Thursday night trivia at the bar on College Ave had been my friend group’s thing since sophomore year, back when our study group discovered that beer and competitive knowledge-testing made problem sets slightly less soul-crushing. I’d missed the last three weeks—holing up in the apartment, avoiding questions I didn’t want to answer—and I still wasn’t sure why I’d let Jake talk me into coming tonight.
Because you’ve been hiding, the honest part of my brain supplied.And hiding was starting to feel too comfortable.
We were three rounds in when I finally started to relax into the rhythm of it.
“Okay, science round. Question three: What is the only metal that is liquid at room temperature?”
I wrote downmercurybefore the host finished speaking. Muscle memory from too many years of academic competitions, where being fast was the only thing that made me useful.
“How do you just know that?” Jake asked, peering at my answer sheet.
“Useless talent.” I shrugged. “My brain hoards trivia instead of anything practical. Like social skills.”
Priya snorted. “At least you’re self-aware.”
“Question four,” the host announced. “In physics, what is the term for the minimum amount of fissile material needed to maintain a nuclear chain reaction?”
“Critical mass,” I murmured, writing it down.
“See, this is why we needed you back.” Dev gestured at me with his beer. “We’ve been hemorrhaging points in the science rounds.”
“You could just study.”
“Or we could guilt-trip you into showing up. Way less effort.”
I should’ve felt good about being wanted. Instead, the familiar guilt crept in—I’d been absent for weeks, let them down, and now they were acting like my presence was some kind of gift instead of the bare minimum of being a decent friend.
The host read off question five, something about atomic numbers that I answered on autopilot. Around us, the bar hummed with the comfortable noise of a Thursday night—glasses clinking, conversations overlapping, the jukebox playing something country I’d normally hate but tonight found almost tolerable. The place was far enough from the main campus drag that the crowd skewed toward grad students and locals rather than undergrads in team gear. Old sports memorabilia covered the walls, but it felt more like history than worship.
I let myself sink into it. The normalcy. The easy rhythm of competition that didn’t matter, surrounded by people who knewme as “the quiet one who carries the science rounds” rather than “the guy whose dad died.”
“Break time,” the host announced. “Ten minutes before round four.”
Priya turned to face me with the expression that meant she was about to ask something I didn’t want to answer. I braced myself.
“So,” she said. “You going to tell us what’s been going on, or do we have to guess?”
“Nothing’s going on. I told you—things have been busy.”
“Bullshit.” She exchanged a look with Jake. “You missed three weeks, came back last week, seemed almost okay, and then ghosted again.”
It wasn’t complicated. Or it shouldn’t have been. I just needed to focus on the capstone, finish the semester strong, and stop thinking about things that didn’t matter. Like the fact that I’d woken up last week with my roommate’s arm around me and had felt, for one terrifying moment, like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
“I’ve been swamped with the capstone,” I said, which was technically true. “I’m hitting the heavy analysis phase.”
“Right.” Jake leaned back in the booth. “The capstone that you were managing fine until two weeks ago.”
“We added more variables to the model. It’s been?—”
“Tanner.” Priya’s voice was gentle, which was worse than skepticism. “You can tell us if something’s going on. You don’t have to handle everything alone.”
My face went hot. “I’m fine. Just stressed about deadlines.”
“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced, but she let it drop.”You know, it’s a shame that roommate of yours is straight. He’d be one hell of a stress reliever.”
I was saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance. The door banged open. Laughter rolled in first, loud, unselfconscious, followed by a group of guys who filled the doorway shoulder to shoulder. Conversations near the bar stuttered and died. Heads turned. The crowd shifted without seeming to, opening a path through the room.
Football players. They moved like they’d never questioned whether they belonged anywhere, all easy swagger and expansive gestures. One of them clapped another on the back hard enough that the sound carried across the bar. Another was already scanning for empty tables, chin up, claiming territory with his eyes.
