a skewed angle, while Theo played a video game.

Theo’s room was comfortably cluttered, the kind of space that looked how it should for someone his age. A skateboard leaned against the wall near the door, its tail worn smooth. A pile of hoodies slumped in one corner, and his desk was scattered with open notebooks, an empty bottle of soda, and a phone charger that looked seconds from snapping in half. 

Music played low from a speaker on the windowsill. A dreamy indie track with layers of warm, fuzzy guitar and raspy vocals. Nico liked the song, always had. It had lived in one of his playlists for years. It reminded him of long bus rides and headphones turned up too loud. 

Theo sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning forward with the kind of full-body focus only video games could demand. His eyes flicked rapidly across the screen, shoulders hunched, thumbs hammering the controller like it owed him money. 

“You gonna be able to sleep tonight, rockstar?” Theo asked, not looking away from the game.

Nico drummed his fingers lazily against his chest, the beat syncing up with the song playing low in the background. “I doubt it. My brain’s doing laps.”

“Radio today, sold-out stadiums tomorrow.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

On screen, Theo’s character was caught in a fiery ambush, engulfed in pixelated flames. The noise from the TV popped and crackled, then went quiet again as the game reset.

“You’ll kill it. No doubt.” 

Nico smiled without saying anything, letting the words settle. He knew Theo meant what he said.

“Hey, what happened to that girl you were seeing? The one with the bleached hair?” he asked, lifting a hand to push the hair from his eyes, still looking at Theo upside down.

Theo made a face. “Natalie? Uh, yeah. That’s over.”

“Since when?”

“Couple weeks. It wasn’t anything serious. She said I’m too distracted. Whatever that means.”

Nico rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow to get a better view of his friend. “Are you?”

Theo shrugged. “Probably.”

He didn’t look sad. Not even a little bit. There was no trace of anything that hinted at heartbreak or even disappointment. It made Nico wonder if this was how it was supposed to be, if relationships at their age were meant to be light, casual, something you moved through and moved on from. People came and went. Maybe nothing was supposed to stick yet.

Theo’s character died again. He groaned, threw the controller aside, and let himself fall back against the floor with a thud. “You hungry?” 

“Starving.”

Theo pushed himself up with a grunt, stretching his arms overhead before walking to the door. Nico sat up slowly, his head still foggy with thoughts he didn’t want to face, and followed him out.

The stairs creaked softly beneath their socks as they made their way down. The low murmur of the television drifted up from the living room, growing clearer with each step. Theo’s mom was curled on the couch, a blanket tangled around her legs and a cup of tea balanced on the armrest. She glanced up as they passed and smiled.

“Try not to burn anything this time.”

“No promises,” Theo grinned, already veering toward the kitchen.

Nico gave her a quiet smile and trailed after his friend, until something flickered on the TV screen and stopped him cold. A flash of motion, a certain cadence in the voice. It reached him before the image fully registered.

Then it did.

Jordan. Sitting in a sleek studio, ankle crossed neatly over one knee, his expression calm in that curated way that looked effortless but was anything but. He was angled just right on a velvet chair beneath soft studio lights, the set around him carefully styled to look relaxed: gold lamp, fake plants, a hint of staged warmth. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee as the host laughed at something he’d said. Jordan smiled too. Charming, camera-ready. Applause followed.

The sight of him landed like a blow. 

Nico froze at the edge of the living room, one hand brushing the wall like he needed something solid to hold him up. The television filled the space with the bright, polished sound of a talk show, but to Nico, it all felt warped. Too loud, yet muffled at the same time, like he was hearing it from the bottom of a swimming pool.

From the kitchen, Theo’s voice came through. “Nico?” 

Nico couldn’t answer. He just stared at the screen. He felt like he was watching a stranger who looked exactly like someone he knew. 

Or, well, barely knew. 

Jordan was mid-conversation with the host, something about storytelling, the creative process. He smiled easily and nodded like he was letting the audience in on something personal. 

Nico knew that look. It was the same one he’d worn when Nico had played that stupid song in his living room. 

Theo’s voice floated in again, closer now. “Hello?”

“Who’s that, Mrs. Bennett?” Nico asked, his voice barely above a whisper, rough in his throat like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

Theo’s mom turned from the couch, surprised to find him still standing there. She followed his gaze to the screen. “Oh, that’s Jordan Blake,” she said, like the name should’ve clicked instantly. “He’s everywhere lately. You’ve never seen him?”

He gave a stiff shake of his head.

“He’s a writer,” she went on, her voice laced with fondness. “Well, more like a celebrity now. He wrote Even If It Kills Me. Didn’t you boys go see the movie when it came out?”

Nico’s lips parted, but no sound came out. 

