Onyx's POV
By the time I reached the classroom, I had already convinced myself I didn't care.
I sat down, opened my laptop, and pretended to be intensely productive while waiting for the professor. From the corner of my eye, I glanced at Jace's usual seat on my right.
Empty.
"So annoying," I muttered under my breath.
"Hi, Onyx. Are you busy?"
I flinched slightly and turned.
A classmate stood beside me, smiling politely.
"Just doing my Capstone Project," I replied. "Why?"
"I was hoping you could help me with a part of our project," she said sweetly.
I looked at her properly. She was being nice—too nice. She never talked to me unless she needed something.
And suddenly, Jace's voice echoed in my head:
"You're invisible to them when they don't need you."
I swallowed that thought.
"Okay," I said. "Which part are you confused about?"
"Here," she said, turning her laptop toward me.
She began explaining, pointing at the screen, talking about formatting and analysis and whatever else she was worried about.
I heard her.
I just wasn't listening.
My eyes kept drifting to the empty seat beside me.
"...and that's the part I don't understand," she finished.
And right then—
Jace walked in until he stood beside his chair and dropped his bag onto the desk with deliberate force.
Thud!
Both my classmate and I flinched.
He didn't say a word. He simply looked at her—his gaze steady, unreadable. Not aggressive, not kind. Just there, fixed on her with a quiet intensity that made the silence stretch longer than it should have.
"U-Um... Onyx, I think I understand it now! It's okay!" she said quickly, panic flashing across her face.
I haven't even said anything.
She fled.
Jace let out a low chuckle and took his seat as if he had just reclaimed a throne.
He didn't look at me.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead. I didn't need to see his expression to know—it was there, in the tension, in the way the air shifted between us. He was upset.
He let out a long, exaggerated exhale, loud enough to feel almost theatrical.
Then came the silence.
I turned back to my laptop.
Fine.
I would let him speak first.
I needed to gauge his mood before stepping into whatever storm this was.
Even as I pretended to type, my eyes betrayed me. I kept glancing sideways at him discreetly—only moving my gaze, not my head.
He was on his phone.
Scrolling.
Out of curiosity, I had tried searching for his social media before. Nothing came up. Maybe he used a different name.
Now, from the corner of my eye, I could see what he was looking at.
Photos.
Him and his friends at a bar.
Probably from the time he drank from morning until midnight.
He kept scrolling.
Then he stopped.
It was a photo of him with a beautiful woman beside him. His arm was casually draped over her shoulder. She was smiling brightly at the camera.
Something tightened in my chest.
A second later, the realization settled into place—clean, precise, unavoidable.
His mother.
The one who had already passed away.
Guilt followed immediately, slow and invasive, tracing its way up my spine like a delayed consequence I should have anticipated. I opened my mouth before I could filter it, already aware it was a mistake.
"Is that your mom?" I asked, keeping my tone level—neutral, controlled, as if that could undo the question itself.
He didn't answer.
He only sighed.
Then he shifted, turning his back toward me with a quiet finality that required no interpretation.
...
I paused.
Was he... sulking?
The thought felt almost absurd. Inconsistent with everything I had categorized about him so far—and yet, the evidence in front of me suggested otherwise.
I stared at the back of his head, trying to reconcile it.
"Jace..." I said, quieter this time.
And at that exact moment, the classroom door opened.
The professor walked in.
Wrong timing.
Consistently wrong timing.
I straightened in my seat, hands returning to my keyboard, posture resetting out of habit even as my pulse remained slightly elevated—faster than necessary for something I should have been able to compartmentalize.
Fine.
Later.
I would talk to him later.
Because whether I liked it or not—
The lunch box was still inside my bag, waiting.
* * *
The second the professor dismissed us and stepped out of the room, Jace stood up.
Not casually.
Not slowly.
He rose like someone who had already decided something long before the class ended.
"Wait, Jace..." I said.
He did not even pause.
He walked away as if I were a chair. Or a wall. Or a concept he no longer believed in.
Is he playing hard to get now?
