C14

The hallway was nearly empty.

Most students had already left, their laughter echoing faintly down the stairwell. Ivan lingered by his locker, pretending to organize papers he’d already sorted twice. He wasn’t waiting for anyone. Not officially. But his heart was.

He glanced toward the end of the corridor—Niel’s locker. Closed. Silent.

Ivan sighed and turned back to his own. That’s when he saw it.

A folded sheet of paper, tucked between the slats. Not crumpled. Not rushed. Just waiting.

He pulled it out slowly, fingers trembling slightly. No name. No message. Just a sketch.

Three stars.

Three names.

One thread.

Vega labeled “N.” Altair labeled “I.” Deneb labeled “S.” The thread between them was faint, but it curved gently, like it had been drawn with care.

Underneath, in Niel’s handwriting: “I think it’s red.”

Ivan stared at the words for a long time. They weren’t loud. They didn’t shout. But they said everything.

He sat down on the bench beside the lockers, the sketch resting in his lap. The hallway buzzed with the hum of fluorescent lights, but it felt like the stars were louder.

Red.

It wasn’t just a color. It was a choice. A declaration. A thread that meant something.

Ivan opened his notebook and flipped to the page where he’d drawn the triangle. His version had been more clinical—lines, labels, symmetry. But Niel’s sketch had warmth. Movement. Intention.

He took out his pen and began to draw.

Not a triangle this time.

Just two stars.

One labeled “I.” One labeled “N.” The thread between them was bold. Curved. Red.

He didn’t color it in—just wrote the word beside it. “Red.”

Then, beneath the sketch, he added a line: “If it’s red, then maybe it’s fate.”

He stared at the page, unsure if it was too much. Too honest. But something inside him whispered: it’s time.

Ivan tore the page out carefully, folded it once, and walked down the hall. Niel’s locker was still closed. He slipped the note through the vent, slow and deliberate.

Then he walked away.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough.

That night, Ivan sat on his bed with the lights off, the stars outside barely visible through the city haze. He opened his notebook again and flipped through the sketches. Each one felt like a breadcrumb. A quiet trail leading somewhere.

He paused on the triangle.

Three stars. Three names. One thread.

He traced the lines with his finger, then whispered to the ceiling, “I think it’s red too.”

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I might update tomorrow or hehe...

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