Who knew Agatha had such an insane schedule?

When she wasn’t in class, she was working at the café. When she wasn’t working, she was studying at the library with her friends. From sunrise to sunset, Agatha practically lived on campus, juggling responsibilities like some kind of superhuman. And yet, despite all that, she was still top of her class.

How was she not a walking ball of stress by now? Donovan had five fewer classes than her, no part-time job, and wasn’t even in a single club—yet he was constantly stressed. Maybe because he spent more time watching Connor study than actually studying himself. Or because most of his free time was devoted to otaku activities with his online friends. Either way, his life looked pathetically easy compared to hers.

But hey, in between his attempts to crack Agatha’s mysterious life, Donovan had found an unlikely escape—Meteor Café, a place that became more than just a backdrop for his investigations. Cozy atmosphere? Check. Shelves full of books and manga to borrow? Double check. College student discounts? Triple check.

Right now, he was sitting at his computer, typing out his progress report. So far, all evidence pointed to Agatha not dating Connor. It was Tuesday, so he gave himself until next week’s Friday—if he didn’t find anything solid by then, he’d move forward with his next plan: asking Connor out.

Of course, he’d still keep tabs on Agatha a little longer. You know, just to further disprove his theory. For love.

Donovan had been following Agatha for over a week now—and, by extension, spending a lot of time at the café. He’d even gotten a loyalty card and was well on his way to a free cappuccino. If he was going to be stuck there for the foreseeable future, he figured he might as well make the most of it.

He decided to use the time to work on his book. Writing was something he’d always wanted to dedicate more time to, but when he was busy trailing Connor all day, there was never a good moment to pull out his laptop and focus on his hobbies.

At first, concentration was impossible. Every time the café doorbell chimed, his heart leaped into his throat, expecting to see Connor waltz in and passionately make out with Agatha. But after a few days, he had to admit the truth: Connor never showed up there. And once he accepted that, he could actually focus.

To his surprise, he had made a ton of progress on his book. As he put more energy into writing, the excitement of his growing fictional world distracted him from his usual obsession with Connor—and Agatha’s annoying presence.

Oh, how he wished he could be his protagonist, caught up in a whirlwind romance with someone as protective and devoted as the love interest he had written.

As the days passed, Donovan found himself settling into a strange routine at Meteor Café. Writing, observing, and trying to stay focused on his goal—getting the truth about Agatha and Connor—became his new normal. But still, he couldn’t shake the mixed feelings bubbling under the surface.

It wasn’t pride that made him uneasy, but something else—something that gnawed at him when he least expected it. Jealousy. He wasn’t proud of it, but there it was, simmering just below the surface. It hit him the hardest that day, when Connor had a basketball game.

Donovan had spent countless hours observing, and yet, he’d never really considered what Connor’s friendships might mean. That day, his envy flared when Connor’s entire friend group showed up to cheer him on. Agatha was the first to arrive, instantly setting off every alarm in Donovan’s brain. Why was she there? Did this mean something? Was this the proof he had been dreading?

But it didn’t end there.

A while later, Allison and Ezra showed up too. The group settled in, chatting and laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world. They looked so effortlessly happy together, so genuinely close. It was nothing like his own group, where every interaction felt like it was weighed down by uncertainty. Before his mind could spiral down that path, Donovan forced himself to stop. This wasn’t about him. He had a mission to complete.

Donovan couldn’t shake the mixed feelings bubbling under the surface. Jealousy gnawed at him, something he couldn’t quite suppress. That day, when he showed up at Connor’s basketball game, the feeling only intensified.

As soon as he stepped onto the court, Donovan’s eyes were glued to him. Connor looked absolutely perfect in his basketball captain uniform. The black sleeveless jersey clung to his athletic build, highlighting every defined muscle, every sharp line of his body. Donovan could hardly contain himself—he lived for moments like these. The way Connor carried himself, exuding effortless confidence, made him look like a god among mortals. He was magnificent.

But then the familiar knot of frustration tightened in Donovan’s chest. Why was it that Connor always seemed to have everything? The friends, the attention, the effortless charm. And yet there he was, still stuck in his own spiral of insecurity and obsession.

Donovan’s eyes stayed locked on him, utterly transfixed. Every movement was art, each step precise, like the ball was merely an extension of his body. When he jumped, his muscles tensed beneath the sheen of sweat coating his skin, and Donovan had to grip his tablet tighter just to keep himself from acting on impulse. God, he wanted to be the one to wipe that sweat away, to hand him a cool bottle of water like the devoted admirer he was.

Time seemed to slow whenever Connor had the ball. Every shot was like poetry in motion, the ball gliding through the air as if obeying his will alone. Donovan barely breathed, heart pounding in sync with every successful throw. He needed to immortalize this moment. He opened the camera on his tablet and started snapping picture after picture, capturing Connor in all his radiant glory.

He was so absorbed in his personal photoshoot that he didn’t even notice Agatha standing behind him, watching his every move.

Then—it happened.

Connor glanced in her direction. For a split second, Donovan’s entire world tilted on its axis. His breath caught. His mind raced. Did he notice? Could Connor feel the intensity of his gaze, the way Donovan’s entire existence revolved around him? He bit his lip, trying to ground himself, but it was useless. His mind refused to focus on anything but him.

