The weight of silence
The days after the party settled into something like routine, though Nick couldn't shake the feeling that the word had changed meaning without his permission.
He woke early, ran, studied, ate, ran again. The biology building became a second home, its linoleum hallways and formaldehyde smell as familiar as his own apartment. His notes filled three notebooks now, color-coded with a system only he understood. Mitochondria in green. Cell membranes in blue. Genetic sequences highlighted in yellow until the pages glowed like canary feathers.
Adam was there, woven into the fabric of it all. Tuesday night study sessions at the library basement, their laptops humming side by side. Thursday morning coffee before Nick's eight a.m. lecture, Adam still rumpled from sleep, his glasses perpetually smudged. Friday evenings at Adam's apartment, takeout containers spread across the coffee table, some movie playing that neither of them really watched.
It was good. It was familiar.
And yet.
Nick's phone would buzz during a lecture, and he'd glance down to find a Reel from Marc - a clip from the new Jujutsu Kaisen season, overlaid with text that read "THE ANIMATION BUDGET WENT CRAZY". Nick would smile despite himself, sliding the phone under his notebook to watch it twice.
He'd send one back later, something stupid he found scrolling. A video of a cat falling off a couch set to the Attack on Titan soundtrack. Marc's response came within minutes: three crying-laughing emojis and the words "Levi would be proud of that recovery."
The exchange became a rhythm of its own. A Reel in the morning, a reaction in the afternoon. Sometimes a voice note, Marc's low laugh filling Nick's earbuds as he walked between classes. They talked about anime, mostly. Marc had started watching Fullmetal Alchemist on Nick's recommendation and had opinions. Lots of them. Nick would listen to Marc's rants while eating lunch alone in the science building courtyard, grinning at his phone like an idiot.
Adam noticed.
"You're texting someone a lot lately," he said one evening, peering over his glasses at Nick's phone screen. They were on his couch, some reality show playing that neither of them cared about.
"Just Marc," Nick said, tucking the phone away.
Adam's eyebrows lifted. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Oh? Just Marc?"
"We've been talking about anime. He's watching Fullmetal."
"Adorable." Adam stretched his legs across Nick's lap, settling deeper into the couch cushions. "You two have gotten close."
There was something in his tone - not accusatory, not jealous. Something closer to satisfaction. Like a gardener watching a seed he'd planted finally break through the soil.
"Jealous?" Nick poked Adam's shin.
"I'm delighted." Adam's smile widened, his glasses catching the blue glow of the television. "Marc needs more friends like you. Friends who actually think instead of just..." He waved a hand vaguely. "Throwing baseballs."
Nick didn't know what to do with that. The warmth in his chest felt misplaced, like a key turning in a lock he hadn't known existed.
"Is there anything Marc doesn't like about him?" Adam mused, still smiling. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you two are becoming quite the pair."
Nick rolled his eyes, but his face felt warm. "We're just talking about cartoons, Adam."
"Sure." Adam's voice was light, teasing. "Just cartoons."
The following Tuesday, Nick brought up the Demon Slayer movie.
They were in the library basement, surrounded by stacks of textbooks and the particular quiet of people who were all pretending to study. Adam was highlighting something in a Norton anthology, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.
"There's a rediffusion of the Infinity Castle arc next week," Nick said, keeping his voice low. "At the Cinema du Parc. Marc and I were thinking of going."
Adam's highlighter paused. He looked up, and something flickered across his face - not quite a grimace, but close.
"Demon Slayer," he said flatly.
"Yeah. The new movie. It's supposed to be incredible on the big screen, the animation is - "
"I know what it is." Adam set the highlighter down with a small click. "I just don't understand the appeal. It's all screaming and sword fights and characters explaining their powers for ten minutes before anything actually happens."
Nick's jaw tightened. He'd heard this before. From classmates, from professors, from strangers at parties who asked what he was watching and then regretted it.
