Ash and Celeste sat side by side on the couch—quiet, but far from calm.
Well, Celeste looked perfectly at home, lounging against Ash like she belonged there.
Ash, on the other hand, looked like he was surviving a natural disaster with only one lung left.
Across from them, Rowan stood frozen. Then, like a buffering video, he suddenly rebooted and began pacing.
One hand on his hip. The other clawing through his hair.
He looked at Ash.
Then Celeste.
Then back at Ash.
Then he groaned like a man witnessing a prophecy unfold.
"You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me."
Ash opened his mouth.
"Rowan—"
"Three months?!" Rowan exploded. "Three?! I go to work, I come home, I think I'm living a peaceful life—and meanwhile you two are out here, what, holding hands in the shadows like some forbidden drama?!"
"You—!" Rowan pointed at celeste, offended. "You're my sister!"
Celeste smiled sweetly.
"Yup. Still am."
Rowan turned to Ash—and paused.
He didn't look angry. Or disappointed.
He looked at Ash like Ash was a trembling puppy who got caught in the rain. Lost. Soft. Needing help.
"And you… you poor, innocent daisy," Rowan muttered like a war veteran. "I've been protecting you from heartbreak and hormonal war zones for years."
Ash looked like he was about to curl into himself.
"I–I didn't mean for it to—"
"She's scissors, Ash!" Rowan flailed an arm. "You're a flower. She's scissors. This was a tragic gardening accident waiting to happen!"
Celeste raised her brows, amused.
"Wow, rude. I'm premium scissors, thank you very much."
Rowan dragged a hand down his face.
"I'm not mad. I'm just—no, wait. I am mad. Who made the first move?"
Ash stayed silent.
Celeste casually raised her hand.
"Me."
Rowan stared.
Then clutched his chest.
He staggered a few more steps like he'd been wounded.
"I… I need to sit down."
Instead of choosing a chair, Rowan dropped straight to the floor like a tired cartoon character. Limbs sprawled. Eyes to the ceiling.
Silence fell.
Then he sighed.
"I'm not gonna ask anything else. I promised I'd trust you two."
Celeste softened.
"Thanks, bro."
Ash managed a weak smile.
"T-Thank you..."
He rolled onto his side and groaned.
"This is a lot. But… I'll survive."
Celeste looked at Ash, then leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.
Ash looked down at her—and smiled, a little shy and a little relieved.
Rowan peeked from the floor.
"A flower and scissors. What kind of cursed garden is this?"
Celeste giggled.
Ash laughed nervously.
And Rowan… just stayed there, emotionally bruised but loyal to the end.
.
.
.
The apartment was quiet.
The party was long over. No more music. No more lights. Just silence.
Celeste hadn't managed to give Ash her gift.
Now, she was in her bedroom. Rowan was in his. And the only thing filling the night was the soft hum of the city outside.
Rowan lay on his bed, one arm behind his head, eyes tracing the ceiling like it held answers.
"Almost three months, huh," he muttered.
He let the words sit for a moment, heavy in the stillness.
Then, like dust shaken from a shelf, the memories began to stir.
That night they played spin the bottle—Celeste hadn't even tried to hide her discomfort when Isadora asked Ash if he had a crush on someone. Ash fumbled, nervous and awkward, and said, "It's complicated."
Rowan had joked, had teased, had been the loud one in the room… but now he could see the way Ash's gaze always drifted to Celeste when he was unsure.
Even that dare—Isadora holding Ash's hand—Rowan remembered the way Ash froze, red-faced, as if it wasn't just a joke to him. And how Celeste went quiet for a moment after. Too quiet.
Then she dared him to pull Isadora into his lap. He thought it was her usual boldness, a playful dare to stir trouble. But now it felt different. Intentional.
And when he helped Ash move, he saw even more.
It was just a small favor—Isadora had called Ash to help her carry snacks, but Celeste stopped him. Told him to sit and rest. Said Rowan would go instead. He had grumbled but went anyway.
And when he came back—
Ash was standing there, flustered, clearly trying not to look suspicious.
Celeste sat casually, like nothing had happened, but he could feel the tension in the air. See the light flush in Ash's face. The nervous energy buzzing off both of them.
It wasn't until now that Rowan realized what that moment really meant.
And even before that, Celeste's remarks—teasing Ash when no one else was paying attention, her light jabs, those too-intimate glances—had all been pieces of the same picture. He just never looked close enough.
Rowan sat at the edge of his bed, a half-finished can of soda warming on his nightstand, untouched. His room was dim—just the soft orange glow of the hallway light seeping under the door. He hadn't turned the lamp on. He didn't need it. He was already lost in his own head.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. Then let out a soft groan and rubbed his face.
"So all this time…" he muttered, voice thick, "…I didn't notice that?"
He laughed bitterly under his breath, a sound that didn't quite sound like a laugh.
"And the person you were talking about during that stupid game… it was Celeste, wasn't it?" He shook his head. "Complicated, huh. You said it was complicated. Of course it was."
His shoulders sagged. He leaned back, eyes staring up at the ceiling like it might answer him.
"I'm such an idiot…"
Another groan escaped his chest.
"I've been helping Isadora get close to you, Ash. Like a fool. Playing wingman, cheering her on—when the whole time you and Cel had something going on already."
He looked at the wall now. Blank, silent, unmoving.
"I'm so stupid."
His voice lowered, more broken now.
"Now me and Isa…What am I supposed to do now?"
He swallowed thickly, chest rising slowly as he tried to keep his breathing even.
Then, in a small, quiet voice, barely above a whisper—
"I liked her" he mumbled
His lips trembled slightly. He hadn't said that out loud in a long time. Not even to himself.
"I've liked Isa… since college."
He blinked slowly, staring at nothing.
"But I never told her. I couldn't. She's my friend. I thought that would be enough. Just… being there for her. Supporting her. Even when it hurt."
A small scoff escaped him.
"But I never said anything. Not even after… not even after that night."
His mind drifted to it—the one night that changed everything, yet nothing. The closeness they never spoke of again.
"I thought it would mess things up. But we acted like it was nothing. Like it was fine. We still texted after. Even when she went abroad, she still messaged me. Through winter break and all. And I… I really thought we had something. I was so happy."
He pressed his palms together, thinking.
"But we're still in the same place. No progress. Just silence."
And then came the worst part.
"I'm scared," he whispered.
His brows furrowed.
"I'm scared that if I tell her… she won't feel the same. Or worse—she'll feel something, and still leave anyway. And everything we had will be gone."
A long pause.
"But I don't want to stay like this either. I can't just stay here watching the people around me move forward while I stay behind."
His voice cracked.
"I want something, too."
Another breath.
"I just… I don't know how to ask for it."
He slumped forward again, eyes stinging but dry.
And for a long time, he stayed like that.
Sitting in the dark.
With everything he wished he could say.
____________