The world around Max Carter was starting to feel smaller.
Days at St. Ainsworth College had once been filled with quiet determination—early mornings spent in the library, evenings solving equations no one else cared to understand. Now, that same world felt heavy, as if every corner whispered something about him.
And in the center of it all stood Anna Whitmore.
She was light dressed as shadow. Her kindness had a rhythm to it—appearing at just the right moment, fading just when he needed it most. She smiled when people watched and sighed when they didn't. To Max, every smile was proof she still cared; to everyone else, it was just another calculated gesture.
It began subtly.
"Max, could you check my essay?" she asked one afternoon, sliding her laptop across the desk.
Her tone was light, innocent even. But her eyes were fixed on the group of upper-year students sitting nearby—especially one of them. Dylan Cross.
Dylan wasn't like the others. He wasn't the kind who spoke loudly or showed off; his power was quieter, more dangerous. As the Student Council President's right-hand man, he didn't need to brag. Everyone already knew his influence stretched beyond campus walls. Professors listened when he spoke. Even the dean pretended not to notice when Dylan bent rules.
And that day, Anna wanted his attention.
She knew exactly how.
When Max leaned over her laptop, explaining corrections, Dylan's gaze shifted toward them. Anna smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with theatrical grace. Max didn't notice, too absorbed in his words, but Dylan did.
Later that week, rumors began.
"Whitmore's new pet genius," someone whispered as Max passed by.
"Guess who's writing her research papers for free?" another added.
Max heard them, pretended he didn't, and smiled through the ache.
He still believed her intentions were pure.
Anna began meeting him more often, but her messages were always timed: 'Need you now. Urgent.'
Never 'How are you?' or 'Let's talk.'
One evening, as he sat in the cafeteria, Dylan's shadow fell across his table.
"Carter, right?"
Max looked up. Dylan Cross stood there with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. His tie was loosened, his confidence effortless. A few other upper-year students lingered nearby, watching.
"Yeah," Max replied cautiously.
"I heard you're Whitmore's favorite little scholar," Dylan said. "She speaks highly of you."
The words sounded friendly, but something in his tone felt sharp, like glass wrapped in velvet.
"She's just a friend," Max said quickly.
Dylan chuckled. "Sure, sure. Just a friend." He leaned closer. "Let me give you a piece of advice, Carter. People like her… they play a different game. Don't mistake an invitation to play with an invitation to stay."
Before Max could answer, Dylan straightened and walked away, laughter echoing behind him.
That night, Max couldn't sleep. Dylan's words crawled under his skin. But the next morning, Anna met him with her usual bright smile, and all his doubts melted away.
"Max, you're a lifesaver," she said, handing him a coffee. "You always know what to do."
He smiled back, stupidly proud, stupidly happy.
But things were changing.
Assignments he'd helped her with started appearing under her name. Professors praised her brilliance, unaware that the genius they admired was sitting two rows behind, silent. Once, she even presented one of his projects as her own during a seminar.
He didn't confront her.
He told himself she must've forgotten to mention his name.
Weeks passed, and Dylan's interest grew. Anna had made sure of it. She played both of them with the same smile—flirting just enough with Dylan to make him feel powerful, leaning just close enough to Max to keep him obedient.
When exams came, Dylan's group started picking on Max. First came the snide comments, then the "accidental" shoulder bumps in hallways. Once, they locked him out of the study hall before a test, forcing him to wait in the rain.
When Anna found him drenched outside, she frowned. "You should've come earlier," she said softly, as if the rain were his fault.
He smiled weakly. "It's fine. You're here now."
She didn't answer.
Later, he heard laughter from across the corridor—Anna standing with Dylan, her hand resting on his arm.
He tried to ignore it. He wanted to believe her kindness wasn't an act.
But reality was starting to tear through the illusion.
---
One Friday evening, Max was called to the Student Council room. Dylan was waiting, lounging on the table, tapping his phone.
"Sit," Dylan said, gesturing casually.
Max obeyed, confused.
"So, Carter," Dylan began. "I heard there's a scholarship spot open this semester. Big deal. Full tuition, stipend, all that. Guess who's applying?"
"I am," Max said carefully.
"Yeah," Dylan said, smirking. "And so is Anna."
Max blinked. "Anna? But… she doesn't need it."
"Need's not the point, Carter. Winning is." Dylan leaned forward, his voice lowering. "She's Whitmore. You think anyone's gonna give it to you over her?"
"She said she'd help me apply—"
Dylan's laughter cut him off. "Help you? She already gave your essay to the dean—with her name on it."
The world tilted.
For a moment, Max couldn't breathe. His ears rang, his chest tightened. But Dylan wasn't done.
"She's smart, I'll give her that. Knows how to keep people like you wrapped around her finger." He stood, brushing invisible dust from his jacket. "Don't take it personally, Carter. She just plays to win. And you…" He paused at the door, glancing back with a pitying smile. "…you were just practice."
The door shut softly, but the words hit like thunder.
---
That night, Max walked through the city alone. The neon lights blurred against the rain, every reflection showing him a face he no longer recognized.
He wanted to scream, to confront her, to demand the truth. But when he reached her apartment, the guard at the gate stopped him.
"Miss Whitmore isn't taking visitors," he said politely.
Max stood there in the rain until the guard looked away.
He finally turned back toward the road, his heart a quiet ruin.
Somewhere inside him, a small voice whispered that Dylan had lied. That Anna would never do that. That she still cared.
He clung to that voice because it was all he had left.