Until We Fall

Uninvited Company

The next morning, Cyrus dragged himself out of bed, still half-asleep. Mornings weren’t exactly his thing, but he liked this early hour, right before dawn. Where everything still felt calm, still and untouched. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the earbuds that he’d forgotten to take out the night before, and gently pulled them free. He slipped out of bed, the floor cold against his feet, and made his way over to his desk.

There, in a simple silver frame, was the photo of the tall dark-haired boy he had pictured in his mind last night. It was a face that looked familiar yet felt a million miles away. Cyrus looked at it for a second and could feel the ache in his chest growing. He clenched his fists then slowly turned the frame face down.

Instead, he picked up his journal—a small, red book with the word “Journal” scribbled all over the cover in his own shaky handwriting and with different inks. It was packed with random drawings, little observations, half-finished thoughts that he’d never say out loud. This was his one place to be honest, to write down whatever was on his mind without worrying about what people

thought.

He clicked open his pen and started writing:

Sometimes, it’s like I’m stuck behind a glass wall. I can see people connecting, but there’s no door for me to join them. And maybe… maybe someone out there could break through, like a light piercing through this dark.

He paused; closing his eyes and allowing his mind drift to the girl he’d seen last night with the platinum blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He could almost see her laughing—he had no clue why, but she was laughing, and he was laughing with her.

Without even thinking, he scribbled:

I see you there, bright and untouchable, like a flame I can’t help but admire. If only…

Cyrus snapped his eyes open and shut the journal fast. What the hell am I doing? Waiting for someone to “save” me? Seriously, get it together, Cyrus. It’s just words on a page. Nothing more. He took a deep breath then stuffed the journal into his bag. Nothing more than a sappy daydream.

At school, it was just like every other day—same routine, same effort to keep his head down and avoid attention. He took his seat at the back, pulling out his journal to maybe pass the time until class was over. His mind had already drifted by now as he scratched small doodles of leaves and spirals on the pages. But then:

“Cyrus,” called the teacher, Ms. Taylor, from the front of the room. She was his history teacher—young, with a ton of enthusiasm he couldn’t quite figure out. He reluctantly closed his journal and glanced up. She was smiling at him in that encouraging, please-participate kind of way.

“What was the key event that led to the start of World War I?” she asked.

Great, he thought. He knew the answer, of course, but he could feel the eyes of the class turning to him, waiting. The idea of speaking up made him feel like he was on a stage with a spotlight on him. Still, he figured the faster he answered, the faster he’d get out of this.

“The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand,” he answered as quickly as possible.

Ms. Taylor beamed. “That’s right. Thank you, Cyrus.”

Cyrus quickly sank back into his seat as the teacher moved on with the lesson. By then, whatever few students had noticed him had gone back to their own conversations, and Cyrus went back to scribbling. The class eventually ended, and, as usual, Cyrus waited until everyone else left before slipping out.

As he headed down the hall, he absentmindedly opened his journal again, reading over what he’d written earlier. Then suddenly, he heard a voice behind him: “I see you there, bright and untouchable, like a flame I can’t help but admire.”

Startled, Cyrus quickly turned around in shock. Behind him was a boy about his height, maybe an inch taller, with blonde hair that was a bit messy, and eyes the color of green glass. Cyrus recognized him vaguely—another new kid, maybe, though they hadn’t talked before.

“Hey, you’re Cyrus, right?” the guy asked, grinning like he’d known Cyrus forever.

Cyrus blinked, not sure if he was imagining things.

“I’ll take that as a yes. I’m Evan,” the guy said, holding out his hand. Cyrus hesitated but shook it quickly, hoping Evan would leave after that. He didn’t.

“Do you… need something?” Cyrus asked, trying to make it clear he wasn’t looking to chat.

Evan shrugged, glancing at Cyrus’s journal. “Nice notebook. So… what were you writing?”

Is this guy serious right now? In what world is this okay? Can’t you go talk to someone else… anyone other than me?

Cyrus snapped the notebook shut, giving Evan a look that usually ended conversations. But Evan just kept going, “What is it—a book? A memoir? Poetry?”

“No, it’s private,” Cyrus replied, his voice a bit shaky. This guy was relentless, but he had to admit… Evan’s confidence was impressive, even if it was also really, really annoying.

Evan laughed, unbothered. “Fair enough. Everyone’s got something they don’t want the world to see, right?”

Not you, apparently.

“If you don’t need anything, I’ll be on my way now,” Cyrus said, turning to leave.

But Evan didn’t give up that easily. He simply followed along.

Cyrus stopped, turning around to look at him with a frustrated face. “Why are you following me?”

Evan shrugged again, casual as ever. “I just want us to be friends. Is that so bad?”

Great judgment, buddy, Cyrus thought sarcastically. “It might be,” he replied.

Evan laughed. “Man, you really aren’t a social butterfly, huh? Alright, I’ll just have to call you Tacitus. You know, like that one Roman dude? The quiet historian?”

Cyrus sighed, wondering if ignoring him would work, but then muttered, “Please don’t call me that.”

Evan waved it off. “Sorry, there’s no going back now, Tacitus.”

Please, someone kill me now.

As the day went on, Cyrus realized that Evan was genuinely… persistent. The guy followed him to every class, talked through lunch, and he almost followed him into the bathroom too. Cyrus kept waiting for him to take a hint, to get bored, but Evan seemed completely unbothered.

The final bell rang, and Cyrus made a quick exit, hoping to dodge Evan. But somehow, Evan had gotten out even earlier and was waiting. “Yo, Tacitus!” Evan called.

Cyrus didn’t respond, hoping the silent treatment would finally drive him away. But Evan didn’t say anything, just walked alongside him, quietly. It was almost worse than when he talked. What is he, a spy? An undercover agent? Just leave already…

As they walked down the hall, Cyrus spotted the girl with the silver hair again, laughing with her friends. She was easygoing, comfortable, like she belonged at the center of everything. He envied her ease, her confidence, the way she seemed completely in her element.

Soon, he felt a nudge at his side. “Oh, checking out Luna Delaney, huh?” Evan said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Yeah, everyone here’s got a thing for her. She’s like, unofficially queen of Rosewood.”

Cyrus blinked. Luna, he thought, realizing he’d never known her name. “That’s not what I—” Cyrus started, but Evan was already rattling on.

“She’s the kind of girl everyone notices. Not like most people.” He glanced at Cyrus, smirking. “She’s got this magnetic thing about her. Like she’s made of light, y’know?”

“Good for her,” Cyrus muttered.

Evan chuckled. “Ah, I get it. The crush died now that you know she’s out of your league, huh?”

“Crush?” Cyrus wondered.

“Yeah, it’s obvious you have eyes for her. I could always be your wingman.”

And that’s my cue. Without answering, Cyrus turned and walked away. He could hear Evan’s laughter as he walked down the hall. He half-expected Evan to follow, but this time, he actually stayed back.

Heading home, Cyrus opened his journal to the lines he’d written that morning: And maybe… maybe someone out there could break through, like a light piercing through this dark.

He closed the journal, annoyed with himself. Evan was definitely getting to him, but he couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not. People like Evan and Luna—they didn’t understand what it felt like to be invisible, to not want attention. They seemed so free to be themselves, to just… exist out loud.

Maybe you just don’t understand them either, a small voice in his mind whispered. He stopped walking, letting the cool autumn air wash over him. It was strange—he hadn’t felt this conflicted in a long time. And it bothered him much more than he cared to admit.