Of course he'd seen it. Everyone had. The film had been everywhere, plastered across bus stops, playing in packed theaters, dissected in blog posts and school hallways alike. A haunting, emotionally brutal story about two strangers who met by chance and fell into something too intense, too fast, too consuming to survive. It wasn’t a love story, not really. It was about need and timing, about people trying to save each other without knowing how to save themselves. 

Nico hadn’t even known it was based on a book at first. No one at school talked about that part.

Theo's mom turned back to the screen, resting her cheek on her palm. “I think he’s brilliant.”

“The movie was shit,” Theo chimed in from the kitchen doorway. “Two and a half hours of pure depression.”

“Shush, Theo.” 

Nico felt like he was outside of himself, like he was watching this moment from across the room. 

Theo stepped up beside him. “You good?”

Nico's voice came slowly, like it had to fight through fog. “That’s him.”

Theo frowned. “Who?”

“The guy I told you about,” Nico whispered. “Jordan.”

“You sure?” Theo’s tone was skeptical but not dismissive.

“Am I—? Wh—Yes, I’m sure, Theo!” Nico hissed, still keeping his voice down, but the words came with urgency.

Theo leaned in slightly. “But he’s, like… famous?”

The word felt strange in the air. 

“Jesus. I didn’t know...”

“Boys, please. I can’t hear.” Theo’s mom cut in from the couch.

Nico grabbed Theo’s wrist and tugged him out of the living room, pulling him quickly toward the kitchen. 

“Are you one hundred percent sure, though?” Theo asked again, evidently still not caught up.

Nico didn’t respond. He fumbled for his phone with rushed, clumsy fingers, the screen flickering to life. He typed too fast, his thumb hitting the wrong letters four times in a row. He erased it and started over.

Jordan Blake.

The second he hit search, the screen flooded with results. 

Photos, interviews, headlines. Red carpet shots. Candid bookstore sightings. Author panels. That same face, Jordan’s face, was everywhere, looking polished and completely out of reach.

“Oh my god,” Nico breathed. “He’s gorgeous.”

Theo leaned in beside him as Nico scrolled past image after image. The light from the screen lit his wide eyes, his thumb pausing over a photo where Jordan sat on a panel, mid-laugh, hands expressive. Nico knew that laugh. He’d heard it in a quiet apartment, with nobody watching.

“He’s also kind of a big deal,” Theo added, trying to keep it light.

But Nico barely heard him. The articles kept piling up. Jordan Blake, literary phenom. Jordan Blake, the voice of a generation. Jordan Blake, whose novels sparked cult followings and critical acclaim.

‘I write books.’

That was what Jordan had said, offhand, like it was no more important than saying he collected old movies or liked to cook. 

Nico's gaze drifted to the bio at the top of the screen, drawn there like it might explain something the headlines couldn’t.

“Jordan Elias Withmore Thorne. Born January 7, 1986.” He read it aloud like a confession. 

Theo tapped the counter, doing the math. “So he’s, what, twenty-three? No, twenty-four. That’s pretty old.”

Nico wanted to argue that twenty-four wasn’t old at all, and even if it was, it didn’t matter. But the words never formed. All he could do was stare at that name glowing back at him, realizing just how little he really knew about the man who had made him feel like he mattered, for one night.

“Wait,” Theo said slowly, squinting at the screen. “Wasn’t Lawrence Thorne caught up in that scandal a few years ago?”

The name sparked something faint in Nico’s memory, but it didn’t click until he scrolled further and read the name of Jordan's parents. Lawrence and Beatrice Thorne.

Theo was right. Lawrence Thorne, a senior government official. Something about misused campaign funds, a political scandal that had been in the news for a while and then just… disappeared. Nico didn’t remember the details, only that it had sounded messy and expensive.

Jordan’s mom, Beatrice, had her own spotlight. She ran some polished charity foundation that looked good on paper and photographed even better. Gala events, luxury fundraisers, shiny initiatives to “empower women.” She was all pearls and polished cheekbones, featured in society columns with vague quotes about legacy and elegance. Nico found a photo of her and Jordan at some benefit dinner, her smile razor-sharp, her hand on her son’s shoulder like she owned him.

And then there was the sister. Verena Elsie Whitmore Thorne. Fashion designer, apparently. Beautiful in that terrifying way. She’d been profiled in a dozen magazines, called a “visionary” in the fashion world, praised for her creativity and how she always seemed a step ahead of the rest. Nico didn’t know much about design, but it was clear people admired her for it.

This was the family Jordan came from.

It was strange, seeing them all lined up like that. A whole world of last names and legacy, photos in expensive lighting. A family that moved in headlines and foundations. 

Nico stared at the screen one last time, then let it go dark in his hand. He set the phone down screen-first and stared at the countertop, his fingers still curled like they didn’t know what to do now. He didn’t say anything, and Theo didn’t press. 

It had started to rain, just lightly, barely a whisper against the windows. The timing felt too neat, too cinematic. He hated that.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” he muttered, and walked back upstairs without waiting for Theo to answer.