He looked at her then, and for a moment the tension eased. But it returned quickly when Kate added, "I don't want to be your substitute, Andrew. I care about you too much for that."
Andrew opened his mouth to respond, but the words tangled. Instead, he gave her a tired, honest nod.
They left the party not long after. The rain was heavier now, tapping at rooftops and umbrellas like urgent whispers. As they walked through the campus, puddles reflecting yellow streetlights, the silence between them wasn't cold—but it was cautious.
At the dormitory steps, Andrew turned to Kate. "Thank you. For dragging me out."
She gave him a tired smile. "Even ghosts need to dance sometimes."
"And sometimes they need someone to pull them back into the light."
Kate tucked her hair behind her ear. "Then I'll keep trying. As long as you let me."
He nodded again.
As they parted, Andrew felt the weight of the night settle in his chest. He knew things hadn't changed—not really. Emma was still with Jason. The ache was still there. But something in Kate's words had grounded him.
Maybe he was tired of being haunted.
Maybe he was ready to start choosing the living.
The rain had not let up since the night of the party. It whispered endlessly against the stone walls of the dormitories and streamed down the tall windows of the lecture halls like an elegy for something lost. The grounds of the university were soaked, and so were many hearts that moved quietly through its corridors.
Andrew sat alone in the small, dim-lit poetry library, fingers brushing along the spine of a weathered anthology by Tomas Tranströmer. Outside, the trees bent beneath the weight of the storm, and inside, he felt much the same—tired, heavy, and bent inward.
Kate hadn't spoken much since the party. Not out of anger, but out of caution. She saw something in Andrew that night, something unraveling quietly behind his polite silence. Emma had looked at him in that familiar way—with soft eyes and easy laughter—and then left in Jason's arms.
She hated how it made her feel.
Andrew didn't notice her quiet withdrawal at first. He was used to solitude, had embraced it for months now. But now that Kate had become a kind of quiet constant, her silence sat differently on his shoulders.
He looked up as the library door opened. Kate stepped in, her boots wet, scarf loose around her neck. She didn't smile when she saw him. Just walked over and sat across from him at the small wooden table.
"You're hiding again," she said.
"I'm reading," he replied, gesturing toward the book.
She tilted her head. "You didn't even turn a page in the last ten minutes."
He sighed, closing the book slowly. "Maybe I'm hiding while reading. Dual purpose."
Kate rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward slightly. "Do you want to talk about the party?"
"Not particularly."
"She looked happy to see you."
Andrew didn't respond.
"And you looked happy to see her."
"She still left," he said finally. "She always leaves."
Kate studied him. "Then why do you stay?"
He paused. "I think part of me still thinks she'll turn around."
Kate leaned back, folding her arms. "You know, I used to think you were just the quiet type. Broody, poetic. But sometimes I wonder if you're just addicted to pain."
Her words weren't cruel—they were honest, and honesty stung worse than anything else.
"Maybe I am," Andrew admitted. "But I never asked for your pity."
"It's not pity," she snapped, voice suddenly sharp. "It's care. Don't twist it."
Silence fell again, filled only by the rain.
Eventually, Andrew stood. "I should get back to the dorm."
Kate didn't stop him. But just as he reached the door, she said, "If she broke her leg, you'd carry her to the hospital. If she broke your heart, you'd thank her for teaching you what love is. That's not noble, Andrew. That's tragic."
He paused at the door, then left without a word.
---
Meanwhile, Emma sat by the window of her shared room, sketchbook in her lap, staring into the pale gray sky. Jason was out again, doing something he hadn't bothered to name. She was growing used to his disappearances. At first, she'd romanticized them—believed them part of his mystery. Now they just felt like silence.
Her fingers moved lazily across the page, sketching outlines of a face she wasn't sure she remembered correctly. Eyes too kind. Hair too neat. It was Andrew's face, she realized. Again.
She dropped the pencil.
At the party, she had missed him. Not Jason. Not the music. Him. The way he looked at her like she was still the girl from last fall. Before Jason. Before everything cracked.
She rubbed her eyes.
---
Jason leaned against a brick wall near the science building, lighting a cigarette despite the drizzle. Michael watched him from across the quad, arms folded, his crew scattered like wolves.
"You sure he's alone?" one of the boys asked.
Michael didn't answer right away. His eyes were locked on Jason like a predator waiting for weakness.
"He won't see it coming," he muttered.
Jason flicked ash into the rain and narrowed his eyes. Something felt off. He knew the storm brewing around Michael hadn't passed yet. And part of him wanted it to come. He was tired of feeling cornered in silence.
---
Later that night, Andrew sat on his bed, headphones over his ears, pen in hand. Rain tapped against the window like a metronome. Words came slowly, drawn from places he didn't want to visit but couldn't ignore.
"I loved you in secret / Where silence stitched the seams / Between your laughter / And my undoing."
A knock on the door pulled him out of his trance.
Kate stood there, holding two cups of tea.
"I figured you hadn't eaten."
He took the cup and nodded. "Thanks."
She leaned against the doorframe. "I'm sorry. For earlier."
"No," he said. "You were right."
She smiled faintly. "Doesn't mean I enjoyed saying it."
They sipped in silence.
"Will you come to Langston's poetry circle tomorrow?" she asked.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Maybe it's time I read again."
She raised an eyebrow. "Out loud?"
"Don't push it."
They both laughed.
Outside, the storm finally began to slow.