"The animation is stunning," he said, keeping his voice level. "And the story is - "
"It's for children." Adam's tone wasn't cruel, but it was dismissive in a way that stung more. "Grown adults watching cartoons about demon slayers with big eyes. I don't get it."
"It's not for children." Nick heard the edge in his own voice. "Just because something is animated doesn't mean it lacks depth. The themes in Demon Slayer - grief, family, the cost of violence -"
"Nick." Adam held up a hand, his expression softening into something that looked almost like pity. "You don't have to defend it to me. If you want to watch your cartoon movie with Marc, go ahead. I'm not stopping you."
But the way he said cartoon movie landed like a door closing.
Nick stared at his textbook, the words blurring. He'd been here before. Defending his interests to people who'd already decided they were stupid. It was exhausting. It was familiar.
Marc wouldn't have done this. Marc would have asked about the animation style, the voice acting, the plot points. Marc would have cared.
The thought settled in Nick's chest like a stone.
"Fine," he said, turning a page he hadn't read. "I'll go with Marc, then."
Adam had already returned to his highlighting. "Have fun," he said, and meant it, in the way someone might wish you well on a trip to a destination they found baffling.
The plans solidified over Instagram DMs.
Marc sent a link to the cinema's showtimes, followed by a string of fire emojis. Nick responded with a screenshot of his ticket confirmation. They debated snacks (salted popcorn only, sweet popcorn is a crime against humanity), seating position (middle-back, not too close, I'm not trying to destroy my neck), and whether the movie would live up to the trailer (it will and you know it).
Nick found himself looking forward to it with a fierceness that surprised him. The movie. The popcorn. Sitting in the dark next to Marc, their shoulders close, the screen exploding with color and motion and the kind of storytelling that made his chest ache.
He thought about telling Adam. About explaining that this wasn't just a cartoon - it was art, it was craft, it was the kind of thing that made him feel less alone in the world.
But Adam wouldn't get it. Adam had never gotten it.
So Nick kept the excitement to himself, letting it build in the quiet spaces between his ribs.
Two weeks after the run with Marc, Nick found himself at the lake path again.
It was early, earlier than he usually ran. The sun was still dragging itself above the horizon, painting the water in shades of rose and gold. The air smelled like damp earth and the particular sweetness of late-blooming flowers. His shoes hit the pavement in a steady rhythm that echoed the beat of his heart.
He'd been thinking about Marc.
Not in any specific way. Just... Marc. The way his pale blue eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way his voice dropped when he talked about something that mattered to him. The confession in the café, raw and unexpected: Most days, I feel like I'm just faking it.
Nick's chest gave a small, inconvenient pinch.
He slowed to a walk, his breath misting in the cool air. The same bench where they'd stopped two weeks ago sat empty near the water's edge, the wood dark with morning dew. He could still picture Marc there, drenched in sweat, his tank top clinging to every ridge and curve, his grin wide and unguarded.
"Fuck, that felt good." Marc's voice, bright with endorphins.
Nick smiled despite himself. Despite the pinch in his chest. Despite everything.
His apartment was fifteen minutes away. A shower. Coffee. Then the library for a few hours of studying before the movie tonight.
The thought of the movie sent a flutter through his stomach. Stupid, probably. It was just a film. Just two friends watching an anime they both loved.
But Nick hadn't had anyone to watch anime with in years. Not since high school, when he'd learned pretty quickly that admitting you liked that stuff was an invitation for mockery. He'd buried that part of himself under layers of biology textbooks and careful silence.
Marc had dug it back up without even trying.
The coffee shop was quiet when Nick pushed through the door. Same striped awning, same worn wooden counter, same barista who remembered his order without being asked. He ordered a black coffee for himself and, after a moment's hesitation, a matcha latte for Adam.
Not because he had plans to see Adam. But because he'd be passing Adam's apartment on his way home anyway. He could drop it off. It wasn't far. It wasn't a big deal.
