The first thing Dorian saw when he opened his eyes was Lisa's pencil moving across a page.
She was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, sketchbook balanced on her knee, her hair still messy from sleep. She wore a loose sports bra and cotton shorts – comfortable, unguarded. Morning light cut through the blinds, striping her bare shoulder, the curve of her ribs, the ink that spread across her skin.
He noticed a tattoo he hadn't seen before. Just above the line of her sports bra, nestled between her breasts, a small open cage. No bird. No lock. Just an empty cage, its door slightly ajar.
She didn't notice he was awake.
He lay still. Watched her watch him on paper.
"Morning," he said.
She looked up, didn't stop drawing. "Morning, sleepyhead."
"What are you doing?"
She tilted the sketchbook toward herself, studying the lines. "Capturing you while you're still." She paused. "You looked so peaceful when you were sleeping, I couldn't help myself."
He understood what she was offering. Trust. Intimacy. A glimpse of how she saw him. He just couldn't hold onto the feeling.
"Aren't you going to let me see?" he asked.
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
She set the sketchbook on the nightstand, facedown. "Because you're not ready to see how I see you."
He didn't know what to say. She reached over and touched his chest – not seductive, just there. Her fingers traced the lines of his collarbone. Then she lightly poked his sternum.
"Hey—my eyes are up here."
"I was looking at the tattoo."
She glanced down at the empty cage between her breasts. "Ah. That one."
"What is it?"
She was quiet for a moment. "It's for my dad. He died when I was seventeen. Lung cancer. Six months from diagnosis to the end." Her fingers traced the cage again. "I felt like something flew out of me when he left. Something I couldn't get back. So I got this – to remind myself that empty doesn't mean broken. Sometimes it just means something was there."
"I'm sorry," he said.
She shrugged. "It was a long time ago." She stood, stretched. "You want water? There's a bottle in the fridge."
She walked to the corner of the living room where the small fridge was tucked, pulled out a bottle, and handed it to him.
---
She leaned against the wall, sipping her water.
"You're quiet."
"So are you."
She shrugged. "Not much to say. It was a good night."
"Yeah."
A beat of silence stretched between them. He should say something more. Should reach for her hand, or smile, or give her something to hold onto.
He didn't.
She didn't push. Just scratched Momo behind the ears, who had appeared at the doorway.
---
He dressed. She stayed in the sports bra and shorts, leaning against the wall, bottle in hand.
"Same time next week?" she asked, half‑joking.
"Let me check my busy schedule of staring at walls and avoiding texts."
She laughed – a real one, warm and easy. "I'll pencil you in."
"Use a soft one. I might smudge."
She shook her head, still smiling. "Text me."
He left.
---
On the walk back to campus, his chest tightened. Just for a second. A muted pang of something that might have been regret.
Then it faded.
He pulled out his phone.
A message from Dr. Vance, sent last night while he was with Lisa:
"You didn't ask me again. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed."
He didn't reply.
He put the phone away.
---
He cut across the quad. Mid‑morning. Students shuffled between classes, coffee cups in hand, heads down.
Then he saw her.
Sarah.
She was sitting on a bench near the library, a textbook open in her lap. She wasn't reading. She was talking to two friends – girls from her dorm, maybe. They were laughing about something.
Sarah smiled. Not the polite, distant smile he'd seen before. A real one. It reached her eyes. Crinkled her nose. Her dimples appeared, small and familiar. Made her look like the person he used to know.
She looked good. Healthy. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and there was color in her cheeks. She was wearing a fitted jacket, something new – or something she'd always had that he'd never noticed.
One of her friends said something. Sarah laughed – a genuine laugh, head tilted back, shoulders relaxed. She was happy.
Dorian stopped walking.
She's moved on. Not pretending. Not just okay. Actually happy.
His ribs constricted. A sharp pang of loss, followed by emptiness. He was glad for her. He was also devastated.
He should feel more. Guilt. Longing. Something.
