The exhaustion crept in slowly—less like a collapse and more like the tide rising unnoticed until he was neck-deep in it. It was nearly eleven when Alex finally felt it settle into his bones, a dense, aching fatigue that went beyond mental burnout. His time on Billie's porch had carved out a pocket of quiet in the chaos, but that stillness had evaporated the moment he stepped back into his room, replaced by the familiar weight pressing down on his chest.
He moved through his nightly routine on muscle memory. Shirt off, jeans flung into the basket, toothbrush in hand. His reflection blinked back at him in the mirror—hair a mess, shoulders slouched, skin dull. He looked like someone who hadn't slept in days. Someone who had been performing himself for too long.
And then—like a door in the back of his mind swinging open without warning—came the memory.
The cafeteria.
Leo alone at the table.
The way his fingers tapped at his water bottle with no rhythm, no energy.
That empty stare.
"We'll hang out after school."
A promise Alex had thrown over his shoulder without looking back, on his way to answer another call.
He had never circled back.
The guilt punched through his chest like a sharp, icy breath. It wasn't just forgetfulness—it was abandonment. He'd been sprinting from one meeting to another, too busy managing the brand, the team, the dream—to notice that someone in his life was slowly fading.
Billie's words came back to him like an echo:
"You don't even look like you're creating. You look like you're just… managing."
And what he had managed to do, quite expertly, was fail Leo.
The toothbrush clattered into the sink. He rinsed his mouth, but the bitterness wouldn't leave—the stale, metallic aftertaste of regret. Something inside him snapped into urgency. This couldn't wait for morning. This wasn't a calendar item. This was a moment. And he already knew what it felt like to let those slip away.
He returned to his room, snatched his phone from the nightstand, thumb trembling slightly as he tapped Leo's contact.
It rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
He was about to hang up.
Then:
"Hey."
Leo's voice was soft, rough with sleep. But more than that, it was flat—not groggy, exactly. Dimmed. Like someone who had turned the volume down on themselves.
"Hey," Alex said, a little too quickly, words tumbling in a rush. "Dude, I'm so sorry. About the other day. I completely spaced at lunch. I meant to call, I swear. It's just been—everything's been so insane. The magazine, the video deadlines, legal calls... But that's not an excuse. I was a crap friend."
He meant it. Every word. But he could already hear the hollowness in his own apology—the part where he explained, justified, narrated. Trying to patch over absence with effort.
There was a pause on the other end. A long, empty second.
"It's cool," Leo said eventually. Still soft. Still distant. "I get it. You're busy."
The words should have sounded forgiving, but they didn't. They sounded final. Like Leo had already made peace with being a side character in Alex's whirlwind life. Like he was already withdrawing.
Alex didn't hear the withdrawal. Not fully. He heard disappointment. Fixable. Manageable. A problem to be solved with effort and plans.
"No, seriously," Alex said, pushing forward, desperate to reestablish their rhythm. "Let me make it up to you. What if we hit that terrible superhero movie this Saturday? My treat. I'll get the industrial-size popcorn with the weird fake butter we both hate but always finish."
He tried to laugh. Tried to be the version of himself that used to make Leo laugh too.
Silence stretched again. Just a beat too long. On the other end of the line, Leo was weighing something. Alex could feel it—like the choice wasn't about a movie at all.
Then:
"Yeah," Leo said finally. "Okay. Sounds good."
His tone didn't change. Still flat. Still distant. But he'd said yes. That was enough for Alex.
Relief surged through him, swift and bright. The knot in his stomach loosened.
"Cool. What about the four o'clock show? We can grab food after. Burritos or something?"
"Yeah, four is good," Leo replied. Quiet. Automatic.
The rest of the call was a checklist. Time, theater, meet-up plan. It was familiar territory, the kind of logistical chatter they used to fill gaps between real conversations. But this time, the familiarity wasn't comforting. It was haunting.
Alex clung to it anyway.
Because in his head, this was the fix. He'd fumbled, but he'd caught it just in time. A movie, some food, and things would go back to normal. They'd laugh at dumb jokes again. The silence would be filled.
They were okay.
They had to be.
"I'm glad we're doing this," Alex said lightly. "Feels like we haven't hung out in forever."
"Mhm," Leo murmured.
Alex didn't notice the absence of warmth. He didn't recognize the way Leo's words settled like pebbles in water—small, inconspicuous, and sinking fast.
"I'm gonna crash," Alex added with a yawn. "But I'll see you Saturday, yeah?"
"Yeah. Night."
"Night, man."
And that was it.
The last, ordinary exchange.
The kind you never know is last until it's too late.
Alex hung up, set his phone back on the nightstand, and crawled under his blankets. The exhaustion finally won, dragging him under like a tide. And he went willingly, comforted by the illusion that he'd mended something important.
He didn't see what he'd missed.
Didn't hear what Leo hadn't said.
Didn't feel how fragile the thread between them had become.
He fell asleep thinking he'd done the right thing.
And in doing so, he broke the most important promise of all—
That he was really listening.
That he would really be there.