Adam loved matcha. Said it tasted like grass in the best possible way.
Nick pulled out his phone as he waited for the drinks. Typed a quick message.
"Hey. Grabbed you a matcha. I'm near your place. Mind if I swing by?"
The coffee sat warming in Nick's hands as he watched the screen, waiting for the three dots to appear. They didn't. He took a sip of his own coffee, gave it a minute. Then two. Nothing. Adam was probably in the shower. Or buried in a book. Or had his phone on silent, the man was notorious for forgetting to turn the ringer back on after lectures. Nick shrugged, pocketed the phone, and started walking anyway. It wasn't far. He could drop it off. It wasn't a big deal.
The morning had brightened fully now, the sun climbing higher, the streets filling with the usual weekend bustle. A man walked past with a golden retriever. A woman unlocked her bike from a rack. The city hummed its ordinary song. Nick walked the familiar route to Adam's apartment without thinking about it. Left at the bakery. Right at the corner with the broken streetlamp. Past the bodega that sold overpriced avocados. The route was etched into his muscle memory, the way certain things become when you've done them often enough.
The building's front door was propped open with a brick - someone was moving furniture, a couch wedged in the stairwell. Nick sidestepped it and took the stairs two at a time, his legs still warm from the run, the coffee cups balanced carefully in his hands.
Adam's door was at the end of the hall. Third floor. The one with the peeling number 3B and the welcome mat that said LEAVE in cheerful cursive.
The door was slightly ajar.
Nick frowned. Adam never left his door ajar. He was paranoid about it, always checking the lock twice, always muttering about the one time someone's cat had wandered in and peed on his laundry. But the message had gone unanswered. Maybe Adam had left it open for him, expecting a visit that hadn't been confirmed.
Nick pushed it open with his elbow, stepping into the familiar chaos of Adam's apartment. The living room was unchanged - books stacked on every surface, a half-empty mug of cold coffee on the windowsill, the television still playing some show with the volume turned low.
But there were sounds from the bedroom. Low voices. A soft laugh. Not Adam's.
Nick's stomach tightened. He stood frozen in the entryway, the matcha latte growing warm against his palm, as he realized he should have waited for a reply.
And then Nick saw the clothes.
A shirt on the armchair. A pair of jeans on the floor. Shoes. Not Adam's shoes, a pair of brown leather oxfords that Nick had never seen before, kicked off near the hallway. A jacket draped over the back of the couch.
More than one person's clothes.
Nick's stomach dropped.
He set the coffee cups on the kitchen counter with hands that had gone suddenly unsteady. The hallway stretched before him like a tunnel. The bedroom door was visible from here, and it wasn't closed. A gap of maybe four inches. Enough to see movement inside. Enough to hear.
Nick walked toward it. He didn't know why he walked toward it. His body was moving without permission, each step quieter than the last, his sneakers silent on the hardwood floor.
The door swung open further.
The bed was a tangle of sheets. Two bodies moved on it, slick with sweat, the morning light falling across them in golden stripes. Adam was on top. Adam, whose face Nick knew better than his own, whose glasses were askew, whose mouth was open in a gasp of pleasure. And beneath him, a man.
The man from the club.
Nick recognized the dark hair, the angular face, the glasses sliding down his nose. He was on his back, his legs hooked around Adam's waist, his hands gripping Adam's shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Their rhythm was frantic, sloppy, desperate, the kind of sex that didn't care about noise or mess or anything but the body beneath it.
The sounds reached Nick a moment later. Wet and rhythmic. Adam's grunts, low and familiar. The other man's gasps, higher, breathier. The creak of the mattress. The slap of skin.
Nick's world narrowed to a pinprick.
He couldn't move. His feet had rooted to the floor. His hands hung useless at his sides. The coffee cups sat abandoned on the counter behind him, still warm, still steaming.
Then Adam looked up.
