Day 3
Adrian woke up before his alarm on Saturday morning, Sage still asleep in the sleeping bag on his floor. Dante's bed was empty—early morning practice, according to his schedule.
Adrian pulled out the red crayon he'd bought at the campus bookstore, along with a small index card. He wrote carefully:
Age 5. Kindergarten. You took my crayon, then sat next to me to share. I pushed you away.
I'm sorry it took me eighteen years to sit down next to you again.
He placed it on Dante's desk, positioning it so it would be impossible to miss, then woke Sage so they could grab breakfast before Dante returned.
They came back around noon to find Dante at his desk, staring at the red crayon in his hand, the note lying open beside it.
Adrian's heart hammered as he walked past to his own desk, pretending casual normalcy. He could feel Dante watching him, could sense the weight of unspoken questions.
Finally, Dante looked over at him. Their eyes met across the room.
Dante's expression was unreadable—confusion, maybe hope, maybe fear, maybe all three. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then seemed to think better of it.
Instead, he carefully put the crayon in his desk drawer, tucking the note in beside it.
The gesture felt significant, like acceptance, like Dante was choosing to keep this piece of their history that Adrian was offering.
Day 7
The varsity basketball game on Wednesday night was against their conference rival. Big game, lots of crowd energy, the kind of event that usually drew a decent student turnout.
Adrian showed up early, claiming a front row seat directly behind the home team bench. He wore his Greystone t-shirt in the school colors—navy and gold—and held a foam finger that Sage had insisted on buying him as a joke.
When the team came out for warm-ups, Dante spotted him immediately. Nearly tripped over his own feet, actually, staring at Adrian sitting front row like he belonged there.
Marcus elbowed him, saying something Adrian couldn't hear. Dante shook his head, returning his attention to warm-ups, but Adrian could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept glancing over.
The game started. Dante played point guard, handling the ball, setting up plays, occasionally taking shots himself. He was good—better than good. Adrian had always known Dante was skilled, but watching him now without the filter of jealousy or competition, Adrian could actually appreciate it.
Dante moved with confidence, made split-second decisions that resulted in perfect passes, anticipated the other team's defense in ways that seemed almost psychic. This wasn't just someone good at basketball. This was someone who loved it, who felt it in a way that transcended sport.
Fifteen minutes in, Dante stole the ball and drove down court, making a layup that brought the crowd to their feet.
Adrian cheered loudly, unselfconsciously, jumping up with everyone else and shouting Dante's name.
Dante looked directly at him, something flickering across his face—surprise, confusion, maybe pleasure—before having to refocus on the game.
But after that, Dante kept glancing at Adrian. Throughout the entire game, his eyes would find Adrian in the crowd, like he needed to confirm Adrian was really there, really cheering for him, really invested in watching him play.
It affected his game. Dante missed passes he'd normally catch, lost focus during crucial plays, seemed distracted in ways that made Coach Stevens call a timeout to shake him back to concentration.
They won anyway—Greystone by eight points—and the team celebrated on the court while the crowd dispersed.
Adrian waited in the hallway outside the locker room, leaning against the wall. Other players came out first, a few nodding at Adrian as they passed. Marcus gave him a long look but didn't comment.
Finally, Dante emerged, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from the post-game shower.
He stopped when he saw Adrian, something wary in his expression.
"What are you doing?" Dante asked.
"Watching you play. You're incredible."
"Why?"
"Because I want to. Because I should have been doing this all along." Adrian pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. "You were amazing out there. That steal in the second half? The way you set up that final play? I've never seen anyone read a court the way you do."
Dante stared at him, jaw clenched. "You're confusing me again."
"Good."
"That's not good, Adrian. That's—" Dante ran his hand through his damp hair. "I need to go. Team dinner."
He left before Adrian could respond, but Adrian saw the way Dante's hands were shaking as he walked away.
Progress.
Day 10
Adrian had spent an hour in the campus photo lab scanning and printing the picture from their age-ten track meet. It had been in his parents' photo album—his mom was sentimental about documenting everything—and she'd emailed it when Adrian asked.
The photo showed the finish line moment: Dante crossing first, arms raised in victory. But his head was turned, looking back over his shoulder at Adrian who was one second behind, still running.
Adrian had never noticed that detail before. Dante hadn't been focused on his win. He'd been focused on Adrian.
Adrian bought a simple frame from the campus bookstore and had them add a mat where he could write. In neat handwriting, he added:
You were always looking back to make sure I was still there. I see it now.
He left it on Dante's bed Tuesday afternoon while Dante was in class.
When Adrian returned from his own evening class around eight PM, he found Dante sitting on his bed, staring at the framed photo in his hands.
Adrian didn't say anything, just moved to his own desk and started pulling out homework. But he was hyperaware of Dante's presence, of the silence stretching between them.
Twenty minutes passed. Dante hadn't moved, was still sitting there holding the frame, looking at it like it held answers to questions he was afraid to ask.
"Why are you doing this?" Dante asked finally, his voice rough.
"Doing what?"
"The notes. The gifts. Showing up to my games. Rewriting our history like—" Dante stopped, setting the frame down carefully on his nightstand. "Like it meant something different than what I thought it meant."
"Maybe it did mean something different. Maybe we were both wrong about what we were seeing."
"Or maybe you're just trying to make me feel better about transferring." Dante's voice had an edge now. "Making our past seem less painful so I'll have good memories instead of bad ones when I leave."
