"Damien!"

Lyn squeezed herself through the crowd, her eyes set on the stocky, brown-skinned boy walking hand in hand with a pretty blonde girl, his friends beside them.

She needed to get to him. She needed to talk to him. They didn't have much time left.

Damien and his friends stepped into the cafeteria, headed straight to the queue. An inadvertent push from behind, and the raven-haired girl stumbled in; a few steps and a couple more pushes around, then she collided into the pretty blonde girl.

"Ugh, get off of me," said Cheryl, pushing Lyn away.

But Damien had seen her, and stopped in his tracks, and spun around in time to reach an arm out, steadying his childhood friend.

"You okay, Lyn?" he asked.

His girlfriend stared at him in disbelief. "She bumped me."

"It's probably an accident," he assured Cheryl. Then he held her hand again, and squeezed it affectionately. "You're not hurt, are you?"

His girlfriend smiled, and shook her head, giving his hand a good squeeze back.

"I'm fine," said Lyn, gesturing that Damien remove his hand from her shoulder, which he did. "But I've got to talk to you about something."

Cheryl pouted, and looked up at Damien. "But, my love, I'm starving."

"I'll be quick," Lyn promised.

His girlfriend gave her a threatening glare, and warned, "You better."

"So what is it?" asked Damien. His friends had also halted in their tracks, and now they stared at Damien and Lyn, listening.

"You agreed we were going to meet after class on Wednesday," said Lyn. She caught Cheryl's eyes widen, then. "I have no plans to steal your boyfriend, if that's what you're thinking," she said, turning to her. She shifted her attention back to Damien, and said, "I asked you again yesterday, and you said you'll make up for it, but you didn't show up either." She paused. "What are we going to do about the English presentation?"

"Oh, right," said Damien, remembering. "Sorry. Been stuck in detention after class since Monday. Forgot to tell you about that. When's the presentation again?"

"Monday."

"We have plenty of time."

"Damien, it's Friday today," said Lyn, "and we haven't discussed anything."

"My love," whined Cheryl, "I'm hungry."

"Just a minute," said Damien, his thumb stroking the hand he held. "I'll meet you after detention."

Lyn asked, "When does your detention end?"

"Six."

"So we can meet up at seven?"

"Eight."

"Where?"

Cheryl sighed. "My love, please."

"The Raven's Nest," rushed Damien.

Lyn nodded in agreement. And with that, Cheryl dragged her boyfriend straight to the queue, his friends following suit.

Lyn stood there, watching her childhood friend walk farther away till he disappeared into the crowd. He wasn't the academically driven boy she knew back when they were kids. They used to compete against each other, their grade point averages only a decimal's difference. Now he didn't seem to care about any of that. All that was left was a shadow of a goofy smile, a shell of the funny math whiz he once was before his parents' divorce.

"Did you forget?" asked Cheryl, wide eyed.

Damien gave her a bewildered look. "Forget what?"

"The party, bro," said Brendan, a hand combing through his messy brown hair.

"You know," said Rian, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, smiling a mischievous smile. He looked around a moment, then said, in almost a whisper, "The party in the graveyard tonight. It happens every year. How can you forget?"

"Right," said Damien, remembering. "Right."

They reached the back of the line, then.

"So?" questioned Cheryl.

Damien shrugged. "So?"

"What are you going to do about her?" she asked. "You agreed you'll meet up with her at eight in The Raven's Nest."

Damien was quiet for a moment, thinking. He glanced back, at Lyn who stood far away from them in line, out of earshot, her eyes glued to a copy of "The Bell Jar".

"And let me remind you," added Cheryl, making Damien turn his attention back to her, "that it'll be social suicide if we don't go. You're my boyfriend, so we have to go together." She looked him straight in the eye. "You'll go with me, won't you, my love?"

There was something in the way she said it, and Damien knew what it was: My love, you better do what I want you to do, or we're breaking up, the tone said it all, in the form of a harmless request. He was no stranger to this. Yet it always unnerved him whenever she talked to him like that; it always scared him that he would lose her then and there, just with one stupid disagreement.

