Sunday, just after lunch.
Sam sat on the edge of his bed, one leg stretched out, the other bent, his elbow resting on his knee as soft guitar music played from his speaker — lo-fi stuff with no words, just calming notes that filled the silence. His room was dim, lit only by a strip of warm LED lights near the ceiling, casting a soft amber hue over posters, sketches, and the half-finished graphic novel on his desk.
He stared at his phone for a long time.
No new messages.
But last night's call with Claire still echoed in his head.
The way her voice cracked slightly when she tried to stay strong.
The way she said, "I just don't want to feel like I'm ruining everything."
Sam sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.
He hated how much guilt she carried. Like she wasn't allowed to just live, or feel things without asking for permission.
He'd known her long enough to see the way she shrank when emotions got complicated. Claire never begged for attention — she avoided it. But that didn't mean she didn't need it.
That's why Sam always picked up when she called.
Even if she didn't say much. Even if she just wanted to hear someone breathing on the other end of the line.
She deserved that kind of loyalty.
He glanced over at his sketchbook, half-tempted to draw something dumb to lighten the mood — maybe Claire as a knight in armor, swinging a sword labeled "boundaries." But before he could grab it, his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He hesitated… then answered.
Then we continue with Randy's call, as written before.
Let me know if you'd like to dive into Sam's feelings after that call too — I can continue it with his reaction and his decision to text Claire.
Got it! Here's how we can continue, integrating that background — Sam already knows Randy and had agreed to keep an eye on Claire out of concern. But now things shift:
Sam's eyes narrowed as he held the phone to his ear.
"Randy?" he said, sitting up straighter.
"Yeah," came the familiar voice on the other end — calm, collected, but with an edge that Sam immediately picked up on. "Thanks for picking up."
"No problem. What's up?"
There was a pause. Then Randy said it:
"I want you to back off from Claire."
Sam blinked. "What?"
"You heard me," Randy said. "I know you've been close to her lately. I get it — I asked you to watch out for her. But now… I want to take that role back."
Sam stood up slowly, pacing. "You asked me to make sure she was okay, Randy. To be there. To help if anything felt off."
"I know. And I appreciate it," Randy said. "But now I'm stepping forward. I want to ask her out. And I think having you always there, texting her, calling her — it just muddies things."
Sam's jaw tensed. "I didn't do any of that to 'muddy' things. I did it because she needed someone."
"I know. And I'm not blaming you," Randy said, his voice still even. "But I'm asking. As a friend. Give me some space to try. Let me show her that I'm serious."
Sam looked out the window, silence stretching.
"And what if she doesn't want that?" he asked quietly. "What if she just wants peace right now? Not pressure?"
"I'm not pressuring her," Randy replied. "But if you keep hovering, it'll be hard for her to see me clearly. Please, Sam."
Sam didn't respond right away. His stomach twisted.
He'd done what Randy asked — watched Claire from a distance, offered small comforts, picked up late-night calls when no one else did. And now he was being asked to disappear?
"I'll think about it," Sam said finally, voice flat.
"I'd appreciate that," Randy said. "Seriously."
Click.
The call ended. Sam stared at his phone like it had burned him.
He wasn't angry — not exactly. But there was something heavy in his chest. Something that felt like being used. And worse: like Claire might get caught in the middle of something she didn't ask for.
After a long moment, he sat back down at his desk and opened a blank page in his sketchbook.
He didn't know if he'd call Claire tonight.
But he knew one thing for sure — he wasn't going to let her become a prize passed between people. Not even by someone who once said he cared.
The next few days, Sam kept his distance.
No more morning messages. No random check-ins. No "hey, just making sure you're okay" texts.
Claire noticed — not loudly, not dramatically, but in that quiet way she always did. A glance toward the back of the classroom where Sam usually sat. A slight pause near the lockers they used to share small jokes around. But she didn't ask. She didn't chase it. Maybe she thought it was just life moving on.
For Sam, it was anything but simple.
He tried — really tried — to stay out of her orbit. Focused on other things, sat in different corners, buried himself in sketching. But the problem wasn't space.
It was memory. Because Claire had this habit — of laughing at the worst moments, of making even silence feel safe, of noticing things no one else did. And the more he tried to pull away, the clearer it became.
He didn't just care about her safety anymore.
He liked her.
Maybe he had for a while — hidden behind casual words and friendly gestures. But now that Randy had drawn the line, now that Sam had tried to back off, the truth felt louder.
Claire never flirted with him. She never gave him false hope. But there were moments — soft ones — where she looked at him like she knew he'd been there through the dark. And those moments lingered.
One afternoon, Sam found himself watching her across the courtyard. She was talking to Vienna, animated, finally laughing again after everything. She looked light — like the heaviness had finally started lifting.
He felt a bittersweet ache in his chest.
She was happy.
That should've been enough.
But when she turned slightly, when her gaze accidentally brushed his from across the space — and she gave him that small smile — everything he'd been trying to suppress came rushing back.
Claire didn't know how he felt. She still thought of him as the guy who helped her out when things were hard. A friend. A steady one.
And Sam had every intention of staying that way.
But as he stood there, hands in his pockets, trying to be invisible, he realized something.
Maybe Randy had asked him to stay away.
But Sam's feelings — they weren't something he could just turn off like a switch.
Late Afternoon.
The art room was quiet — just the soft scratch of pencils and the distant hum of air vents. Sam sat alone at the back table, sketchpad open but untouched. His fingers rested on the paper, still, like they couldn't decide whether to draw or let go.
The light from the windows cast soft shadows across the room, and the world outside moved on — students laughing in the courtyard, bells ringing in the distance — but inside, Sam didn't move.
He stared down at a half-drawn face.
Claire's.
Unfinished. Unspoken.
He turned the page. He shouldn't have drawn her in the first place.
It had been three days since Randy called him.
Three days since that calm voice said:
"You've done your job, Sam. She's fine now. I'll take it from here."
And after a pause:
"I transferred a little more to your account. For everything."
Sam hadn't replied. Just nodded, even though Randy couldn't see it.
Even though every part of him wanted to say,
But what if I don't want to stop?
But he did. He stopped. He stayed away.
Because the truth was, money talked louder than feelings in his world. And what Randy gave could help his mom pay rent. Cover his sister's school fees. Fix the motorbike they shared. Real stuff. Important stuff.Not a crush.
Not a girl who would never really see him the same way.
So he let himself vanish from her days. A shadow. A silence. A memory fading out.
Still, his chest tightened every time he saw her walk past the lockers.
Or laugh with Vienna.
Or look just a little confused — like she noticed his absence, but didn't know how to ask why.
He hoped she wouldn't ask.
Because he didn't trust himself to answer.
Sam closed the sketchpad gently and leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. The lump in his throat refused to go away.
No one else was in the room.
No eyes watching. No Randy.
No Claire.
Just him, the silence, and the ache of doing the right thing… that didn't feel right at all.