But the ache faded quickly, leaving only the hollow awareness that he was standing thirty feet away from someone who used to matter to him, watching her live a life he no longer belonged to.
He walked away.
---
Back in the dorm, Tyler was already mid‑game, headphones on. Kyle was in his corner, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when Dorian entered, then looked back down.
Dorian lay on his bed. Stared at the ceiling.
A student in the hallway laughed – too loud, too bright. Dorian felt a flicker of irritation, then nothing. They're just living their lives. He didn't resent them. He just didn't feel part of it.
Tyler paused his game, spun his chair, and stretched. "Looks like the prodigal son has finally returned."
Dorian blinked. "What?"
"You know. The prodigal son. Leaves home, parties it up, comes back to a hero's welcome." Tyler spread his arms theatrically. "Go and get the fattest cow – we're celebrating."
"I didn't go anywhere."
"You disappeared. Same thing." Tyler grinned. "Figured you'd want a proper send-off when you left. But no. Just... gone. Rude."
Dorian didn't answer.
Tyler's grin faded slightly. He turned his chair toward Dorian, a brief pause in his usual joking energy. He looked at him more directly than usual.
"Do you ever feel like we're in a story?" Tyler asked. Quieter. Not quite serious, but not fully joking either.
Dorian tensed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean... the way things keep happening. The timing. Coincidences." Tyler shrugged, the moment passing. "Or maybe I'm just paranoid. But if I am, I want better dialogue."
Dorian didn't answer. He just lay back down.
---
Dorian sat up, pulled his shirt over his head. Tyler glanced over.
"Man, have you been working out?" Tyler asked. "You look... different. More cut or something."
"Just lucky."
"Must be nice."
Dorian grabbed his towel. "I'm going to shower."
"Classic avoidance. I respect it."
---
The water was hot. Dorian stood under it, not moving.
He should feel guilt about Sarah. Warmth about Lisa. Anxiety about the texter.
He felt traces of them – faint, like radio signals from a distant station. They were there. They just didn't reach him.
Something was wrong with him. Not missing. Just… turned down.
He turned off the water. Dried off. Got dressed.
---
Night fell. The dorm was dark. Tyler's breathing was slow, even. Kyle's was the same – asleep, or pretending to be.
Dorian lay still, eyes closed.
Then he heard it. Soft. Deliberate.
Kyle's sheets rustled. Footsteps. The door opened, then clicked shut.
He's leaving.
A flicker of apprehension. Not panic – just a muted alert. Enough to make him sit up.
He waited a full minute. Then he pulled on his jacket.
He left his phone on the bed. Face down.
If the texter was tracking him through the device, ditching it would cut the leash.
He slipped out.
---
The campus was empty. Streetlights hummed, casting long shadows across the paths. Kyle walked fast, head down, hands in his pockets. He didn't look back.
Dorian followed, staying behind trees, using building corners for cover. His pulse was elevated – but barely. He should have been more afraid. Sneaking off campus alone, no phone, chasing a roommate who might be dangerous.
He wasn't.
Just curiosity. Just logic. Figure out who Kyle was. Find the texter. End this.
Kyle passed the library. The science building. The edge of campus.
He kept walking. Off campus.
Dorian followed.
---
They reached a side street, lined with parked cars. Kyle stopped at the corner, pulled out his phone. Made a call – quick, the phone lowered after a few words. Then he waited.
A car approached. Dark. Windows tinted. The exhaust hung in the cold air.
Kyle opened the passenger door. Got in.
The car pulled away, its taillights bleeding red into the dark.
Dorian stepped out from the shadows. No phone to take a picture. Just the fading glow and the smell of gasoline.
A flicker of frustration. Brief. Then gone.
He turned back.
---
He walked to campus. The dorm was still dark.
He slipped inside.
Tyler was asleep. Or looked it.
The breathing was steady – too steady.
Dorian lay down.
A moment passed.
Tyler shifted slightly. Not waking. Just turning – toward the door.
Like he'd been listening.
Stillness returned.
But the room didn't feel asleep anymore.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 41]