Damien breathed in as subtle as he could. What can he do? He was her boyfriend.

He simply smiled and shrugged. "English can wait."

The corners of her hot pink lips turned up. "Anything for me?" she giggled, giving him a cute wink.

"Anything for you," said Damien, faking a smile.

Cheryl picked up her tray, and handed Damien another. "Come on," she said, grabbing a plate. "I'm hungry."

Jack sat with the basketball team, as usual. He stabbed a fork into a sausage, ready to take a bite, then he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a familiar voice say, "You coming to the party tonight?"

Jack smiled and looked up at Damien. "'Course, bruh," he said. "Wouldn't want to miss out on the fun."

"It's where the cool kids are at," interjected someone else on the basketball team, a boy with dark skin and a charming smile that hinted at mischief. "It's part of being on the team, something the team's done for years now, and we wouldn't dare miss it, would we, team?"

Everyone in the basketball team seemed to agree with him.

It was tradition. No one questioned tradition.

"Told you, social suicide," whispered Cheryl, with a wink.

"A'ight." Damien smiled, and held out a fist. "See ya later, bro."

Jack glanced down at it, and collided Damien's fist with his. "Yeah, bruh. See ya."

Damien nodded, then walked over to the table his other friends now occupied, his girlfriend's arm coiled around his, his hand holding hers.

Just then something dropped onto Jack's shoulder. "Am I coming, too?" asked a girl, her brown hair high up in a ponytail, her brown eyes gazing up at Jack.

Jack smiled. Although they weren't official yet, they've been together for five months now, longer than any romantic flings he's had for the past year. She was different. There was no pressure around her—unlike parents, school, and basketball. He was himself. And she accepted him for him, loved him for him. They were getting there, he was sure, and at the party, he'd ask her to be his girlfriend, that was the plan, so he said, "'Course, you are."

Her eyes twinkled with delight. "I'm excited."

"Me, too," said Jack. And he was.

Someone's shadow fell upon the book she was reading. Lyn looked up. Before her stood Max, towering over her at six feet tall, his brown hair as messy as usual, and before she could ask, he said, "Mind if I sit?"

Lyn nodded, despite herself. And with that, he sat across her, and placed his lunch down on the table.

There was a moment of silence between them, the awkward kind—Lyn kept her eyes on her book; Max looked away for a while, only to look back again at Lyn. He caught her glance at him for a fleeting second. Then he said, "I'm sorry."

Lyn put her book down, placing something between the pages before the rest of the sheets fell into place. She looked at him, confused. "For what?"

"Monday," he said.

"You didn't do anything."

"You ran off."

"I wasn't hungry."

"That wasn't the case."

Lyn breathed in. He knows. She leaned forward, and staring straight into his blue eyes, she said, "Max, what you saw, you—you didn't tell anyone, did you?"

"I didn't tell anyone," he said.

"Good," said Lyn, leaning back, opening her book.

Max picked up his fork, and stabbed one of the sausages. "You're usually alone, aren't you?" he asked, before taking a bite.

"Yeah."

"You don't like making friends?"

"People suck."

Max chuckled. "Tell me about it."

Lyn glanced up from her book, bewilderment clouding her features. "Are you serious?"

"Mm?" Max looked at her, wide eyed. He chewed quickly, then swallowed. "What?"

"I mean, are you serious about that? You seriously think people suck?"

Max shrugged. "Yeah."

"I'm surprised," said Lyn. "I mean, coming from someone like you—"

"Someone like me?"

"Yeah, I mean—" Lyn realized, then, and raised both palms to her face, feeling her face flush. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that was super judgmental—I didn't even—Darn it!"

Max chuckled. Seeing her like this was something new, like a layer he had peeled off inadvertently only to reveal another layer, soft and a bit unguarded.

"That was stupid. I shouldn't have—"

"Hey, hey. It's cool," said Max, smiling.

