Chapter 3: The Ghost at the Table

...Daniel POV...

The school cafeteria is a war zone of noise, but our table is usually the safe zone. I’m sitting with my arm draped over the back of Evelyn’s chair, half-listening as she talks about the Fall Formal. She’s leaning into me, her hair smelling like vanilla, and by all accounts, I should be perfectly happy.

But I’m staring at the empty seat next to me.

"Daniel? Earth to Dan," Evelyn says, nudging my ribs with her elbow.

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about the game on Friday," I lie, flashing a practiced smile.

"Azreal’s late again," she notes, glancing at the doorway. "He’s been skipping lunch a lot lately. Is he okay? You guys haven't had a fight, have you?"

"No. Why would we fight?" The defensive tone in my voice surprises even me. "He’s just busy with his portfolio. You know how he gets when he’s in the zone."

But the truth is, I don't know. Not anymore. Usually, Azreal is the one who keeps me grounded during these loud school days. We have a shorthand—a look, a nudge, a shared joke that no one else gets. Without him sitting there, the table feels unbalanced. I feel unbalanced.

When he finally walks in, he doesn't head for us. He grabs a water from the vending machine and starts walking toward the library.

"Hey! Az!" I call out, standing up.

He stops, his shoulders tensing under his black denim jacket. He turns slowly, and for a second, he looks like a stranger. There’s a distance in his expression that hits me like a physical blow.

"We saved you a seat," I say, gesturing to the spot next to me.

"I'm eating in the art lab," he says. His eyes flick to Evelyn, then back to me. "I have a deadline."Chapter 3: The Ghost at the Table

"You have to eat, Az," Evelyn adds sweetly. "Come sit for ten minutes."

"I'm not hungry," he says, his voice flat. He doesn't look at me this time. He just turns and disappears into the hallway.

I sit back down, the plastic of the chair feeling cold. Evelyn says something about the decorations for the dance, but I can’t hear her over the sound of my own heart thudding. Why does it feel like he’s mourning something? And why does it feel like I’m the one who died?

...Azrael POV ...

I make it to the art lab and lock the door behind me. The room smells like turpentine and old paper—the only scents that don't remind me of him.

I don't have a deadline. I just couldn't sit there.

I couldn't sit next to him and watch him touch her hair. I couldn't listen to them talk about the Fall Formal like it’s the most important thing in the universe while I’m vibrating with a secret that feels like it’s going to tear my chest open.

I sit at my slanted desk and pull out a fresh sheet of heavy-weight paper. My hands are shaking.

Every time I’m near him lately, the "Close Proximity" we’ve shared for seventeen years feels like a trap. I’m hyper-aware of everything. The way his voice drops an octave when he’s tired. The way he always leaves one lace untied. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not looking at him.

I start to draw. Not a person this time. Just shapes. Sharp, jagged lines that overlap and collide.

I think I love you.

The words are right there, behind my teeth, pushing to get out. Every time he asks if I’m okay, they scream louder. Every time he reaches out to touch my shoulder, they almost spill over.

I’m eighteen in a few months. Graduation is looming like a cliff edge. Everyone talks about the future like it’s a gift, but to me, it feels like an expiration date. Once we leave this school, the "Daniel and Azreal" safety net disappears. He’ll go off to play college ball, he’ll probably marry someone like Evelyn, and I’ll become a footnote in his "glory days" stories.

I press the charcoal too hard against the paper, and it snaps.

The sound is loud in the empty room. I stare at the broken black stick in my hand and feel a sudden, terrifying urge to cry.

I’m losing him. I’m losing him because I want more than I’m allowed to have. And the worst part is, I’m the one pushing him away because the "just friends" version of us is starting to hurt more than the idea of being alone.

I throw the broken charcoal into the bin and put my head on the desk.

I just need to survive this year. Seven more months. Then I can go to the city, or across the country, or anywhere where the air doesn't taste like Daniel Verix.

But then I hear it. A knock at the door. Rhythmic. Familiar.

Shave and a Haircut. Our knock.

I don't move. I hold my breath, praying he’ll just go away.

"Az? I know you're in there," Daniel's voice mumbles through the wood. "Open up. I brought you a sandwich."

I close my eyes tight. He’s so kind. He’s so frustratingly, perfectly kind. And he has no idea that his kindness is the thing that’s killing me.

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