I'm fucking exhausted, down to my damn bones. Working at one of the Tressider Memorial Union cafés is hell, even if it's supposedly part-time. Part-time, my ass. Between shifts stretching because someone didn't show and hordes of students demanding oat milk lattes with double shots like it's a national emergency, I leave feeling like a truck ran me over. And that's not all—my life doesn't stop when I hang up the apron. Studying at Stanford's like running a marathon with weights strapped to your ankles. My parents barely cover tuition, and that's with them scraping by; books, supplies, decent food—that's all on me. Between classes, slinging coffee for kids who don't know what a real problem is, and nights studying until my eyes burn like I stared at the sun, I don't have time to breathe. I feel trapped, like the air's slipping away and I can't catch it.
I pour the last Americano of the day for a girl who didn't even look at me, too busy yapping on her phone. I yank off my apron, reeking of burnt coffee and a hint of sweat, and feel a tiny relief, like a sip of water in a desert. I hang it on the hook, ignoring Rose's boss-lady glare that says "don't leave so fast," and head for the back door. I've gotta haul ass to the School of Humanities and Sciences for my next class, hoping I'm not too late and, if I'm lucky, dreaming of crashing in my bed at Stern Hall. That thought, fleeting as it is, is the only thing keeping me afloat.
I step out of the café, and Palo Alto's crisp air hits me, laced with the smell of wet grass and a touch of eucalyptus floating across campus. I cut through palm-lined paths, the California sun smacking my face like a spotlight. In the distance, sand-colored buildings with red-tiled roofs and perfect arches gleam like someone polishes them every morning. Stanford's a postcard, a fucking painting that doesn't match the chaos churning inside me. All I can think about is not being late. "Philosophical Thought" class isn't exactly thrilling: two hours of the professor rambling about Kant and Nietzsche, like their ideas will pay my bills or give me an extra hour of sleep. I walk fast, my backpack loaded with more exhaustion than books, the weight pulling my shoulders like it wants to bury me.
Out of nowhere, some blond guy in a bright red polo slams into me so hard I nearly eat grass. My backpack wobbles, and a notebook slips out, flopping open on the path. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" I yell, pissed, crouching to grab my stuff while brushing dirt off my shirt. The guy doesn't stop, doesn't turn, doesn't even register I exist—just keeps running like he's the damn Flash. I'm sure he heard me, but he doesn't give a shit. I check my phone: 2:58. Fuck, the bell's about to ring. I pick up the pace, dodging bikes zipping by like wasps and clumps of students laughing like life's a board game. Every minute feels like another stone on my back, and sweat stings my neck.
I make it to Dinkelspiel Auditorium three minutes late. The door creaks when I push it, echoing in the half-empty room and ratting me out. Jackson's already there, in his usual seat by the window, his face a mix of patience and mockery, like my tardiness is the day's punchline. I slide into the seat next to him, where Julie's scribbling in her notebook with an intensity I can't tell is for class or to avoid looking at me. It's weird to think these two are my best friends, especially after last semester's mess. I hooked up with Julie, a mistake that still haunts me. She fell for me, or so she said, and I don't fully blame her. I've always known I turn heads: dark hair from my mom, green eyes from my dad, and from old photos, they say I look like my grandpa in his youth, a heartbreaker who stopped traffic. But it didn't work with Julie, not because she wasn't amazing, but because it forced me to face what I already knew: women aren't my thing. I'm openly gay, and though I don't fit the stereotype—I love football, skating, cracking open a beer with friends—I'm good with who I am. I don't need to wave flags or shout it to make it real. Breaking it off with Julie was rough, not for lack of care, but because I hated hurting her while I was just trying to sort out my own shit.
"Late again, superstar," Jackson whispers with a crooked grin as the professor starts projecting slides about Kant's ethics.
"Shut up," I mutter, dropping my backpack to the floor with a thud. "Café was a shitshow."
Julie glances up for a second, her eyes meeting mine before darting back to her notebook. "It's always a shitshow," she says, her tone either sarcastic or just tired—I can't tell.
