Onyx's POV
Jace:
Don't think about me too much.
Sent: 11:49 a.m.
Jace:
I might get used to it.
Sent: 11:49 a.m.
That was the last message on my screen.
I had been staring at it far longer than I should have—long enough that my thumb hovered over the keyboard, undecided, suspended between response and restraint.
He didn't send anything after that.
No follow-up.
No correction pretending it was a joke.
Just silence.
And that, somehow, made it worse.
Something tugged at me—persistent, irritating—urging me to reply. To say anything. Even something neutral. Even something professional.
But another part of me resisted.
It shouldn't be like this.
It shouldn't matter.
And yet, there was an unfamiliar sensation coiling in my chest—subtle, unnamed—something I didn't have a category for. Not distraction. Not irritation.
Just... awareness.
I exhaled deeply and locked my phone, sliding it face-down onto the desk.
Enough.
I had class.
This shouldn't bother me anymore.
This was just Jace doing what he always did—leaving fragments of himself behind like deliberate fingerprints, imprinting his presence where it didn't belong.
I gathered my things and stood.
Focus.
Structure.
Control.
That was what I did best.
* * *
The Information Systems Management lecture hall was dimmed just enough for the projector to cast a clean glow against the white screen at the front. Rows of students sat hunched over laptops, the low clatter of typing blending with the steady hum of the air-conditioning.
It was familiar. Predictable.
My environment.
I sat straighter as the professor began speaking, fingers already poised above the keyboard.
"Information systems," he said calmly, pacing once before stopping near the podium, "are not just about technology."
I nodded once, absently.
"They are about people."
Something in my posture shifted.
"Even the most efficient system," he continued, "fails if human behavior is not accounted for."
My fingers froze.
The slide changed.
USER INTERACTION & BEHAVIORAL RESPONSE
I stared at the words longer than necessary.
"People don't always act logically," the professor said. "They respond emotionally. Sometimes impulsively. Sometimes defensively. And when they do, the system must adapt—or it breaks."
I swallowed.
That wasn't—
No.
I forced my hands to move, typing mechanically, even as my thoughts lagged behind.
"Now," the professor added, "a common mistake is assuming that if something isn't critical to the system, it won't affect performance."
My chest tightened. Just slightly.
It was nothing.
Just terminology.
Just theory.
"But even minor interactions," he said evenly, "can create long-term impact. A single message. A small trigger. Enough repetition—and suddenly, the system starts prioritizing it without realizing why."
The words landed with uncomfortable precision.
I pressed my lips together and exhaled through my nose, eyes locked on the screen as if it could anchor me.
This was ridiculous.
Why did it feel like the lecture was talking to me?
"Professor," someone asked from the back, "how do you prevent that mistake from happening?"
The professor smiled faintly.
"You don't," he said. "You manage it. You acknowledge the influence, set boundaries, and decide what inputs you allow to stay."
My gaze flicked, unbidden, to the edge of my desk.
My personal phone lay there—dark, silent, harmless.
And yet I remembered those words again that kept appearing in my mind, like a virus forcing its way into my system—
"Don't think about me too much. I might get used to it."
I clenched my jaw.
Enough.
Focus.
"If you pretend it doesn't matter," the professor finished, "you lose control over the system without even noticing."
I stared at my notes.
They were neat. Organized. Perfectly legible.
And still, the words blurred.
I inhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax.
This shouldn't bother me.
This was just a class.
Just a lecture.
Just—
I typed one final line, sharper than the rest.
"Unmanaged inputs can cause unintended dependency.
Unmanaged inputs = Jace"
I paused, then carefully—deliberately—closed my laptop halfway, keeping my eyes fixed on the front of the room instead of my phone, the message I already knew by heart, or the thought I refused to name. The professor glanced at the slide once more before turning back to us.
"And sometimes," he said, his tone thoughtful now, "the most dangerous systems aren't the ones that crash immediately."
I stilled.
"They're the ones that keep running," he continued, "even after they've started prioritizing the wrong input—because by then, the user has already adapted to it."
Something in my chest gave way.
Just a little.
Enough.
