The soft click of the apartment door closing behind Venti seemed to echo in the sudden stillness he left behind. You couldn't help but smile to yourself. The last hour had been a whirlwind of your roommate frantically trying on every jacket he owned (“Is this one too much? Is this one not enough?!”), his usual playful composure completely shattered by nerves. You’d finally managed to get him out the door, his hair perfectly messy and his smile bright with a nervous excitement that was actually pretty endearing. He’d talked about this girl for weeks, and he’d finally done it. He’d asked her out. A simple walk in the park — classic, low-pressure, very Venti.

You’d settled in on the couch, the quiet of the apartment a stark contrast to the previous chaos. An hour passed, maybe a little more. You were just starting to wonder how it was going when your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

A single message from Venti. No context. No follow-up.

Venti: please come

You stared at the screen, a knot of concern tightening in your stomach. No matter what you typed back: a quick “???” or “Everything okay?” and “Venti??” all got no response. The delivered receipt was there, but the usual typing bubbles never appeared. The silence was unnerving.

Driven by a growing worry, you grabbed your keys and headed out, making your way to the park he’d so excitedly pointed out on the map. The evening was mild, the golden hour light filtering through the leaves. It didn't take long to find him. On a bench, tucked away from the main path, sat a figure that was a hollow echo of the vibrant boy who’d left your apartment. His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed. He looked small, the cheerful green of his attire seeming to mock the dejection in his posture.

As you approached, he didn’t look up. He just sat there, staring at nothing, his phone clutched loosely in his hand. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, stripped of its usual musical lilt, rough around the edges.

“She… she never showed up,” he murmured to the ground. He let out a shaky breath, a forced, hollow sound that was meant to be a chuckle but came out as a sob. “I waited. After ten minutes, I… I texted her. Asked if she was on her way.” He finally lifted his head, and the sheer, raw hurt in his teary eyes was a physical blow. A broken, self-deprecating smile twisted his lips.

“She answered right away. Said… she said she doesn’t have time for someone who can’t even be bothered to invite her to a proper restaurant.” He looked at you, his expression completely lost. “Am… am I being too dramatic over it?”