"Thanks for the sympathy," I say, trying to lighten the mood, but she doesn't smile. Jackson does, letting out a low chuckle that gets us a glare from the professor, like he's ready to boot us.
I lean back in the chair, the auditorium's AC feeling like a luxury after the heat outside. The projector hums, and Kant's words on the screen blur—not because they're out of focus, but because my eyes are begging for mercy. I want to pay attention, but my head's elsewhere: tomorrow's shifts, the $200 I need for a textbook I can't pirate, the sleep I won't get tonight. And, fuck, that blond guy who nearly knocked me over. Who runs through campus like they're escaping something? I shake my head, trying to focus, but the exhaustion weighs heavier than my backpack. For a second, I picture my room in Stern Hall, the unmade bed waiting for me, and how, even if I make it there, it won't be enough to shake this bone-deep fatigue eating at my soul.
****
I don't know how it happened, but I'm half-dead, my head buzzing like someone tossed it in a blender. Julie's voice snaps me out of my daze, cutting through the hum of the emptying auditorium. "Falling asleep again, seriously?" she says, her tone a mix of reproach and a laugh I can't tell is kind or poking fun.
"Fuck, yeah, again," I reply, grabbing my backpack, which feels heavier from exhaustion than books. "Philosophical Thought" class was a blur of Kant and slides I didn't get, and last night I was up till three studying—or more like trying not to collapse on my notes. "Opened the café at Tressider this morning, and between work and assignments, my brain's done. It's gonna show in my grades, and not in a good way."
We step out of Dinkelspiel Auditorium, the fresh air hitting me like a brief relief. We walk the paths, palm trees lining the way, California sun glaring down. Campus is a perfect postcard, but to me, it's just a reminder I don't have time to enjoy it. I'm headed to the CoHo, the student café in the heart of campus, to grab a coffee. Ironic, I know. I work at a new café in Tressider, not the CoHo, slinging lattes till my feet bleed, and now the last thing I want is coffee, but I need it to not faceplant before reaching my room in Stern Hall. The thought of my unmade bed waiting for me gives a weak push, even if it's fleeting.
"You need a girlfriend," Jackson says, walking beside me with that permanent sly grin, shooting Julie a look.
She rolls her eyes, her expression caught between a laugh and telling us to fuck off. "Meant boyfriend," Jackson corrects, letting out a laugh that echoes down the path.
Julie looks down, sighs, and says with a hint of reproach she doesn't hide, "Well, how was I supposed to know you were gay, Ethan? When we had our thing, I had no way of knowing."
I meet her eyes, a mix of exhaustion and unease, but I want to be clear. "You couldn't have known, Julie, obviously," I say, my voice firmer than I expected. "But you didn't expect me to walk around with a megaphone and rainbow flags, did you? Not every gay guy's a caricature. I don't need to act like anyone to be me."
I pause, letting the words sink in, then go on, just as clear. "I like being a guy. I like guys, period. And I already apologized for what happened."
I enjoyed our thing, I won't lie, but I'm gay. Sex with women doesn't do it for me. With guys… it's different. It lets me be me, no masks. I can't deny it, can't lie to myself or anyone else.
Julie's gorgeous, no question. Her red hair glows in the sun, and her hips have that curve that could drive anyone crazy… except me. She always knows how to stand out, with that effortless style that's anything but. Jackson's not bad either, with that chill vibe and eyes that always seem to be scheming. If he wasn't my friend, maybe I'd have tried something, but I don't mix friendship with that, and I'm pretty sure he's straight. Plus, my life's already a mess without adding more complications.
"So what now?" Julie asks, a touch of worry softening her tone. "Sleep two hours and work eleven? Or wake up at dawn again?"
"What else can I do?" I say, shrugging, resignation heavier than my backpack. "I barely have cash to live and buy books. Work keeps me at Stanford. My parents can't cover everything. I'm not like those damn rich Alpha Centauri kids."
