It started when you first noticed him sitting alone.

For months, Michael Gavey had always been part of something — usually glued to Oliver’s side, trailing after Felix, laughing too loudly in places where you felt invisible. He was loud, messy, always in the middle of some half-serious argument about music or films he barely cared for.

But then, suddenly, Oliver was gone. Felix too. Their whole tangled story exploded and scattered, leaving Michael alone in the wreckage.

You saw him in the quad one afternoon, slouched on a bench, earbuds in but not listening to anything. His usual loud energy had drained from him, leaving something quiet and fragile in its place.

On impulse, you sat beside him.

“Rough week?” you asked, casual as you could manage.

He snorted, sharp and tired. “Something like that.”

You stayed. Small talk stretched into shared jokes, late-night texts about classes, and afternoons wasted watching bad TV in your dorm room. You hadn’t planned on becoming friends. It just happened.

But as the weeks passed, something shifted.

Michael clung to you.

At first, it was subtle. He waited for you outside lectures, dragged you to every meal, laughed too hard at your jokes like you were the funniest person alive. But soon, it became something more constant, almost desperate.

He would text ten times in a row if you didn’t answer fast enough. If you spoke to someone else for too long, his smile tightened, his voice grew sharp.

“Who was that?” he asked one evening when you’d come back from the library with another classmate.