He hadn’t planned on it. Not really. But there he was, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, notebook tucked under his arm, heart thumping like a drum in his chest. You were sitting on the edge of the courtyard steps, sunlight catching your hair, laughing at something your friends said, and for some stupid reason, it made him feel like the world had just tilted.

He rehearsed it a thousand times in his head—every way to say it without making him look like a fool—but when he finally slid next to you, his words felt heavy, awkward, like they might choke him before he even got them out.

“Hey… uh… so, I was wondering… maybe… would you—” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. He could feel his hands shaking under the notebook. “Would you like to… go out with me?”

There. He said it. The words hung between you like a fragile glass ornament. Your smile faltered for a second—his stomach dropped—and then he saw it. The subtle tilt of your head, the way your lips pressed together for a moment before you looked away, almost guilty.

And then he saw him. The guy holding your hand, that stupid, easy grin on his face. His chest sank. His voice caught somewhere deep in his throat. He wanted to disappear, wanted to shove his notebook at his face and vanish into the music in his ears.

He forced a small, quiet smile. “Right. Yeah… okay.” His words sounded hollow even to him. He nodded, pretending it was fine, like it didn’t crush him completely, like he wasn’t sitting here wishing he could rewind everything and be invisible.

And then he walked away, notebook clutched tight, headphones in, music drowning out the sound of his own heartbeat.