I say it with venom, no filter. I hate frats, their stupid rituals, their smug superiority. I'm not crawling through their dumbass hazing to earn a spot, and most of those guys are arrogant pricks who think the world's theirs. Like that asshole who slammed into me on campus: Noah Whitman. I knew it was him the second I saw him, that red polo screaming "look at me." Since freshman semester, Noah's been the center of attention, hooking up with anyone who crosses his path, always the hottest girls, and yet everyone loves him, guys and girls alike. I won't lie: he's hot. Blond, blue eyes, with that rich-kid vibe that knows he can have it all. If things were different, maybe I'd let myself imagine something more than a collision and a curse. But guys like him aren't my type. Too perfect, too untouchable.
"How're midterms going?" Jackson asks, pulling me from my thoughts as we dodge a pack of skater kids nearly running us over.
"A disaster," I admit with a bitter laugh. "No time to study. I need tutoring, but it's crazy expensive. My paycheck barely covers instant noodles and coffee."
"Heard some frats give free tutoring," Jackson says, a mischievous glint in his eyes, like he knows it'll piss me off.
"Hard pass," I say, grimacing. "Not my thing."
"Maybe you should've thought twice," Julie says, a mix of teasing and pity. "You had a shot to join one… what was it? Delta something?"
"Delta Sigma Phi," I correct, rolling my eyes. "Their challenge was stealing a language professor's underwear. I don't do that pathetic shit."
"I'd have done it," Jackson laughs, thumping his chest like it's a trophy. "All for the panties, right?"
"Dunno if I'd fit in," I say, half-joking, though the idea gives me chills. "Last time I went to one of their parties, I got wasted and think I kissed someone's girlfriend. Not my proudest night."
"For real?" Julie asks, raising an eyebrow, surprised but curious.
"Yeah," I say, shrugging. "Plus, even if I wanted in, there's issues. One: you've gotta pay semester dues, and with my budget, I can't afford decent coffee. Two: frats already closed recruitment. So I can't beg for 'help' to get out of this exhausting shit."
We reach the CoHo, the smell of coffee and fresh-baked muffins hitting me like a cruel irony. The line's short, but every second waiting feels like forever. Jackson and Julie keep joking, but I'm just thinking about the coffee that'll keep me awake and how I'll survive another day like this. While waiting for my order, I glance out the window toward White Plaza, where some event's going on.
****
We're walking toward Stern Hall, the California sun still beating down, the hum of students who seem to have zero problems buzzing around us. My backpack's dragging my shoulders, and every step reminds me I need coffee, a bed, or a damn miracle to keep from collapsing. But before we get far, a lively murmur stops us dead. White Plaza, the heart of campus where something's always going down, is exploding with life. Students packed together, laughter, vibrant energy—it's either a protest, a club fair, or, like now, a fucking frat spectacle. We edge closer out of pure curiosity, though something tells me I'll regret it. And, shit, I'm not wrong: it's Alpha Centauri, the frat everyone talks about like it's goddamn Olympus.
"Alright, alright…" a voice booms over the crowd, confident, like the guy's used to the world revolving around him. It's Morgan, Alpha Centauri's president, pure charisma wrapped in a tight tee that screams "check out my biceps" louder than a megaphone. Typical. I stand there listening, more out of morbid curiosity than interest, arms crossed while the plaza hums with hypnotized students.
"As you know, our recruitment cycle at the start of the semester was… let's say, an epic disaster," Morgan goes on, raising his hands to hush the murmurs and laughs popping off like popcorn. "Yeah, that's right. We've got high standards, but our top pledges ended up, ahem, a bit too wasted at an off-campus party." He pauses, letting the laughter die down, his toothpaste-ad smile gleaming in the sun. "Not our fault, obviously. So, we're reopening recruitment. Today! Anyone can apply, pass the initiation rite, and join our prestigious brotherhood."
I can't believe it. Five minutes ago, I was ranting about hating frats, and now these clowns are putting on this circus? The irony pulls an internal laugh, though on the outside, I just roll my eyes, my exhaustion making me more sarcastic than usual. "Seriously?" I mutter, arms crossed so tight I feel my muscles tense. "These idiots? I'd rather sell a kidney than crawl through their stupid rituals."