His eyes met Nick's through the gap in the door. His rhythm faltered, then stopped. His expression flickered, surprise, then something that looked almost like annoyance, then a strange, flat calm that Nick had never seen on his face before.
"Oh," Adam said. His voice was breathless, but casual. The way you'd greet a neighbor you ran into at the grocery store. "Hey, Nick. Didn't expect you."
The man beneath him -the man from the club- stilled. His head turned toward the door, his eyes going wide behind his glasses. His hands scrambled for the sheets, yanking them up to cover his chest, his hips, everything.
"Who's that?" the man asked. His voice was thin, uncertain. He was looking between Adam and Nick with growing alarm.
Adam didn't look at him. His eyes stayed on Nick, steady and unreadable.
"That's Nick," he said, and the words came out easily, casually, like this was the most ordinary conversation in the world. "He's a friend. We sometimes... casually fuck together."
The words hit Nick like a physical blow.
Casually fuck together.
The phrase echoed in his skull. Bounced against the walls of his mind. Landed somewhere deep in his chest and shattered into something cold and sharp.
He opened his mouth. No sound came out.
Adam was still watching him with that unnerving calm. Not guilty. Not apologetic. Just... waiting. Like he was curious what Nick would do next. Like this was a social experiment.
The other man was pulling the sheets higher, his face flushed with embarrassment. He looked at Adam, then at Nick, then back at Adam.
"Should I..." Lee's voice trailed off.
"Just give us a minute." Adam shifted off him with a fluid motion, his body still glistening with sweat. He reached for a pair of boxers on the floor, pulling them on with the casualness of someone who'd done this a hundred times. His glasses were still smudged. His hair was a disaster. He looked exactly like he had that morning two weeks ago, waking up with a hangover and reaching for the ibuprofen Nick had brought him.
Nick's voice finally worked.
"I brought you coffee." The words came out hollow. Stupid. He was standing in the doorway of Adam's bedroom, watching his Adam pull on boxers while another man hid under the sheets, and the only thing he could say was I brought you coffee.
Adam's eyebrow lifted. "That's sweet of you. But you should've texted."
"I did text." Nick's voice was climbing, cracking at the edges. "I sent a message."
"Oh." Adam tilted his head. "Well I didn't see it."
Nick stared at him. The man in the bed was pulling his clothes on under the sheets, his movements quick and furtive. His glasses flashed in the morning light. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else on earth.
"Adam." Nick's voice came out strangled. "Who is he?"
Adam glanced at Lee, then back at Nick. "His name is Lee. We met at a bar a few months ago. He's in my post-colonial lit seminar." A pause. "He's very good at close reading."
"That's not..." Nick's throat closed. He swallowed hard. "You and me. We're...I thought we were..."
Adam's expression shifted. The calm cracked, replaced by something harder. Something sharper.
"What did you think we were, Nick?"
The question landed like a slap.
"I thought..." Nick's hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists at his sides. "We've been together for months. You introduced me to your friends. I stayed at your apartment. We... I thought we were together. Exclusive. I thought..."
"Did we ever say we were exclusive?" Adam's voice was quiet. Controlled. Cruel in its precision. "Did we ever have a conversation about what we were? Did you ever tell me, explicitly, with words, that you wanted something more than what we had?"
Nick's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
No sound came out.
"Because I don't remember that conversation." Adam crossed his arms over his bare chest. His glasses glinted. "I remember you coming over. I remember us fucking. I remember you being quiet, you're always so quiet, Nick, and I remember assuming that we were on the same page. Casual. Fun. Friends who sleep together." He shrugged. "If you wanted something else, you should have said so."
"Adam..."
"You can't assume things." Adam's voice sharpened, and for the first time, Nick saw something ugly in his face. Something cold. "You can't just... exist in my space and expect me to read your mind. That's not how relationships work. That's not how anything works. You have to communicate. You have to use your words. Instead, you just-" He gestured at Nick, a sweeping motion that felt like dismissal. "You just stand there. Being quiet. Hoping someone will figure you out. It's exhausting."