The room suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. The hum of laptops grew sharper, louder, like it was pressing in on me instead of fading into the background. I stared at the screen, but the words no longer registered.
The letters stayed still.
I didn't.
I closed my laptop—slowly, carefully—so it wouldn't make a sound.
"Excuse me, Professor," I said as I stood, my voice steadier than I felt. "May I step out for a moment?"
The professor glanced up and nodded once. "Go ahead."
I walked out of the lecture hall, my steps measured even as my pulse wasn't. The hallway lights were brighter than I expected, the sudden quiet ringing in my ears.
I turned into the nearest restroom and locked myself inside.
Cold water rushed over my fingers as I leaned against the sink, splashing my face once. Twice.
I kept my head down.
In.
Out.
Get it together.
This was nothing.
I wiped my face with a paper towel and stared at my reflection, my eyes sharper than they should have been.
"Don't let your system crash," I murmured. "You are the user, Onyx, take control of it."
I closed my eyes for a moment, steadying my breath, then straightened and washed my hands, wiping the remaining water from my face before stepping back out—as if nothing had happened at all.
* * *
After my classes ended for the day, I went straight home—routine, efficient, exactly as expected. There were requirements to finish, requests to fulfill, projects to polish, submissions waiting patiently for my attention.
Work was predictable.
Work behaved.
By the time I reached my room, the sun was already lowering, the light outside my window softening into something less demanding. I set my bag down, opened my laptop, and immediately resumed working on Melody's request.
She had messaged me earlier, before I even got home, asking about her unit requirement. I told her I was nearly finished. She insisted—twice—that I could pause it, since their professor had extended the deadline.
I chose to finish it anyway.
Not because I was diligent.
But because if I finished it now, I wouldn't have to interact with her again.
I focused on the screen, fingers moving with practiced speed, forcing myself to stay occupied. For a while, it worked.
Then my eyes betrayed me.
Every few minutes—without permission, without reason—they drifted toward my phone, lying face-up beside my laptop. As if it might light up at any second.
It was already six in the evening. And I hadn't received a single message from Jace since this morning.
Not that I was concerned.
I knew he was drinking—with his girlfriend, no less. He had mentioned it casually, like it was nothing. Still, a thought crept in, unwanted and persistent.
Did people really drink for that long?
I frowned slightly and typed another line of code.
I had told him to message me when he got home. Not because I cared—but because he was the one driving. It was common sense. Responsibility.
Professional concern.
That was all.
I leaned back in my chair and glanced at my phone again.
Should I message him?
Or call him?
The question lingered longer than it should have.
I picked up my phone and scrolled to his contact, my thumb hovering just above his name. I pressed call—
The first ring sounded.
And I ended it immediately.
"Wait... what am I doing?" I muttered, confused—and more irritated with myself than anything else.
I set the phone back down and shook my head.
"This behavior is inconsistent," I trailed off, searching for the word. "I don't even know what this is."
I exhaled slowly.
"This isn't because of his last message, right?" I said, half to myself, half to the room.
As if summoned by the accusation—
My phone rang.
Jace's name lit up the screen.
I didn't answer right away.
I stared at it, my breathing heavier than it had any right to be. My chest felt tight, alert, like something was about to go wrong—or worse, familiar.
Just answer it.
I tapped the screen.
"Hello? Jace?" I asked, my voice steady despite everything else.
He didn't reply.
But I heard it.
Music—loud, distorted. A band singing somewhere in the background. Voices overlapping. Glass clinking. Noise.
A bar.
He was still out. Still drinking.
I closed my eyes for half a second.
🎵But I only think of you
Will we be together soon?
I'm thrown to the wayside
You're planted in my mind
But I don't wanna be okay without you🎵
That was the song playing on the line—the only thing I actually heard.
"Are you there?" I asked again, my voice low, careful. "Can you hear me? Why aren't you answering?"
He didn't respond.
The music did.
It continued uninterrupted, filling the silence where his voice should have been, stretching the moment longer than it deserved—long enough for unease to settle in my chest, long enough for me to realize I was listening not to a song, but to his absence.
