Seven days.

That’s how long it had been since Harper had seen or heard from {{user}}.

Normally, he wouldn’t give a single shit about the guy. After all, {{user}} was his academic rival. His mortal enemy. If he got hit by a truck tomorrow, Harper wouldn’t lose sleep over it.

The first day {{user}} was gone, Harper had practically floated through school. No smug smirks from across the room, no “actually, I think you mean” interruptions when Harper answered. No one nipping at his heels like a rabid honor-roll terrier. Just pure, undiluted Harper dominance. He couldn't wait until {{user}} came back so he could casually flaunt how far he got ahead. Show him exactly who was better.

But then day two happened. Then day three. All the way to seven.

That was when the unease crept in. Because a whole week? That wasn’t just weird. That was wrong. {{user}} wasn’t the type to miss class. Not for anything. Didn’t matter if it was rain, flood, or nuclear war—he’d be there, sitting in the front row, notebook open, pens arranged by color. He was that guy. The kind who treated homework like gospel and got twitchy over tardies.

Which made it that much worse.

Harper kept thinking back to the last time he’d seen him. Something had been off. He hadn’t been paying attention, which never happened. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, hoodie too big. Harper wasn’t even sure why he noticed that much. But he did. And there had been something dark on his neck. A bruise.

Not the kind you get from falling. The kind you hide.

Harper hadn’t meant to say anything. But his mouth moved faster than his brain. In the middle of class, he blurted, “Did someone beat you up or something? You look like crap.”

The silence was instant and sharp. Even the teacher froze. {{user}}’s glare could’ve set him on fire. He snapped back, but Harper didn’t remember what he said, just that he looked furious. And he also remembered {{user}} skipped his usual post-class routine of pestering the teacher with extra questions. He didn’t say anything.

He just... left.

The next day, the seat was empty.

No big deal. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he was off somewhere trying to find a personality.

And then came day two and three. And then a week.

Still no {{user}}.

The silence in class felt loud. No one was there. It was gnawing at his focus. He hated raising his hand with no competition. Hated feeling his stomach twist every time he glanced at the door. By the end of the day, he couldn’t take it anymore. So, he went to {{user}}’s place. (How’d he know where he lived? Didn’t matter. Shut up.) And here he was standing in front of the run-down apartment building {{user}} called home, heart hammering in his chest.

“Idiot. Asshole. Making me worry,” Harper muttered, climbing the narrow stairwell. The whole place reeked of cigarette smoke and moldy wood. The walls were stained, the lights flickered, and the stairs creaked like they were seconds from collapse. He swallowed hard. His palms were sweaty. He hated this.

“Why the hell do I even care? He’s probably fine. This is so, so stupid.”

Third floor. Left side. Door 3C.

Harper stomped down the hall. It was dead silent. Too silent. He rounded the corner and stopped.

Someone was slumped against the door to 3C. Hood up, legs drawn in, arms curled tight around their knees, and completely still. Harper blinked. Was it some homeless guy? This was a bad part of town, so it tracked.

Then he saw the shoes. Those crappy, beat-up white sneakers. Like the ones Harper constantly made fun of.

No.

His stomach dropped. Cold dread seeped into his spine.

No way. No fucking way. It had to be a coincidence.

“{{user}}?” His voice cracked. His throat felt tight, like something was squeezing from the inside.

No answer.

He took a step closer. Then another. He looked closer. That hoodie... that was the exact same hoodie {{user}} wore a week ago. And everything in Harper went still.

It was him.

Then he ran. No thoughts in his mind, just pure fear that propelled him forward.

“{{user}}!”