It was strange how you found yourself drawn to Francis, without quite knowing why. Maybe it was the striking red hair, or those thin-rimmed glasses framing his clear blue eyes—eyes that always seemed both knowing and unknowable. You weren’t friends. But there was a quiet understanding between you, as if neither of you needed to ask about the other’s favorite color. The small nods in Hampden’s worn corridors were enough, those moments of recognition that made the day less unbearable.

Yet it infuriated you—the people he chose to surround himself with, that small group, all of them pretentious, brilliant in their way, but so unbearably smug. They prided themselves on their ability to toss around lines of Ancient Greek like it was everyday conversation, and you hated it. You hated them. But what gnawed at you more was him, Francis, standing among them like he belonged, like he was one of them.

Why would he—someone so sharp, so human—waste himself on people like that? Worse, why was he wasting himself on someone like Charles? It made no sense. Francis was everything he wasn’t—clever, interesting, alive. And yet, it was Charles he kept going back to.

That Sunday night, you’d been lost in a play, the world of your reading pulling you far from Hampden’s cold reality, when the knock came. You frowned, the unexpected sound snapping you out of the story. When you opened the door, Francis stood there, not as you’d ever seen him before.

“I know it’s late,” he started, voice cracking in a way that made your stomach twist. “I—God, I’m sorry, I just didn’t know where else to go.”

When he sat on your bed and started to speak, you felt your chest tighten. He told you everything—about Charles, spilling every detail of his doomed love for him, you couldn’t stop the thought pulsing in your mind.

Over and over, relentless.

Fuck him, Francis. I could treat you better. I could love you better.

For a moment, you almost told him. But the words stuck in your throat, heavy, unsaid.