🎵Now I can't find the words to say
That'll be the perfect balance between loud and clear
And I can hear so well, your lovely voice inside my head Saying you love me… Oh🎵
The call ended without warning.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
Just silence.
I stared at my phone, blinking once, then twice, Jace's name still glowing on the screen like it had something left to say.
"What was that?" I muttered, frowning slightly. "He called... but he didn't say anything."
I scrolled back instinctively, as if the phone might reveal something new if I looked hard enough. All I had heard was music—loud, unfiltered, drowning everything else out. A song playing somewhere on his end. That was it.
No voice.
No words.
I exhaled and typed.
Me:
You called but you didn't say anything.
Maybe your phone isn't working properly.
I might have missed something.
Were you saying something?
Sent: 6:16 p.m.
The reply came immediately.
Too quickly.
Jace:
Did you hear the song?
Sent: 6:16 p.m.
I straightened without realizing it.
Me:
Yes. It was the only thing I heard
when you called me back.
Sent: 6:16 p.m.
Then, after a pause—
Me:
But the song was loud.
I couldn't tell if you were
saying something. Are you in a bar?
Sent: 6:16 p.m.
Jace:
Great.
Sent: 6:16 p.m.
That was it.
I waited.
Ten seconds.
Thirty.
A full minute.
Nothing.
My brows pulled together as I stared at the screen, irritation and confusion tangling into something I didn't quite want to name.
"What do you mean, 'great'?" I murmured.
I typed again.
Me:
What do you mean?
Sent: 6:17 p.m.
No reply.
The chat stayed still, unread, unresponsive—like I'd knocked on a door and been deliberately ignored.
I lowered the phone slowly, my thumb hovering over the screen before finally dropping to my side. For reasons I couldn't explain, I felt unsettled. Not annoyed. Not angry.
Just... off.
After a moment, I turned back to my laptop and opened a browser.
I searched the lyrics.
I remembered the first two stanzas clearly—annoyingly clearly. They came back to me as if they had lodged themselves somewhere they didn't belong.
When the result loaded, the title appeared.
"I Don't Wanna Be Okay Without You."
I stared at it longer than necessary.
Then I pressed play.
The melody filled my room, softer now than it had been through the phone—clearer. Intentional. The lyrics unfolded slowly, each line pressing down in a way that made my chest feel strangely tight.
I listened all the way through.
Once.
Then twice.
When it ended, I found myself opening the chat again.
Me:
I searched the song. Is that your favorite?
Sent: 6:25 p.m.
Still nothing.
I hesitated, then added—
Me:
Anyway, at least I know you're alive.
I thought you were dead already.
Sent: 6:25 p.m.
I let my phone rest beside my laptop and leaned back, releasing a breath I hadn't even noticed I was holding until it slipped free.
Something eased. Just a little.
I felt lighter. For no logical reason whatsoever.
"Okay," I said quietly, forcing a faint smile. "Time to focus on my work."
* * *
By the time I wrapped up my work, midnight had already arrived. It was a relief to remember I didn't have any classes tomorrow. I turned off the lights, letting the lamp cast a low, muted glow across the room.
I lay on my bed, turning onto my side as I opened my messages again.
Still nothing from Jace.
I frowned at the screen.
He should have been home by now. Even if he stayed out late, I had told him to message me.
"Should I ask him?" I muttered.
I started typing, carefully composing something professional. Detached. Responsible.
"Jace, you home yet? As the leader of our group, I'm responsible for your welfare. I told you to let me know when you got home. Are you still outside at this hour?"
My thumb lingered over the Send button, hesitation stretching the moment thin—until a message from him appeared before I could make the choice myself.
Jace:
i drunk a lot—shit. i cunt type properly.
Sent: 11:58 p.m.
My eyes widened.
Me:
I told you not to drink too much.
How are you getting home?
You're driving—are you serious?
What about your girlfriend?
Sent: 11:58 p.m.
The reply came slower this time.
Jace:
which gf?
Sent: 11:59 p.m.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
He was completely drunk.
Then—
Jace:
come here. pick me up, boss.
Sent: 11:59 p.m.
I sat up abruptly.
Me:
Stop. I can't go out—it's midnight.