He had not spoken to me the entire class. Even when the professor gave us time to work on our Capstone project, he did not say a single word. He worked on his slides with headphones in, focused, composed, detached.
When I asked about revisions.
When I asked about formatting.
Nothing.
Not even a glance.
I grabbed the paper bag containing the two lunch boxes, shoved my laptop and charger into my backpack, and hurried after him.
By the time I stepped into the hallway, he was already gone.
No trace. No hesitation. Just... gone.
I paused for a second, scanning the corridor as if he might reappear out of sheer probability.
What was he—some kind of magician now?
I exhaled and pulled out my phone, dialing his number without overthinking it.
It rang.
And kept ringing.
No answer.
"Don't make this harder than it has to be," I muttered under my breath. "I'm already trying to apologize."
I opened our chat.
Me:
Where are you? I have something to tell you.
Sent: 10:30 a.m.
One minute passed. Then another. Nothing. No footsteps chasing after me. No sarcastic voice calling my name. Just silence stretching thin and unbearable. I inhaled sharply, the air catching in my chest like I had forgotten how to breathe properly.
Of course.
Then I realized, there is a place where I might find him.
The study corner.
I turned on my heel and walked there quickly, my steps sharper than necessary, echoing faintly against the tiled floor. The morning sun spilled across the corridor in long golden strips, and I could already see the familiar silhouette through the glass panels.
And sure enough—he was there.
Same spot.
Same relaxed posture.
Same infuriatingly calm aura, like the entire universe had personally promised him peace.
He sat with one elbow resting on the table, fingers lazily turning a page, sunlight grazing the side of his face like he belonged in some dramatic university brochure. Completely unbothered. Completely composed. As if I had not just called out to him minutes ago.
I walked straight up to the table and sat across from him. There was absolutely no way he hadn't seen me approach. No way he hadn't felt the shift in the air between us.
And yet—he did not look up.
"I was calling you," I said. "Why didn't you answer?"
No response.
I tried calling him again, even though he was right in front of me. The call rang on my end, steady and persistent—but the phone lying on the table remained completely silent.
Right.
Silent mode.
I gave a small, knowing nod to myself.
"If you don't want to say anything, fine," I said evenly.
I placed the paper bag beside his laptop.
"Pa wants me to give this to you," I continued. "It's your lunch. The red one is yours. He also wants me to apologize for telling you to leave last time. And he wants you to come to our house tonight. If I don't bring you, he won't let me in."
I paused.
"So let's make this simple. Take the lunch box. Accept my apology. Come with me later."
He did not even blink.
Instead, he picked up his phone.
And called someone.
"Let's go to the bar tonight," Jace said casually into the receiver. "Same place."
My fingers tightened against my knees.
"Yeah. I feel like drinking."
A small pause.
"I was actually having a good time. Good breakfast. Good conversation." He leaned back slightly. "Until someone decided I shouldn't be there and told me to leave."
He did not look at me.
He did not need to.
"So yeah. Six. At least in a bar, no one kicks you out abruptly."
The call ended.
I stared at him.
He was doing this on purpose.
He was weaponizing indifference.
"You have to come with me," I said quietly. "You can't go to a bar and drink tonight."
Still nothing.
Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Not a glance. Not a shift in posture to suggest he was even remotely aware that I existed across the table from him.
The silence thickened between us, heavy and deliberate.
Then, without a word, he closed his laptop.
The soft click of it snapping shut sounded far louder than it should have—final, almost ceremonial. He slid it into his bag with unhurried precision, movements smooth and controlled, as if he had all the time in the world. As if he was not dismantling my composure piece by piece.
He stood up.
For a split second, I thought—this was it. He would finally look at me. Say something sharp. Or sarcastic. Or at least annoyed.
But no.
He simply adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder and walked away.
Again.
The paper bag I had brought—the one I had stubbornly carried around like some peace offering I refused to admit was one—remained on the table between us.
Untouched.
Unopened.
Ignored.
