The quad was loud with flyers, energy drinks, and fake humility.
Saturday night's Open Mic had officially become the social event of the semester. A half-dozen students had built a literal stage out of wood pallets and sheer delusion. Jenna Ortiz was walking around like a pop star on tour.
And Elias?
He was sitting alone under a tree, notebook in his lap, headphones on — not playing music, just pretending to be somewhere else.
He saw Alex coming before she spoke.
But he didn't move.
She sat down beside him, cross-legged, not quite touching.
"Don't say no yet," she said.
He closed his eyes. "Then don't say anything yet."
"You should perform."
"No."
"You have to."
"I don't owe them anything."
Alex turned toward him. "They're not asking you to owe them. They're asking you to show them."
"I'm not a spectacle."
"It's not a spectacle if it's yours."
He looked at her now. Really looked.
"You're not asking me to perform for them," he said. "You're asking me to prove something to you."
"That's not true."
"It is," he said softly. "And you're not even sure what you want me to prove."
She flinched — slightly, but he saw it.
"You're scared," she said, changing course. "Of being seen. Of being judged."
"No," Elias said, quiet and flat. "I'm scared of giving people something real and watching them cheer like it's fiction."
Silence.
Then:
"Maybe they need it," Alex said. "Maybe you do too."
He stood.
"Don't do that," she said quickly. "Don't shut down. Not this time."
Elias looked down at her, jaw tight.
"You want me to burn myself on stage so people can warm their hands?"
"No. I want you to choose not to hide."
"I didn't choose this," he snapped.
Alex blinked.
And then, softly: "Then choose now."
A long beat.
Too long.
Elias turned.
And walked away.
---
She didn't follow.
Didn't say his name.
She just sat there, listening to the space he left behind.
And knew he was writing about her again — even now.