The game ended in victory, and Donovan’s heart froze, for disaster struck: Agatha ran up to Connor and hugged him fiercely. A knife twisted in his gut.

His entire being screamed in protest, but he couldn’t look away fast enough. His fingers clenched around his tablet, shaking with the force of his emotions. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to witness his beloved being tainted by the embrace of his love-rival. He didn’t see that everyone in the group had hugged Connor. He didn’t care.

When he finally dared to look again, his breath hitched. Connor’s face was alight with joy, his expression radiant, his golden eyes practically glowing with triumph. Donovan hated that Agatha got to walk up to him so effortlessly, got to be a part of his world, while he remained an outsider—trapped in a self-imposed exile of longing and silent admiration.

By now, Donovan had heard the bitter rumors—Agatha came from old money. Serious old money. The kind that made her untouchable, the kind that bought her influence, admiration, and a permanent place in his beloved’s social circle. And worst of all? She was the team’s sponsor. And that meant every time they won, she was the one funding their victory parties.

That meant she was always there, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. Nothing he could say to make her disappear. No matter how much he wished she would fade into the background, like the irrelevant side character she should have been, she remained at the center of it all—welcomed, adored, beloved.

Everyone loved her. Everyone except Mark.

Mark was the only one who seemed to share even a fraction of his distaste, but what did that matter? Mark wasn’t him. Mark didn’t understand the gut-wrenching, agony of watching her bask in Connor’s attention.

Donovan clenched his fists, trying to steady his breathing. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. She got to be close to him. And he… he would always be watching from the outside.

Donovan left dejected, he felt like crying after the hype. A strange mix of emotions were swirling inside him—pride, warmth at the way he smiled, but also a growing sense of jealousy. It felt like he was watching something he wasn’t supposed to, an intrusion into a world that didn’t include him.

He needed to run, but he just stood there, frozen as the team walked past him, oblivious to the storm brewing inside him. He clenched his fists, watching as his dearest left with someone who wasn’t him.

He sighed, he hated feeling that way. He should be feeling that scholarly pride of the team winning, but he just felt a gnawing sense of anxiety tearing at his sanity. After they disappeared from view, he felt his feet move on their own, carrying him away from the court, and to his studio.

Mark had never seen Donovan like this before. He wasn’t the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve, not like this—not like someone who had just had his heart ripped out and stomped on. But there he was, walking ahead of him with unsteady steps, his head bowed low, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if he were trying to hold himself together.

Mark had been about to call out to him earlier, to tease him about looking like a kicked puppy after the game, but the second he saw Donovan’s face, the words died in his throat. His usual sharp remarks didn’t fit here. Not when Donovan looked like he could fall apart at any second.

So, instead of saying anything, Mark simply followed. He kept his distance, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching as Donovan trudged through the streets, his pace slow, almost reluctant, like he didn’t even want to go home—but had nowhere else to go.

Mark had never been good at dealing with emotions—his own or anyone else’s. He wasn’t the type to give comforting speeches or offer reassurances. And Donovan would probably hate knowing that he was being followed like this. But he didn’t turn back.

He didn’t need to understand what had happened to know that Donovan wasn’t okay. And as much as he pretended not to care about most things, letting his friend wander home in this state wasn’t something he could ignore.

So he stayed behind, trailing him at a safe distance, watching over him without ever letting him know. And when Donovan finally reached his apartment, fumbling with his keys before slipping inside, Mark lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, staring at the closed door. With a quiet sigh, he turned and walked away, knowing that his friend would never let him in, neither emotionally nor physically.

Donovan got home, but he barely remembered the walk back. Everything felt hazy, like he was moving through a fog, his body acting on autopilot while his mind replayed that moment over and over again.

He just wanted to collapse—onto his bed, the couch, anywhere—but the click of the door closing behind him felt like a gunshot straight to his chest. The sound shattered something deep inside him, and before he knew it, his legs gave out.

He slid down the door, curling into himself, his arms wrapping tightly around his knees. Then came the sobs—unstoppable. They ripped through him in waves, harder, faster, each one leaving him gasping for air.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. It was just a crush. She was just his friend. So why did it feel like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and stomped on? Why couldn’t he shake the image from his mind? Agatha, running into Connor’s arms. Holding him close. Smiling like he was the center of her world.

The knife twisted deeper. The pain spread, raw and unbearable. He hated how much it hurt. He hated how much he cared. But most of all, he hated how powerless he was to change any of it. Eventually, he managed to crawl into his soft bed. He buried his face in the pillow, the fabric cool against his flushed skin, but it did nothing to soothe the ache twisting in his chest. The sobs were muffled, but they still racked his body, shaking him to his core.

He cried until there was nothing left, until his throat burned and his body felt limp, the sadness draining every ounce of energy from him. He felt empty, numb even. With trembling arms, he pulled his body pillow close, his mind grasping at the last remnants of fantasy to escape reality.

What if this were Connor? What if, instead of lying here alone, Connor was beside him, wrapping him in strong arms, whispering soft words, holding him close like—like he mattered?

Like he was loved.

The thought should have been comforting, but instead, it only made the pain sharper, crueler. His fingers dug into the pillow, clutching it like it could somehow fill the void in his chest, but all it did was soak up his tears.

The room around him was silent, empty. Just like his heart. Just like his hope. And no matter how hard he squeezed the pillow, no matter how much he tried to pretend—Connor wasn’t there. He never would be.