Chapter 21
Gwen spotted Miles sitting on the low brick wall near the courtyard fountain, legs stretched out in front of him, sketchbook balanced on one knee. He wasn’t drawing. Just… flipping through pages with a half-hearted focus.
She took a breath. Steeled herself.
Just say it. Just tell him. Let him know it’s not Elian.
“Hey,” she said, pushing hair behind her ear as she walked up.
Miles glanced up. His expression didn’t soften. “Hey.”
Okay. Weird.
“You, um…” she sat beside him, careful not to crowd, “…left pretty fast after class.”
“Yeah. Got stuff to do,” he muttered. Flip. Another sketchbook page.
“Right,” Gwen said. Her chest felt like someone had dropped a bowling ball in it. “Listen, I—about Elian—”
“You don’t have to explain anything,” Miles said, finally looking at her. His tone was clipped, too even to be casual. “You like who you like. It’s not my business.”
Gwen blinked. “Okay, but—”
“Seriously,” he said with a shrug. “It’s cool.”
It was not cool.
And that hurt more than she expected.
She stared at him, heart thudding. Her hands clenched in her sleeves.
He was being cold. Distant. Like none of it ever mattered.
Like she didn’t matter.
“Oh,” she said, swallowing hard. “Cool. Then I guess I will say yes.”
Miles paused, blinking slowly. “Say yes…?”
“Elian asked me out,” Gwen said, chin lifted. “I told him I’d think about it. But yeah—I think I’ll say yes.”
It was petty.
It was instant.
It was payback.
Miles’ jaw clenched. “Right. Good for you.”
“Thanks.”
She stood up and walked away before her voice could shake.
Behind her, Miles sat frozen for a second before slamming the sketchbook shut and muttering,
“Stupid sketchbook anyway.”
Gwen tugged on the sleeve of her jacket for the fifth time in two minutes.
She wasn’t even sure why she dressed up. The white blouse felt too stiff, the mascara too much, the flats too girly. She kept shifting her legs, trying to get comfortable on the café bench. Her phone sat in her lap like a ticking bomb.
Elian was five minutes late. Not a big deal. Not really.
But every second felt… wrong.
Gwen leaned her head back against the cool brick behind her. Her breath made a little cloud in the chill air. Her phone buzzed once.
Amaya:
How’s it going? Did he bring you flowers? Or are you already plotting your escape?
Gwen typed quickly.
Gwen:
I’m not even inside yet. He’s late.
Also I already hate this. I feel like I’m cheating on someone I’m not even dating.
She hesitated. Then added:
Gwen:
Like I’m wearing a costume of someone who wants to be here.
Another buzz.
Amaya:
Babe. Call it. Bail. Come home.
We’ll fake a stomach ache or a fire alarm. You don’t have to prove anything.
Gwen stared at her reflection in the café window. Her mascara was smudged from rubbing her eyes earlier. Her earrings didn’t match.
She looked tired. And out of place.
And a little bit like a girl who’d hoped someone else would stop her from saying yes.
Gwen sighed. The wind tugged at the hem of her skirt.
She stood up, phone clutched in her hand.
Five steps away, on a nearby rooftop, a familiar silhouette in red and black perched, unseen—watching with something like hope… and dread.
Elian arrived exactly twenty minutes late, holding a small white daisy in a plastic water bottle. “Sorry,” he grinned, breathless. “This was growing between the sidewalk cracks. Figured it deserved a second chance. Like... dates, you know?”
It was charming in a chaotic kind of way. She smiled. She stayed.
Now, she wasn’t sure why.
Elian was halfway through telling her about a childhood trip to Argentina. He used his hands when he talked. One fork was already on the floor. His drink had nearly tipped twice.
“And then the penguin bites my dad, of all people! Like full-on, chomps his cargo shorts—”
Gwen nodded, lips tight in a polite smile. “Wow, that’s... wild.”
