DEBT: 6%
NEXT PAYMENT: 2 HOURS
Dorian sat on the edge of his bed. Across the room, Tyler held a BLIMP hoodie against his chest.
"Chloe called me last night," Tyler said. "Voice call. Actual voice. Through the phone. People still do that."
Dorian grunted.
"She said my voice was 'surprisingly calming.' I'm choosing to interpret that as 'sexy.'"
"You choose to interpret everything as sexy."
"It's called manifestation, my guy." Tyler held up the hoodie. "You should try it sometime. I'm selling these at the library. 'Hydrate your grades.' Desperation is a market. I'm just meeting demand."
Dorian glanced at Kyle's corner. Kyle sat on his bed, scrolling through his phone. He hadn't said a word. He never did.
The texter's timing was always perfect. Too perfect. And Kyle was always there, silent, watching. Coincidence?
Dorian stood. Grabbed his jacket.
"Where you going?" Tyler asked.
"Out."
"Out where? Out to find a personality? Because I know a guy who sells those. BLIMP brand. Comes in a can."
Dorian almost smiled. Almost.
---
The campus was different now. Two weeks before exams. Students moved faster. Headphones everywhere. A girl cried into her coffee near the science building. A group huddled over past questions. "Have you read chapter seven?" "I'm going to fail." "We're all going to fail together."
Dorian walked past them. The timer sat in the back of his mind like a weight.
---
A flash of orange caught his eye.
A Lamborghini truck – bright, absurd, too expensive for this part of town – was parked near the diner. A small crowd had gathered, phones out, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever owned it. Someone whispered, "Maybe a celebrity."
Dorian almost laughed. In this diner?
He pushed open the door.
---
The diner was small, half-full. A couple of girls in a booth kept glancing toward the window table. A group of guys at the counter elbowed each other, whispering.
Tristan sat near the window, surrounded by his entourage.
Two handsome guys – well‑dressed, expensive sneakers, but clearly a step below him. Three girls, one leaning in too close, touching his arm, laughing too loud. Another girl sat slightly apart, trying to catch his eye, laughing when he laughed, touching her hair. Trying too hard. Tristan didn't even notice.
This was the Chloe from high school. The one who asked him for a pencil senior year and never spoke to him again.
Now she's chasing someone who doesn't even see her.
The waitress approached Tristan's table. She was young, pretty, with a smile she saved for special customers. She leaned over – a little more than necessary – and her fingers drifted to the top button of her shirt. Unbuttoned it. Exposed her cleavage.
"Can I get you anything else?"
Tristan didn't even look at her. "Another coffee. And a pastry. Whatever's fresh."
"I'll get that for you," she said, already walking away, already doing too much.
Dorian ordered at the counter – a burger, a soda – and carried his tray to a corner booth.
He watched the waitress bring the coffee. Watched her lean over the table to set it down, watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Tristan didn't notice – or, even if he did, he didn't show it. He was talking to one of the girls, his hand brushing her arm.
He half expected her to ask for an autograph. Or a lock of his hair.
Wonder what it's like to live without chasing anything, Dorian thought. To have everything orbit you instead.
Tristan glanced across the room. Their eyes met.
Dorian's chest tightened. He sees me.
Tristan held his gaze for a few seconds. Then he looked away. Leaned toward one of his guys. Whispered something.
The guy glanced over at Dorian. Smirked. Another one laughed.
They didn't need to say it out loud. The laugh did it. The glance finished it.
He had already been measured. And found lacking.
---
Tristan's group finished their food. They stood, stretched, gathered their things. The girls adjusted their hair. The guys straightened their jackets.
Dorian watched as Chloe – the one from high school – fell into step beside Tristan. She said something to him, touched his arm. He didn't respond.
They filed out of the diner. The Lamborghini truck roared to life. The entourage piled in – Tristan in the driver's seat, Chloe beside him, the others filling the back.
The truck pulled away, exhaust trailing behind it like a banner.
Dorian sat alone in the corner booth. The familiar ache settled into his chest.
He's gone. And I'm still here.
He pushed his tray away. Wasn't hungry anymore.
---
The library was packed. Every table taken. Students hunched over textbooks, laptops, stacks of notes. The air was thick with stress and the low hum of desperation.
Dorian found a spot in the corner, near the window. He opened his philosophy textbook. Read the first sentence. Read it again. Nothing stuck.
He forced himself to read the same paragraph three times. Four times. Nothing. The words blurred. His mind kept drifting – to Tristan's smirk, to the waitress's fawning, to the high school Chloe trying too hard.
The library doors opened. Priya walked in.
She was with Dan. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, easy smile – the same guy from the dining hall. He was talking, gesturing, narrating some story about himself. Priya nodded along, her face unreadable.
She spotted Dorian. Her eyes narrowed. She said something to Dan, then walked toward him. Dan followed.
"Shippo," Priya said. "You actually study?"
"I try."
Dan looked Dorian up and down. "Who's your friend?"
"Nobody," Priya said. "Just someone I used to know."
Dan extended his hand. "Dan. Pre-law."
Dorian reached for it.
Dan let him. Just long enough to register it.
Then withdrew – casual, clean, practiced.
Like Dorian had already been dismissed and simply hadn't noticed yet.
It was so smooth, so practiced, Dorian almost admired it. Almost.
"I'll go find us a spot," Dan said. "Don't take too long."
He walked off without waiting for a reply.
Priya watched him go. Then she turned to Dorian.
"You haven't called."
"I know."
"Not once." Her voice didn't rise. That made it worse. "After everything… you chose silence."
"I didn't know what to say."
