The classroom was still buzzing when the bell rang.
Students stood in clusters, voices overlapping—some praising the painting, others pretending not to care while stealing glances back at it. The cracked sky still felt like it was hanging above them, red clouds bleeding into white walls.
Theo packed his notebook slowly.
He felt wrung out. Like he'd poured something important onto that canvas and left it there.
Isabella hovered beside him, her fingers tapping lightly against her bag strap. "So," she said, casual but not really, "about dinner."
Theo glanced at her. "You buying again?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't push it."
Before he could reply, a familiar voice cut in.
"Well, damn."
Theo looked up.
Simon stood there with his hands in his jacket pockets, eyebrows raised, eyes flicking between Theo and Isabella. "I disappear for three days," he said, grinning, "and you come back looking like a completely different person."
Theo frowned. "What?"
Simon nodded toward him. "The fit. The shoes. You look… upgraded."
Theo looked down at himself like he'd forgotten what he was wearing. "Oh. Yeah. Temporary glitch in the system."
Isabella smirked.
Simon turned to him. "I was gonna ask if you wanted to grab a bite. Celebrate surviving another academic tragedy."
She opened her mouth—then paused. "Uh… I was actually talking to him."
Simon blinked, clearly only now registering Theo's existence in the conversation. "Oh. My bad." He lifted a hand. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
Theo shrugged. "Nah. You're right. We should celebrate."
Isabella raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Theo grinned. "Yeah. Just to be clear though—I'm not paying."
Simon laughed. "Fair."
---
They were supposed to get dinner.
That was the plan.
Somewhere between choosing a place and Simon spotting a neon sign three blocks away, the plan derailed.
"That says karaoke," Simon pointed out.
Theo squinted at the sign. "That also says 'Happy Hour.'"
Isabella sighed. "You two are impossible."
Thirty minutes later, they were inside a dimly lit karaoke bar that smelled like spilled beer and bad decisions. The lights were low, the music loud, and the vibe aggressively unserious.
Theo leaned back in the booth, one arm slung over the seat. "I feel like this is where reputations come to die."
Simon slid a menu toward him. "Live a little."
Isabella watched them with amusement, sipping her drink. She looked relaxed—more than Theo had ever seen her. No clique. No performance. Just… her.
A song ended. Applause erupted.
Simon nudged Theo. "Your turn."
Theo laughed. "Absolutely not."
"Oh come on," Isabella said. "You talk big. Let's see it."
Theo shook his head. "I draw. I don't sing."
Simon stood up. "Too late."
Before Theo could protest, Simon had already put his name in.
Minutes later, Theo stood on the small stage, microphone in hand, lights way too bright.
"This is a mistake," he muttered.
The music started.
He closed his eyes.
And then he sang.
His voice came out smooth—rich, controlled, emotional in a way that made the room quiet without anyone realizing why. There was no strain, no hesitation. Just raw sound, full and honest.
Isabella froze.
Simon stared.
People turned in their seats.
Theo didn't notice any of it. He was somewhere else—lost in the song, in the way it filled his chest and poured out without permission.
When the last note faded, the room erupted.
Theo opened his eyes, startled.
Simon was on his feet, clapping like an idiot. "BRO."
Isabella was smiling—wide, genuine, stunned. "You said you don't sing?"
Theo blinked. "…I don't usually."
Someone bought him a drink.
Then another.
Time blurred.
By the time they stumbled out into the night, Theo was leaning heavily on both of them, feet barely cooperating.
"Wow," Simon said, adjusting Theo's weight. "You are gone."
Theo slurred, "I told you… I'm lightweight emotionally and physically."
Isabella laughed, looping Theo's arm over her shoulder. "You were incredible."
He hummed sleepily. "You're saying that because you're biased."
"No," she said softly. "I'm saying it because it's true."
They walked down the street like that—awkward, unbalanced, real.
Across the road, someone watched.
Ash leaned against a parked car, phone already out.
He took the first photo as they crossed under a streetlight—Theo passed out between them, Isabella holding him steady, Simon laughing.
Click.
Another angle.
Click.
Ash smiled.
Theo didn't remember the ride home.
He didn't remember being laid down.
He didn't remember the world going dark.
The next morning, the student site refreshed.
A new post appeared.
No caption.
Just photos.
Three figures.
One passed out.
Two holding him up.
And the comments started coming in.