But her mind was drifting again.
To the way Miles’ hoodie sleeves were always a little too long. How he scrunched his nose when reading. How he listened more than he talked.
Elian laughs at his own story.
Gwen snapped back. “Sorry, what?”
“I said,” Elian leaned in, “have you ever been out of the country?”
“Oh. No, not really.”
“You should. You’d love Buenos Aires. The energy, the people. It's like—fireworks.”
She tried to imagine herself in Buenos Aires. All she saw was her dorm room window. And another one just across the way, glowing gold. A boy with soft curls leaning out, sipping lemon tea.
Elian took another bite of his sandwich. “You’re quiet.”
Gwen sat straighter. “Sorry. Long week.”
He didn’t notice the way she kept glancing at the door. Or the way she sighed when the waiter brought dessert, not from sweetness, but exhaustion.
By the end of the night, she had a crumpled napkin in her fist and a headache behind her eyes.
“Same time next week?” Elian asked, hopeful.
She paused.
Then smiled. Thin. “I’ll let you know.”
Gwen kicked the door closed behind her and let herself collapse face-first onto her bed, the dorm lights still flickering softly overhead. Her boots slid off with a dull thud. The air in the room was warm, familiar, and smelled faintly of Amaya’s strawberry shampoo and the vanilla candle they weren’t technically allowed to burn.
From the bathroom, she heard the faint sound of Amaya brushing her teeth. Gwen groaned into her pillow.
“I feel like I cheated on my own feelings,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by the fabric.
“That bad, huh?” Amaya called, mouth full of toothpaste.
Gwen rolled over dramatically and stared at the ceiling. Her mascara had smudged slightly under her eyes—not from tears, but from sheer exhaustion. “He brought me a weed. In a water bottle.”
Amaya leaned out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in her mouth. “Like a metaphorical weed, or…?”
“No. Like, literal, grew-through-the-sidewalk weed. With dirt and concrete crumbs still stuck to it. He said it symbolized resilience.” Gwen rubbed her temples. “It was like dating a Pinterest board that couldn’t load properly.”
Amaya snorted, ducked back into the bathroom to rinse, and came back out in fuzzy socks and an oversized tee. “Okay, but that’s almost poetic in a deranged way.”
“No. It’s a health hazard.”
“So? What happened? Did he do that thing where he asks you a question just so he can answer it himself for the next twenty minutes?”
Gwen sat up, flopping her arms into her lap. “Yup. ‘What’s your favorite movie?’ And before I could finish saying I don’t know, he launched into this obscure foreign film he’s obsessed with. Explained the entire plot, every scene, every metaphor. I think he blacked out halfway through and just kept going.”
Amaya settled onto her bed, cross-legged. “Wow. You two are totally meant to not be.”
“And don’t even get me started on the way he ate. He stabbed his pasta like it owed him money and flung sauce on the salt shaker. Knocked over his fork twice and didn’t notice.” Gwen pulled a face. “Meanwhile, I was sitting there trying to pretend I wasn’t thinking about Miles the entire time.”
Amaya raised an eyebrow. “So Lemon Tea Guy wins the day.”
Gwen covered her face with her hands. “I tried to say no. I meant to. But when I went to talk to him, he was so... distant. Cold. Like I’d done something wrong. And it made me so mad I said yes just to—” she dropped her hands, “—I don’t know. Prove a point, or punish him, or punish myself. And now I just feel like an idiot.”
There was a pause, soft and a little sad. Amaya leaned back against her headboard.
“You didn’t cheat on your feelings,” she said quietly. “You just ignored them. And now they’re making you listen.”
Gwen gave a weak laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “You’re too good at this. It’s not fair.”
Amaya smiled. “Then do the grown-up thing tomorrow. No blog. No metaphors. Just talk to him.”
“Tomorrow,” Gwen said, her voice small, eyes already slipping closed. “Yeah. Tomorrow."