Lyn looked through the gaps between her fingers, and caught sight of that smile on his face, amused and—if she dare say it—a bit charming. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Max shrugged. "A little."

Lyn put her hands down, and sighed.

"What were you going to tell me, anyway?" asked Max, abandoning his lunch then, his blue eyes glinting with curiosity.

Lyn shook her head.

Max raised his eyebrows.

"It's stupid."

Max rolled his eyes, playfully. "Just tell me."

"You—" Lyn hesitated for a moment. "You just don't seem like that kind of person, you know that? You're friendly, you're nice, like no one's done you wrong. You—I envy that."

Max stared at her in silence, then said, "Some of us are just better at hiding the pain. Trust me, there's nothing to envy about that."

A humorless chuckle escaped her lips. "Beats having to self-destruct all the time," she muttered.

Max was quiet for a while, gazing into her forlorn expression, his blue eyes fixed on the lifelessness in her hazel ones. Then, "You don't have to hurt yourself, you do know that?"

Lyn said nothing in response, a strange wave of silence coming between them. One stared at the other, the other stared back. There was something she recognized in him, and there was something he saw in her. Something intangible, something dreamlike.

A familiar soul, a long lost friend.

"Oh, there you are," said another voice. Sander placed his tray down on the table, and sat next to Max. "Miss Pince took her time with the lecture. Didn't want to dismiss the class till the chapter was done. She finally let us out ten minutes after the bell." He picked up his cutlery. "Let's eat. I'm starving." He turned his sights to Max, then to Lyn, who both stared at him in silence. "Um, did I interrupt anything?"

"No," they said in unison, Lyn returning to her book, Max putting a piece of sausage into his mouth.

"All right, then," said Sander, unsure. He picked up a piece of bread, and bit into it. "Mm. This is good bread," he said, trying to ease the awkward air.

Lyn and Max exchanged looks, only to avert their glances a second later, Max turning his attention to the food on his tray, Lyn to the novel in hand.

Neither of them said a word to each other after that.

Sunlight was fading now, and the sky was turning a darker blue as the minutes slipped past.

Lyn dug a hand into her jeans pocket, the other clasped around the strap of her crossbody bag. Chimes rang and echoed above her as she pushed the door open, stepping onto the pine-paneled floor of The Raven's Nest. Her eyes scanned the place, the door shutting behind her with a gentle thud. There was no sight of Damien yet, and this she had kind of expected.

Without his mom around, she had a theory he wasn't one to show up earlier than scheduled. As his sister had told her before, and based on experience, he took quite a while to get ready, even longer than she did.

Lyn found a table for two some paces away from the counter, and took her steps toward it. She pulled a chair out, sat herself down, and began to wait.

"So, Damien, where are you heading to?" asked Sander, looking up from his homework.

Damien slid his arm into a jacket sleeve, and said, "Gonna meet up with Jack and the others in The Raven's Nest."

"And I'm not invited?" asked Sander, jokingly. "Didn't Jack say I was a homie, too?"

Damien shrugged, chuckling. "Better luck next time, bro."

"Wouldn't change things if you asked, anyway," said Sander, holding up his laptop. "Miss Pince wants this thousand-paged essay on Wednesday. Thought I better get a head start."

Something buzzed, then. Damien reached an arm over to the bedside table, picked up his phone. The screen had lit up, and the notification read:

Cheryl Grant ❤️
    Are you ready? 😉😘

Damien's thumb tapped on the screen, and he typed,

Gonna be down in a sec my love

Send.

He pocketed his phone, walked over to the door. And just then he remembered—he pulled out his phone, and typed,

Sick can't make it
Maybe tomorrow after detention
Same time same place

Send.

"Well, have fun," said Sander, turning his attention back to his homework.

Damien nodded. "I will."

And with that, he stepped out the dorm room, down the stairs, out into the evening September air, where he greeted his friends, pecked a kiss on his girlfriend's forehead, and held her hand, just the way she liked it.

