The day couldn’t have been more beautiful—of course it couldn’t. The sky was a polished, taunting blue, clouds drifting like lazy brushstrokes across a canvas someone else had painted just to spite him. The sun was too warm, too golden. The lake sparkled like it belonged in a dream that wasn't his. Even the trees seemed in on the joke, their leaves fluttering with delicate grace in the breeze. Somewhere in the forest, birds sang in sweet, insufferable harmony—voices full of longing and joy that made his jaw tighten.
Collin sat with his back to the old oak, glaring at the glittering lake as if it had personally offended him. The sheer loveliness of the afternoon pressed down on his shoulders like a weight—each golden shimmer, each birdsong, another insult. Even nature had the gall to be happy.
He held the knife loosely in his hand, its tip hovering over a gnarled root. A bird above him started singing—bright, earnest, full of longing. He clenched his teeth. It wasn’t a song. It was mockery.
With a tight grip, he plunged the knife into the bark. The blade sank in clean, then snagged. He twisted it slowly, watching a small curl of wood lift and break away. He felt nothing. Or maybe he felt everything—he couldn’t tell.
He was the root, mute and raw, and he was the knife—merciless, exacting.
Each scrape was a kind of honesty.
There was relief in the act, in giving up the performance of hope. Misery didn’t demand anything of him. It didn’t bargain or beg. It simply waited, familiar and patient, like a shadow at dusk—always ready to be let in.
"What’s so funny?" Aries asked lazily.
Collin wrenched the knife out of the tree's root and shoved it back into his bookbag. He hadn’t realized he’d laughed aloud.
Aries lay stretched on his back in the tall grass, nearly invisible beneath the swaying stalks. When he sat up abruptly, he shot Collin a quick glance.
“You don’t look so great. You alright?”
Collin didn’t answer—not that it mattered. Aries was already on his feet, attention yanked elsewhere. There was only one person who could scatter his focus like that.
A moment later, Aries and Hadria tumbled back into view, tangled together, kissing like they hadn’t seen each other in years. Like war drums were sounding and they'd only seconds left. For heaven’s sake. They clung to each other with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm, as if no one else existed—or mattered.
They collapsed into the grass, laughing and pawing, breathless with their own self-importance. Collin wished he hadn’t put away his knife. His fingers twitched with the urge to sink the blade into the root again, to feel that quiet resistance split open beneath his hand.
“Hi, Collin,” Hadria said brightly, half-shoving Aries off her. Her voice was thick with amusement, as if they were all part of the same joke.
He muttered vaguely in reply, but she was too busy shrieking with laughter to notice. He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder in a single motion. The scene before him turned hisstomach. Had they no sense? No awareness that not everyone wanted to be caught in the wake of their relentless joy?
Aries, lips flushed and hair mussed, glanced up long enough to call, “You heading home?” He had to peel a curtain of Hadria’s hair off his face to even see, while she traced kisses along his neck like they were rehearsing for a tragedy.
“I’m just trying to get away from you two,” Collin muttered, stomping up the path from the lake.
He was happy for Aries—he told himself that often enough it ought to be true. And he liked Hadria. She was... maybe even a friend. But still, it felt like she’d stolen something from him.
It used to be just him and Aries. They did everything together. Now it was Aries and Hadria, and Collin tagging along like a younger sibling no one invited.
They were always touching. Always kissing. Laughing like no one could possibly understand how in love they were. Aries had started giggling. Giggling! When had that become a thing?
Of course it was normal—new love, infatuation, all of that. But did it have to happen right in front of him, like a play he didn’t get a part in?
They had what he wanted. What he couldn’t have. And watching it bloom so easily, so shamelessly, while he stood just close enough to feel the warmth but not be part of it—it made something small and ugly twist inside him. He hated that feeling. Hated how envy clung to him like wet clothes.
But mostly, he hated how much he wanted what they had.
Dragonfly’s coming of age dinner had been perfect—so perfect, he found himself replaying it over and over in his mind. He’d made dishes he knew she’d love, and she’d gushed over each one. Her delight had lit him up inside, enough to withstand even Hadria’s theatrical nudging and oh-so-subtle matchmaking. Hewished the night had stretched on forever. Even doing the dishes had felt thrilling, just to be beside her.
On the walk home, all he could think about was holding her hand.
Again and again, he nearly reached out—but his palm was soaked. It would’ve been like grabbing her with a damp towel. And it wasn’t just his hand. Sweat trickled down his back, pooled at the base of his spine, beaded under his hairline. He swung the lantern a little too hard, hoping the motion would dry him off or distract him or just make the air move.
But the closer they got to her house, the more the anxiety took over.
He’d wanted to kiss her. God, he’d wanted to kiss her for months. Ever since that moment in the forest, the thought had rooted itself in his mind, impossible to shake. He’d even asked Aries for advice—an act of such humility it still made him wince.
“You just do it,” Aries had said, maddeningly unhelpful.
