"What's it about?" I asked. Even though I probably shouldn't. This wasn't what we did anymore.
Ethan hesitated. Then: "My summer in Berlin. The underground art scene. People making things in abandoned spaces." A pause. "Remember?"
Something in my chest tightened. I remembered it from a few weeks ago in the beginning of the semester. The way his voice had changed when he'd talked about it—looser, lighter, more alive than he ever sounded at Kingswell.
"Yeah," I said. "That sounds incredible."
"We'll see if the festival agrees."
Another silence. But different this time—like we could go deeper?
Then Ethan said, "I heard you ended things with Marcus."
My chest tightened. "Yeah."
"Mason mentioned it at practice last week. Said you two had it out by the student center."
I nodded.
Of course people were talking about it. Nothing stayed private at Kingswell—the school ran on gossip the way it ran on legacy money, and a visible falling-out between two people from prominent families was irresistible.
"Why?" Ethan asked.
He probably hadn't heard the specific details.
"At the party. The fight." I set down the clipboard we'd been using. "Marcus called Remy a slur. That's what started everything. That's why Liam punched him."
Ethan's expression shifted—sharpened. "What did he say?"
"Faggot." The word felt ugly in my mouth even now. "And I was standing right there when he said it. I froze. Didn't say anything. Didn't do anything. Just stood there while Marcus—" I stopped. Swallowed. "Liam hit him before I could even process what happened."
Ethan smirked slightly. "He deserved it."
"Yeah. I found Marcus a few days later and told him we were done."
Ethan was quiet for a long moment. The afternoon light had gone amber, painting warm stripes across the hardwood floor between us.
When he finally spoke, his voice was different. Softer, but not soft. Like he was choosing his words as carefully as I usually chose mine.
"You guys have been friends for a long time."
"Since we were kids."
"That must have been hard."
"It was necessary," I said. And I meant it—not as performance, not as the thing I was supposed to say. Marcus's casual cruelty had been there all along. I'd just been too comfortable—too complicit—to see it for what it was.
Ethan studied me, and I forced myself to hold his gaze. Let him see that I meant it. Let him look for whatever he needed to find.
"You stood up to him," Ethan said finally. "That's huge, Alex."
The words hit harder than they should have. Not forgiveness. Not absolution. But acknowledgment—the recognition that I'd done something real instead of just performing the appearance of change.
My throat went tight.
"It doesn't fix what I did to you," I said.
"No. It doesn't."