"That's not—" Adrian turned in his chair to face him fully. "Dante, I'm not trying to rewrite anything. I'm trying to show you what was actually there all along. What I was too blind to see."
"And what was there?"
"You. Trying to connect with me. And me, too scared to reach back." Adrian's throat felt tight. "All those competitions, all those years—you weren't trying to beat me. You were trying to reach me. And I finally understand that."
Dante's expression was complicated—hope warring with fear, desire fighting with self-protection. "Stop."
"Stop what?"
"Stop saying things like that. Stop making me hope when—" Dante stood up abruptly. "I have studying to do. In the library. I'll be back late."
He grabbed his backpack and left, the framed photo still sitting on his nightstand where he'd carefully placed it.
Day 14
Their psychology project deadline was approaching, and the team needed to meet to finalize their analysis. Adrian texted Dante directly instead of posting in the group chat.
Adrian: Want to work on the psychology project together? We could hammer out the data analysis section.
Dante: The whole team is meeting Thursday
Adrian: I know. But I thought we could prep beforehand. Make the team meeting more efficient.
Long pause. Then:
Dante: Fine. Library tonight. 7pm.
They met at their usual study room, spreading out notes and laptops and the data they'd collected from their surveys about competition dynamics.
For the first time in months—maybe years—they worked together without arguing. Adrian listened when Dante explained his approach to analyzing the data. Asked questions instead of pushing back. Respected Dante's ideas even when they differed from his own initial thoughts.
"I think we should focus on the qualitative responses," Dante said, scrolling through their survey data. "The numbers are interesting, but the written answers about why people compete are more revealing."
"That makes sense. What patterns are you seeing?"
"A lot of people saying they compete to feel connected to the person they're competing against. That rivalry is a form of intimacy."
The words hung in the air between them, loaded with subtext neither was brave enough to address directly.
"That's—yeah. That's good insight." Adrian made notes on his laptop. "We could organize the responses thematically. Connection versus dominance. Positive rivalry versus destructive competition."
They worked for three hours, the longest peaceful interaction they'd had in months. The study room felt different without the usual tension—still charged, but with possibility instead of conflict.
When they finally packed up around ten PM, Dante hesitated at the door.
"Why are you being nice to me?" he asked.
Adrian's heart pounded. "Because I'm tired of being your rival. I want to be something else."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet. But I'd like to find out." Adrian met Dante's eyes. "If you'll let me."
Dante stared at him for a long moment, something vulnerable and terrified flickering across his face. Then he turned and left without answering.
But the next morning, Adrian found the psychology notes organized neatly on his desk with sticky notes in Dante's handwriting, suggesting refinements to their analysis.
Progress.
Day 16-19
The next few days, Dante started pulling back. Missing their planned study sessions. Spending more time at the library or with Marcus and the team. Coming back to the dorm late, after Adrian was already asleep, and leaving early in the morning.
They were living in the same room but barely seeing each other.
Adrian felt the absence like a physical ache. He'd gotten used to their tentative new dynamic, to the possibility of connection, to the hope that maybe this was working.
Now Dante was retreating, and Adrian didn't know how to pull him back without pushing too hard.
"He's scared," Elena reported when Adrian asked if she'd heard anything. "Maya said he's been weird at team events. Quiet, distracted. Marcus is worried about him."
"Scared of what?"
"Of believing you, probably. Of hoping and getting hurt again."
Adrian didn't know how to fix that. Didn't know how to prove he was serious beyond continuing to show up, continuing to try, continuing to be honest about what he felt even when Dante wasn't ready to hear it.
Day 20
Adrian returned from his afternoon class to find a note on his desk.
The handwriting was Dante's—he recognized it immediately from years of competing for the same academic awards, seeing Dante's name next to his own on every honor roll and achievement list.
Stop. Please.
I can't do this if you're not serious. And I can't believe you're serious.
So please. Just stop.
Adrian sat down hard on his bed, note clutched in his hand, feeling like he'd been punched in the chest.
Dante was asking him to stop. To give up. To go back to the careful distance they'd maintained before this whole campaign started.
And Adrian had to decide—respect that request and potentially lose Dante forever, or push forward and risk making things worse.
The note was still in his hand when Dante returned from basketball practice an hour later. They made eye contact across the room, and Dante's expression was guarded, defensive, like he was bracing for impact.
"I read your note," Adrian said quietly.
"Good."
"I'm not stopping."
Dante's jaw clenched. "Adrian—"
"You asked me to stop because you can't believe I'm serious. So I'm going to prove I'm serious. I'm going to keep showing up, keep trying, keep being honest about what I feel until you believe me."
"What if I never believe you?"
"Then I'll still have tried. And you'll know that you mattered enough for me to fight for this."
Dante's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "This isn't fair."
"Neither is asking me to give up on the most important thing in my life."
"I'm not the most important thing in your life. I'm just—" Dante stopped, voice cracking. "I'm just the person who's been there. That's not the same as mattering."
Adrian stood up, crossing the room until he was standing directly in front of Dante. Close enough to see the fear and hope warring in Dante's dark eyes, close enough to count his eyelashes.
"You're wrong," Adrian said softly. "You've always mattered. I just didn't know how to show you."
Dante's breath hitched. "Don't do this if you're not sure."
"I'm sure that I want to try. Isn't that enough?"
"I don't know." Dante's voice was barely a whisper. "I don't know if anything is enough anymore."