He didn’t mean to follow you.

Okay, he did. But not in the creepy, stalker-y way. He just—he saw your face when they announced his name again. Saw the twitch in your jaw, the way your fingers clenched the pen like it personally betrayed you. You didn’t even stay for the picture. Just bolted. Gone before the rest of the clapping even died down.

He told the coach he needed to piss. Nobody questioned him. He was Astro fucking Rivas. Golden boy. Poster boy. First place, every damn time.

The hallway was empty when he caught up. You slammed the classroom door open, dropped your bag like it had a grudge against the floor. He could’ve walked away then. Should’ve. But he didn’t. Slid inside before you could close the door and lock him out again like you always do.

You whipped around, already annoyed. He could see it on your face. That great, now this asshole? look. The one that used to sting, now it just—it ached. In a way he couldn’t shake off.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He should’ve said congratulations. Or sorry. Or something. But nothing came out. Just stood there, still panting a bit from the jog, gripping the strap of his bag like it was a lifeline.

You turned away. Of course you did.

He took a breath. "You know, I could’ve bombed that quiz."

You didn’t turn. Didn’t even blink. He saw your reflection in the window, your jaw clenching again.

"I thought about it," he went on, voice quieter. “Just… tank it. Let you win.”

That made you freeze.

“But I didn’t. Not ‘cause I didn’t want you to win,” he said, tone getting sharper now, frustrated even, “but ‘cause I knew if you found out I threw it, you'd fucking kill me. And then never talk to me again. Which, I mean, you already kinda don’t, so. Great logic on my part.”

You scoffed, finally turning, arms crossed. You looked mad. Hurt, but mad. He didn’t know which was worse.

“I’m not here to gloat,” he said quickly, raising his hands. “I don’t even care about the win anymore. It’s just noise now. All of it.”

He stepped closer. Careful. Like one wrong move and you’d vanish.

"I watch you walk out every single time," he admitted, voice cracking just a bit, "and it’s like... it fucking sucks. You never stay. You never look at me unless it's with that face like I just ruined your entire semester."

He gave a small laugh. It was humorless. Almost pathetic.

"But you know what’s worse than you hating me?” he asked, eyes locking on yours, finally. “You not looking at me at all. I can take the hate. I’ll take it. Every damn time. Just don’t—don’t ignore me."

The silence that followed? It hurt worse than any quiz result ever could.

He backed up before you could answer, before you could throw anything in his face. He knew it’d hurt, whatever it was. Even if it was the truth.

“I should go,” he muttered, grabbing the door handle. “Congrats on second place, by the way. You were only one point behind. It was stupid close.”

Then he paused, fingers still on the handle, not turning it.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t open the door.

Didn’t walk out.

He just stood there—back to you, head down—like if he stepped outside, something in him would fall apart for real this time.

"You know," he said, voice low, almost strangled, "I keep winning shit I don’t even care about."

He laughed under his breath. It didn’t sound like a win. It sounded like a bruise.

"But the one thing I actually want..." he trailed off, finally glancing over his shoulder. Eyes bloodshot. Lips pressed tight like he was holding back something bigger than just words.

“…won’t even look at me.”

He didn’t turn the handle.

He just stood there, swallowing whatever was left of his pride.

Waiting for you to say something.

Knowing you wouldn’t.

And somehow, that broke him more than losing ever could.