I stared at it for a moment, at the slightly crumpled handles from how tightly I had been holding it earlier. Then I let out a slow exhale, the kind that tried to pass as calm but tasted suspiciously like defeat.
I watched his retreating figure disappear down the corridor, swallowed by the morning light and passing students.
This wasn't accidental. He wasn't distracted or unaware—he was doing it on purpose. He had already decided not to acknowledge me, and everything about it felt deliberate, controlled.
Punishment.
And the worst part?
He was very, very good at it.
* * *
It was six in the evening when my last class ended.
The lecture room emptied in waves—chairs scraping, backpacks zipping, laughter echoing toward freedom. Outside the tall windows, the sky was already fading into that bruised shade between gold and blue. Students were making plans. Coffee. Dates. Study groups they would absolutely not attend.
I stayed seated.
Surely Pa would not actually lock me out of the house just because I failed to escort Jace home for dinner.
Surely he was bluffing.
My phone vibrated.
I glanced down.
Pa:
Did you give him the lunch I prepared? Make sure to bring Jace here. I prepared dinner for the three of us.
Sent: 6:01 p.m.
Of course he did.
Jace and my father—two men with entirely different personalities, somehow united in making my life strategically difficult.
I typed back quickly.
Me:
Jace will go to the bar to
drink with his friends.
He can't come for dinner.
Sent: 6:01 p.m.
The three dots appeared immediately.
I already knew I would not like this.
Pa:
Okay. Sleep there at uni. I will lock the door at 10 p.m.
Sent: 6:01 p.m.
I stared at the screen.
He replied too fast. That meant he had already prepared himself for war.
Me:
You can't do this to me! I'm your son!
Sent: 6:01 p.m.
Another immediate reply.
He did not even hesitate.
Pa:
Don't let this dinner go to waste, Onyx. Okay? I will heat this up in case you both come here late. See you.
Sent: 6:01 p.m.
See you.
The audacity.
I leaned back in my chair and looked up at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed me. A groan escaped my throat before I could stop it. Around me, the classroom lights flickered off one row at a time.
Ten p.m.
Four hours.
Four hours before I officially became homeless over a person who was dangerously close to becoming my father's favorite son.
I pressed my thumb against Jace's contact and called.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Still no answer.
Of course not.
This wasn't just him being upset. There was nothing impulsive about it, nothing careless. It was deliberate—calm, measured, almost strategic in the way he chose not to respond.
Jace did not shout when he was angry. He withdrew. He let silence do the damage. He made you feel the absence.
I lowered my phone slowly, staring at my own reflection in the black screen.
"Should I really go to the bar just to pick him up?" I asked myself.
Now all I could imagine was the opposite.
A bar—music loud enough to vibrate through bone, strangers swaying beneath harsh neon lights, the air thick with alcohol that seemed to cling to everything it touched.
I hated alcohol.
I hated what it did to people—how it stripped away restraint and left carelessness in its place.
And Jace's friends would be there.
If he had already told them what happened between us, they would probably hate me. Or worse—find it entertaining.
I swallowed.
If I didn't go, I would be locked out of my own house.
But if I did—I might be walking straight into humiliation. Or confrontation. Or something I wasn't prepared to face.
"Fine," I muttered under my breath.
Not because I wanted to go.
Not because I had any tolerance for chaos.
But because, at this point, I didn't have a choice.
But because apparently my survival tonight depended on one arrogant, infuriating, unreadable man.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked out of the university gates.
* * *
The evening air was cooler now. Streetlights flickered awake one by one, illuminating the pavement in soft amber. Cars passed in streaks of white and red. The city felt alive.
And I was heading straight into the one place I avoided at all costs.
This was ridiculous.
I did not even like him.
I only needed him to prevent homelessness.
That was all.
Absolutely all.
As soon as I got there, I stopped in front of it, staring at the glowing sign down the street.
I inhaled slowly.
Then I stepped forward.
Straight toward the music.
Straight toward the light.
Straight toward whatever was waiting for me inside.
And for the first time that evening, I had the unsettling feeling that being locked out of my house might have been the safer option.
End of Chapter 14