Nick felt the words like needles. Small. Precise. Unerringly accurate.
Lee had finished dressing. He was edging toward the bedroom door, his face a mask of discomfort. He slipped past Nick without meeting his eyes, and a moment later, the front door clicked shut behind him.
Nick barely noticed.
"I'm not a mind reader." Adam's voice had dropped, but it hadn't softened. "If you wanted to be my boyfriend, you should have told me. You should have asked. But you didn't. You never do. You just... drift. You let things happen to you. And then you act surprised when they don't turn out the way you wanted."
"That's not fair." Nick's voice cracked. His eyes were burning. "I thought... I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious. I was here all the time. I stayed over. We... the way you looked at me..."
"The way I looked at you?" Adam laughed, and the sound was ugly. "Nick, I look at everyone like that. It's what I do. I'm charming. I'm affectionate. I make people feel special. But that doesn't mean I'm in love with them."
The word love hit Nick like a fist to the sternum.
He thought about the nights he'd spent in Adam's bed. The way Adam had held him afterward, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. The way Adam had said love you, mumbled into a pillow. The way Nick had believed him.
Had he believed him? Or had he just... hoped?
"You're so busy being shy," Adam continued, his voice dropping to something almost gentle now, which made it worse, "that you forget other people exist. You forget they have their own feelings. Their own desires. You just..." He sighed. "You stand there. Being quiet. Waiting for someone to save you. But no one's coming, Nick. No one's going to do the work for you."
Nick's chest cracked open. Something cold and vast spilled through the fissure.
"Adam." His voice was barely a whisper. "Stop."
But Adam didn't stop.
"You want to know why I never asked you to be exclusive? Because you never gave me a reason to think you wanted that. You never said anything. You never asked for anything. You just... existed. Quietly. Passively. Like you were waiting for permission to want something." Adam shook his head. "It's not attractive. It's not romantic. It's just sad."
The word sad echoed in the quiet room.
Nick's hands were shaking. The world had narrowed to the space between them. The rumpled sheets, the fading morning light, the smell of sex and sweat and betrayal.
He didn't cry. Not yet. The tears were there, pressing behind his eyes, but they wouldn't come. Not here. Not in front of Adam.
"You should go," Adam said. His voice had returned to that terrible calm. "I think Lee might come back. We weren't finished."
Nick moved.
His body carried him to the corner of the bedroom where a small pile of his things had accumulated over the months. A spare t-shirt. A phone charger. A toothbrush. A dog-eared copy of a biology textbook he'd left here during finals week. He shoved them into his backpack with hands that didn't feel like his own.
Adam watched him. His arms were still crossed. His expression was unreadable.
"Nick..."
"Don't." The word came out sharp. Hard. Nothing like Nick's usual voice. He didn't look up. He couldn't.
Adam fell silent.
The backpack zipped shut. Nick slung it over his shoulder. The coffee cups were still on the kitchen counter, still warm, the matcha latte slowly separating into layers of green and white. He didn't take them.
He didn't look back as he walked out the door
The walk to his own apartment was a blur.
Sunlight. Sidewalk cracks. A woman with a stroller. A man walking a golden retriever. The city moved around him like a film he wasn't watching. His chest was a hollow cavity where something vital used to live.
"We sometimes casually fuck together."
The words played on repeat. A loop Nick couldn't escape.
"Did we ever say we were exclusive?"
No. They hadn't. Nick had assumed. He'd taken every gesture, every late-night conversation, every intimate touch, and woven them into a story that only existed in his own head. Adam had never promised him anything. Adam had never said boyfriend. Adam had never said love - not really, not sober, not in the daylight.
But Nick had felt it. Hadn't he? The way Adam looked at him. The way Adam touched him. The way Adam laughed at his jokes and remembered his coffee order and introduced him to friends.