Julie lets out a giggle but glances at the crowd with a curious spark that puts me on edge. "I don't know, Ethan," she says, adjusting her backpack in a way that makes her hair catch the sun. "Maybe it's not such a bad idea. You said you need tutoring, and they've got resources. Not all of them are that bad, you know."
"Like they fell from the sky, right?" Jackson chimes in, throwing his hands up like he's presenting a Broadway show, his mischievous grin lighting up his face.
"Oh, come on," I snap, sarcasm and fatigue spilling out unfiltered. "They're a bunch of rich, arrogant pricks who think the world's their playground. Let's go before I feel like chucking coffee in their faces."
I start walking away, my sneakers hitting the pavement harder than necessary, but a pang of curiosity betrays me. What if Jackson's right? I don't want to join Alpha Centauri with their bullshit rituals and exclusive-club vibes. But if they've got free tutoring or some kind of help to keep me from drowning in midterms… No, no way. I'm not stooping to their level. I shake my head, trying to erase the thought, but Morgan's voice keeps ringing out, promising opportunities I can't completely ignore.
"Hey, hold up," Julie says, catching up with a light jog, her eyes searching mine. "I'm not saying you put on a toga and sing their hymns. Just think about it. You're killing yourself at the café, barely sleeping, and your grades are taking a hit. If they've got something that could help, isn't it worth at least considering?"
"Julie, no," I say, stopping dead, the sun's heat prickling my neck. "I'm not groveling to guys like Morgan who've probably never worked a day in their lives. You know what it's like to wake up at five to open a café? Or study till your eyes bleed because if you fail, Stanford kicks you out? They have no clue."
Jackson falls in step beside me, with that calm I sometimes envy. "No one's saying you become their BFF, Ethan," he says, hands in his pockets. "But if they offer tutoring or resources, you could use them and then tell them to fuck off. Play their game, but on your terms."
I shoot him a look, raising an eyebrow, unsure if he's a genius or an idiot. "Play their game? Seriously? What's next, stealing a professor's panties like Delta Sigma Phi? Hard pass."
Julie bursts out laughing, covering her mouth. "Okay, that was ridiculous, but not all of them are like that. Look, Morgan seems like a show-off, but maybe not everyone in Alpha Centauri's a clone of him. You could check it out, just in case."
I glance back at the plaza, where Morgan's still talking, now surrounded by students hanging on his every word. Frat flags wave over tables, glossy flyers promising "brotherhood, leadership, success." It all feels like cheap propaganda, but I can't help noticing a couple of guys who don't seem like the typical rich douches. One's explaining something to a student, pointing at a flyer with enthusiasm, and another's handing out water bottles, his smile not looking forced. For a second, I think of Noah Whitman, the asshole in the red polo who nearly knocked me over. Bet he's here, strutting like he owns the campus. Guys like him are why I'd never fit in a place like this.
"No way," I mutter, more to myself than them, but Julie hears and sighs, shaking her head.
"You're stubborn as a mule," she says, her tone mixing exasperation and affection. "I'm just saying, don't shut it down. You don't have to like them, but don't let pride screw you over more than you already are."
"Wise words," Jackson adds, giving Julie a playful nudge, which she returns with a shove.
"It's not pride," I snap, though part of me knows I'm lying. "It's dignity. I'm not kissing anyone's boots for a couple of tutoring sessions."
But as we keep walking, leaving White Plaza's noise behind, Morgan's voice fades, replaced by the campus hum: bikes, laughter, the smell of coffee drifting from the CoHo. My mind's spinning. I'm exhausted, on the verge of collapsing, and the idea of help—even from Alpha Centauri—starts feeling less absurd. I don't want to cave, don't want to give them the win, but desperation has a way of creeping into the cracks. And as I look at Julie and Jackson, joking like the world doesn't weigh a ton, I can't help wondering if, just this once, I should swallow my damn pride and see what's behind those frat promises.