My father will worry if I leave
just to pick up a drunk friend.
Sent: 11:59 p.m.
No response.
Seconds ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last.
My brows knit together.
"Drinking from eleven in the morning until midnight?" I muttered. "He's insane."
I waited.
Still nothing.
The irritation faded, replaced by something sharper—concern.
What if he drove?
What if he passed out somewhere?
What if—
I typed again, faster this time.
Me:
Hey. Jace. Still alive? Don't drive.
I'm serious. Where are you right now?
Sent: 12:05 a.m.
The reply came in two parts.
Jace:
ill tell u where i am
Sent: 12:05 a.m.
Then—
Jace:
if u come get me
Sent: 12:05 a.m.
I stared at the screen, jaw tight.
I shook my head sharply, as if that would shake the feeling off too.
Why was I stressing this much?
If he got into an accident, that would be his fault. Not mine. I had warned him. Multiple times. I had done my part—professionally. Responsibly.
I didn't even have a car to pick him up in the first place.
This wasn't my problem.
So why did it feel like it was?
Why did my chest feel tight again?
I exhaled slowly, phone still clutched in my hand, fully aware that despite every rational thought telling me otherwise—
I closed my eyes and placed my phone on the bedside table, deliberately turning my back to it.
Enough.
He was drunk. That was his choice. Let him deal with the consequences.
Jace was rich, wasn't he? He could call his father. His mother. A sibling—if he had one. One of his many friends. A driver. Someone. Anyone. People like him didn't get stranded. They had options. Safety nets. Backup plans.
So why did it have to be me?
The phone rang again.
I didn't even look. I reached over, switched it to silent, and pressed a pillow over my face, as if that might smother the noise—and the thought of him along with it.
I inhaled.
Exhaled.
Tried to stay still.
But the quiet didn't bring relief.
What if something bad had happened to him? I was the last person he'd talked to, and the idea tightened in my chest, the kind of guilt that would follow me if anything went wrong.
The thought slipped in without permission, sharp and unwelcome. I groaned into the pillow.
I wasn't heartless. And worse—I owed him. Not in money, but in something far heavier. I was the reason he still hadn't graduated.
"I hate this," I muttered.
I yanked the pillow away and grabbed my phone.
I had missed a call.
Several messages waited beneath it.
Jace:
i called others but no one was answering.
Sent: 12:15 a.m.
Jace:
It was only u still awake so i have no one to ask for help.
Sent: 12:15 a.m.
My chest tightened.
Jace:
u r the only one i have left.
Sent: 12:15 a.m.
I stared at the words longer than I should have.
Jace:
I guess u sleeping already as well. sorry 2 bother u, boss.
Sent: 12:15 a.m.
Then, quietly—
Jace:
night.
Sent: 12:15 a.m.
I groaned aloud, dragging a hand down my face before finally typing back.
Me:
Where are you right now?
Sent: 12:16 a.m.
The reply came immediately.
Jace:
r u gonna come get me? :D
Sent: 12:16 a.m.
I clenched my jaw.
Me:
That is not my question.
Where are you?
Sent: 12:16 a.m.
Three dots appeared.
Then—
Jace:
(Jace shared a location)
Sent: 12:16 a.m.
I clicked my tongue the moment it loaded.
Of course, his location still showed the bar—and it was quite far from my house.
I exhaled deeply, already swinging my legs over the bed as resignation settled in like gravity. There was no point arguing with myself anymore. I stood, phone still in hand, and stepped out of my room, heading toward my father's.
I paused outside his door.
Please still be awake.
I knocked softly.
A moment later, the door opened.
"Onyx?" Pa asked, blinking in mild surprise. "Do you need something?"
I closed my eyes.
Just for a second.
When I opened them again, I looked straight at him, forcing the words out before I could talk myself out of it.
"My friend is drunk, Pa," I said. "I'm going to pick him up. Is it okay if he stays here for the night?"
The sentence felt unreal as it left my mouth.
I had never asked him that before.
Not once.
And somehow, even as the weight of it settled in—
I already knew this night had crossed a line I wouldn't be able to uncross.
End of Chapter 9