Lyn tore her gaze from the book she was reading, and glanced at the clock above the counter—nine sharp, the café would close in thirty minutes' time. She looked around: only two of the tables were occupied that moment, hers and a group of friends seated by the back wall. Everyone else had left.

    Still, no sign of Damien. Not even a call or a text from him.

"Took you quite a while to finish that," said a voice. The waiter's huge hand picked up the empty mug that sat on the table. She had ordered a mug of The Raven's Nest House Blend Chocolate drink upon suggestion of the same six-one, green-haired waiter—So they wouldn't have to ask her to leave for ordering nothing, he said—and Lyn had taken sips in between reads. "You still waiting for him?" the waiter asked.

Lyn nodded.

The waiter shook his head. "Jerk."

"We were supposed to talk about our pair presentation for English class," explained Lyn, reining in the frustration.

"Looks like you're going to have to do it without him."

The chimes made their music again. But this time, no one came in; three people left instead.

A waitress, a petite dark-haired girl with brown skin and small eyes, passed by and patted the waiter's upper arm, unable to reach his shoulder. "I'll take care of it," she said, winking at him. "You try to help her out."

"Thanks, Michelle," he called out, with a smile.

"Anytime, TJ."

The waiter TJ pulled a chair out, and sat himself down. Then he looked at Lyn for a moment, and asked, "You okay?"

"Just frustrated, I guess," she said.

"I know it's supposed to be a pair work, but if he isn't going to take it seriously, you're going to have to do it alone."

"He's different now," confided Lyn. "I don't recognize him anymore. Honestly, if it wasn't for his mom and my mom, we would've lost all contact. And I'm pretty sure he just started messaging me again after all these years because his mom told him to. To help me feel better or something—I don't really know."

"That sucks. Hey, have you tried texting him? Calling him?"

"Many times," said Lyn. "But his phone couldn't be reached."

"Mm." TJ thought for a moment, then, "Tried texting or calling his roommate?"

"I don't—" Then Lyn remembered: her roommate was friends with his roommate, and they seemed to communicate often—talking along the hallways, in the cafeteria; texting at night sometimes. And she always had that bright, genuine smile on her face when he was around.

"You're thinking of something," said TJ, pulling Lyn away from her train of thought. "I hope it's a good thing."

"It is," said Lyn. She zipped her bag open, produced her phone.

"I wouldn't text or call in here if I were you," said TJ. "Reception's iffy. Try texting or calling outside."

"Yeah. Almost forgot about that. Thanks." Lyn slid the chair back, and stood. She was smiling a rare, genuine smile. "Thank you so much. You have no idea—"

"Hey. No probs," he said, rising from his seat. "Glad to be of help. Anyway, what's your name?"

"Adelina. Lyn, if that makes your life any easier."

"TJ," he said, pointing to the nameplate pinned on his apron. "My shift's at four to seven on the weekdays, four to nine-thirty on Fridays, and two to nine-thirty on the weekends. That is, if you need someone like a big brother to talk to."

Lyn nodded. "TJ," she repeated. "What does TJ stand for?"

"Tyler Justin."

"Tyler Justin, like the singer of Twenty One Pilots?"

"No, no. That's Tyler Joseph. And Joseph isn't even my last name."

"That's because it's Perazzo," interjected the waitress, Michelle. "His dad's Mister Perazzo. He and his wife own The Raven's Nest."

"Oh."

"You didn't have to give my identity away like that," TJ called out, as Michelle walked over to the counter. He pointed a thumb at her, and muttered, "Girlfriends. You know what they're like."

Lyn nodded, chuckling. "She seems wonderful, though."

"She is," he said, watching her make her way to the kitchen behind the counter. "And aren't you supposed to text someone?"

Lyn's eyes widened, then. "Yeah, yeah. I better text her now, and—I'll be right back to pick my stuff up. Thank you." Then she ran out the door, the chimes ringing overhead. The second she stepped out of the café, into the evening September air, her fingers began flying across her phone screen, typing in a name, typing a message that read,

Hi, Talya. Do you happen to have Sander's number? I need to contact his roommate. Thanks.