Had that all been in his head?
Had he been so desperate to be wanted that he'd invented a relationship out of thin air?
His apartment door swung open. The familiar smell of his own space - coffee grounds, old books, the faint lavender of the candle he burned when he studied. It should have been comforting. It felt like a stranger's home.
His backpack thudded to the floor.
His legs carried him to the bathroom. The shower turned on, steam filling the small space, fogging the mirror until his own reflection disappeared. He stood under the water for a long time. Minutes. Maybe longer. The heat beat against his shoulders, his back, the back of his neck.
Adam's voice. It's just sad.
Nick squeezed his eyes shut. The water ran over his face, and he couldn't tell where the shower ended and the tears began.
When he finally stepped out, his skin was raw and pink. He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked to his bedroom. The bed was unmade - he'd left in a hurry this morning, excited about the run, about the potential of the day.
The day that was now in ruins.
He lay down on top of the covers, still damp, still wrapped in the towel. The ceiling was white and blank. A crack ran from the corner to the light fixture, thin and jagged, like a vein.
He thought about Marc. About the movie tonight. About the popcorn and the darkness and the screen exploding with color.
He couldn't go. He couldn't sit next to Marc in the dark, their shoulders close, pretending everything was fine. He couldn't watch a movie about demons and grief and the cost of violence while the inside of his chest felt like a warzone.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Marc.
"Ready for tonight?? I got us the good seats. Middle-back, just like you wanted. NO sweet popcorn, I promise."
Nick stared at the screen. The words blurred. He blinked, and a tear slipped down his cheek, landing on the phone case.
He typed a response with shaking fingers.
"Can't make it. Sorry. I'm not feeling well. Rain check?"
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
"You okay?"
Nick almost laughed. Almost.
"Yeah. Just tired. We'll reschedule."
The dots again. Then:
"Okay. Rest up. Let me know if you need anything."
Anything.
Nick set the phone facedown on the nightstand. The ceiling crack stared back at him. The tears came faster now, hot and silent, sliding into his hair, pooling in the hollow of his throat.
He'd been so stupid.
He'd thought he was special. Thought he was loved. Thought the quiet moments meant something - the way Adam's fingers traced his spine in the dark, the way Adam laughed against his mouth, the way Adam said you're here, Nick, that matters.
But Adam had never meant it. Not the way Nick had.
Nick was just a body. A warm bed. A friend who occasionally fucked.
The words circled like sharks. Casual. Casual. Casual. Adam's voice, calm and cruel, explaining that Nick had done this to himself. That his silence was the weapon. That his shyness had carved the wound and handed Adam the knife.
And maybe Adam was right.
Maybe Nick had never asked because he was afraid of the answer. Maybe he'd coasted along on assumption and hope, too scared to say I want this. I want you. Be mine.
Maybe he'd been waiting for someone to save him.
But no one was coming.
Nick curled onto his side, the towel bunched around his hips, the sheets cool against his damp skin. The pillow caught his tears and held them. The afternoon light crept across the floor, slow and golden, indifferent to his grief.
Somewhere in the city, Adam was probably fucking Lee again, his glasses smudged, his laugh easy, his conscience clean. And somewhere else, Marc was probably at the gym, lifting weights to a techno beat, unaware that Nick was falling apart two miles away.
Nick thought about reaching out. About texting Marc the truth. About asking for help.
But the words wouldn't come. They never did.
His phone buzzed one more time. Marc again.
"For what it's worth, I was really looking forward to tonight. We'll do it another time. I'll hold you to that rain check."
Nick's chest gave another painful squeeze. He didn't respond.
He closed his eyes. The ceiling crack was still there, waiting behind his eyelids. The tears were drying on his cheeks, leaving salt tracks on his skin.
Tomorrow, he'd get up. He'd run. He'd study. He'd pretend the world hadn't ended.
But tonight, he let himself fall apart.