"That's the problem, Shippo." She stepped closer. "You never do. You feel things. Think things. But when it matters—" She tapped his chest. "Nothing comes out."
"I've moved on. Found someone better."
"I got tired of waiting to matter."
"Dan?"
"He doesn't hesitate," she said. "He decides. Even when he's wrong, he moves. You just… stall. Until people leave."
She waited.
Not for an answer. For a fight.
Dorian felt it – burning behind his ribs. The apology. The reach. The instinct to fix it.
He let it die.
"Are you happy?" he asked instead.
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
The silence stretched. A second. Two. Her mask slipped – something raw underneath. She looked at him like she wanted to say something else. Like she wanted him to fight for her.
For a moment, he saw the girl from the club fair. The one who argued about cosmetic surgery like it was a matter of life and death. She was still in there. Buried under the anger.
He didn't fight.
Dan called out: "Priya. Got us a table."
She nodded. Turned away.
Then she glanced back. Just once. Just for a second.
Then she was gone.
Dorian sat alone. The textbook was still open. The words were still blurry.
---
He tried to read again. The same paragraph. Still nothing.
He pulled out Dr. Vance's card. Her number.
He started typing it into his phone.
SECOND PAYMENT ACTIVATED.
The words appeared on the interface. Red. Silent.
Dorian's stomach dropped.
What will it take from me this time?
He stared at the screen. The words hung there. He didn't know what they meant. He wasn't sure he wanted to find out.
He pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Went back to his phone. Typed her number. His thumb didn't move for a second.
He pressed send anyway.
---
Dorian: Good evening.
Unknown number: That depends. Who's asking?
Dorian: Dorian Blimp. From your lecture.
A pause. Longer than it should have been.
Vance: The one who confused confidence for permission.
Dorian: That's one way to remember me.
Vance: It's the accurate way.
He stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Dorian: I was wondering if you'd like to get coffee again.
A long pause.
Vance: Why that?
He blinked.
Dorian: Because I enjoyed the last one.
Vance: You enjoyed it. Or you enjoyed what it led to?
He didn't know how to answer.
Vance: That's what I thought.
Dorian: Then why give me your number?
Another pause. Longer.
Vance: Because you're interesting. Not safe. Just interesting.
Dorian: So is that a no?
Vance: Not a yes. Not yet.
Vance: Ask me again tomorrow. Maybe I'll have decided what you are.
He put the phone away. His heart was pounding.
She didn't say no. She didn't say yes. She just… left the door open.
And made sure I knew it was her door.
---
He tried to read again. The same paragraph. The text swam on the page, refusing to form meaning.
His mind drifted. To the kiss with Dr. Vance. To the fight between Priya and Sarah. To Sarah's last words before she walked away: "I never want to see you again." To Maya and what she told him: "She still hasn't blocked your number. She still hopes you'll text her."
He closed the textbook. Gave up.
He didn't even bother packing his bag. Just left it there. Someone else would need the seat.
---
The dorm was empty when he got back. Tyler was gone. Kyle's corner was empty.
Dorian lay on his bed. Pulled out his phone. Opened Pictura.
He needed to stop thinking. To scroll. To exist without effort.
The first story was Elise's.
A clip of her twerking provocatively, moving with confidence under neon lights, the kind of energy that made the room feel louder even through a screen.
He scrolled.
A photo of her and Kofi at a club. His arm around her waist. Her head tilted back, laughing. They looked… comfortable. Natural. Like they'd known each other for years.
How did they meet? When did that happen?
He didn't know what to feel. Jealousy didn't fit. Relief felt wrong. Indifference didn't come.
He kept scrolling.
His phone buzzed. Jenna.
Jenna: Open mic night tomorrow. 7 PM. I need help setting up. You still work for me, right?
Dorian: "I'll be there."
Jenna: Good. Don't be late.
He set the phone down.
Then he opened the thread. Sarah's name.
He could still see her face. The way she looked at him when she said "I never want to see you again." Not angry. Just finished.
He typed: "I'm sorry."
Deleted it.
Typed: "I know that's not enough."
Deleted it.
Typed: "I wish I could explain."
His thumb hovered over send.
None of them felt true. None of them could undo what he was becoming.
The ring on his finger grew cold.
Then a voice. Feminine. Alluring. Not his own.
"Why are you hesitating?"
Dorian sat up. Looked around. The room was empty.
"Who's there?"
"You know who I am."
His heart pounded. "I don't—"
"You've memorized that look, haven't you? The one where they decide you don't matter—before you even speak."
The words landed like a blade.
"You noticed how he dismissed you. How she walked away. How no one stays."
"That's not—"
"You wanted her to stay. Sarah. Priya. Even the one who didn't know your name."
Dorian's throat was dry.
"I can give you what you want. Power. Presence. The ability to walk into a room and not be ignored."
"I don't—"
"You don't want attention. You want gravity."
The voice was inside his head. Closer now.
"You want him to look at you and feel small. You want her to regret leaving. You want to be the one they chase."
"All you have to do is accept."
"Accept what?"
"Accept me. All it costs… is the version of you they were willing to ignore."
The ring pulsed – warm, not cold.
"Accept me… and stop surviving like this is enough."
The voice faded.
Dorian stared at the ring.
He knew what it would cost.
He just wasn't sure he wanted to stay someone who could still say no.
The ring pulsed again – not cold, not warm. Waiting.
Across the room, Tyler's BLIMP hoodie hung on the back of his chair. Even his delusions were more productive than mine.
He lay back down. Stared at the ceiling.
The voice was gone. But he could still feel it. Waiting.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 37]
---