The Fake Panic Announcement
Chapter Eight โ Seven Days Without You
Heโs the golden boy of the university hockey teamโcocky, rich, impossible to ignore. Youโre just the quiet student who happens to sit next to him in psych. A fake relationship shouldโve stayed fake. But somewhere between the locker-room chaos, late-night tutoring, and one very real heartbreak, the lines blur beyond repair.
โธ๏ธ Series Warnings: language ยท explicit content (18+ readers only) ยท alcohol ยท emotional angst ยท jealousy ยท mentions of past trauma ยท rough/soft dynamics ยท all scenes consensual
You donโt mean to change seats.
You walk into psych with your chest feeling too tight, your eyes raw, your backpack heavier than itโs ever been. The room looks the same as alwaysโrows of chairs, pale fluorescent lights, the hum of early-morning chatterโbut something inside you shifts. Something small and stupid and self-protective snaps.
Right where you always sat.
The chair you once slid into without thinking now looks radioactive.
Your footsteps sound too loud, too final.
You choose a seat against the aisle, a place you never sit, a place no one can accidentally brush your arm.
You lower yourself into the chair and keep your eyes glued to your notebook. You pretend the scratch of pen to paper is enough to drown out your heartbeat.
You hear him before you see him.
The shuffle of his backpack.
The muffled apology as he nudges past someoneโs legs.
The faint click of his rings against the metal railing he always runs his fingers along.
Not even when he stops beside the empty seat next to yoursโyour old oneโand hesitates.
You can feel him looking at you.
Not at your hair or your clothes or your hand tightly gripping the penโno. At you.
He doesnโt say anything.
He just lowers himself into the seat you used to fill and sits through the entire lecture without speaking, without moving, without even pretending to take notes.
You keep your jaw clenched the whole time so your mouth doesnโt tremble.
You make it through the class, but barely.
And when the bell rings, you leave fast enough that the air still smells faintly like him when you pass.
You tell yourself this is the right decision.
But your chest aches the whole walk home.
Your roommate notices immediately.
You barely make it inside before she looks up from her laptop, takes one glance at your face, and says,
You try to protestโyouโre fine, youโre tired, you just want to showerโbut sheโs already shoving a mug of hot tea into your hands and pulling you down onto your bed like gravity finally decided to do its job.
โWhat happened?โ she asks.
You donโt know where to begin.
The way it felt like a breakup without the privilege of calling it one.
The way he said he wanted you but didnโt want to hurt you.
The way you agreed to stop even though it felt like tearing something out of your ribcage.
Instead you just whisper, โI donโt want to talk about it.โ
Your roommate stares at you.
And instead of leaving you alone, which she knows you would pretend is fine, she pulls you into her arms and lets you cry until your throat burns.
When you pull back, she hands you a tissue and says gently,
โYou can stay home tomorrow if you need.โ
You donโt want to fall apart.
Not more than you already have.
But the truth is, everything you touch reminds you of him.
Your hoodie smells like his cologne.
Your pillow still has a faint imprint of the night he slept on your floor.
Your desk holds the pen he once borrowed, returned with a stupid doodle of a stick-figure hockey player you didnโt have the heart to erase.
You shower and curl up in bed with your phone facedown.
You donโt expect a message.
You try to avoid him in ways that feel childish but necessary.
If you hear his laugh echoing down the quad, you turn around.
If you see a group of hockey players approaching, you duck behind a tree or fake a phone call.
Once, you spot him walking with a girl at his sideโsome blonde in a tight jacket with her makeup perfectโand your breath catches hard enough to hurt.
You turn before he can see your face.
You donโt see the way he steps away from the girl when you leave.
You donโt hear him say,
โSorry, Iโm not in the mood,โ
before walking off in the opposite direction.
You donโt go to the home game.
Everyone goes to the home games.
The stands glow with school colors, students packed shoulder to shoulder, the whole place buzzing with excitement.
You sit in your dark dorm room instead, staring at the wall, listening to the faint rumble of the arena horn in the distance.
You imagine the rink lights.
The sound Aegon makes when he laughs during warmups.
You imagine him skating out, eyes searching the stands.
You imagine not being there.
You push your face into your pillow and take a shaking breath.
Your roommate knocks softly and brings you another cup of tea.
You donโt see his side of things.
You donโt see Aegon sitting in the locker room before the game, staring down at his laces like theyโre instructions in a language heโs forgotten.
She always comes. Sheโs always there. She sits in the same place and she waves at me even when she pretends she doesnโt give a shit and sheโsโsheโs not coming.
He tries to convince himself he doesnโt care.
He skates harder than normal in the first period, too hard, and misses an easy shot.
His coach calls him unfocused.
By the third period heโs a mess, sloppy, irritable, picking fights he shouldnโt.
When the buzzer sounds, he tears off his helmet and rests his forehead against the boards, breathing like someone ran him through.
Doesnโt joke with his teammates.
Doesnโt check his phone even though he keeps feeling its weight in his bag like a secret heโs terrified to open.
You donโt see any of that.
You are just staring at your wall in your dorm room.
The next morning, you nearly run into him outside the library.
Circles of exhaustion smudged under his eyes.
You freeze behind a pillar before he can spot you.
He looks down at his phone.
Runs his thumb over the cracked screen like heโs debating something.
Then he lifts his head. Looks around.
You duck away before your heart can decide whether to break or leap out of your chest.
You take the long way home.
Your throat hurts for the next hour.
He tries to text you once.
He stares at the message for a full minute.
He throws his phone onto his bed, then slumps forward, elbows on his knees, fingers dug into his hair like heโs holding his skull together by force.
Your roommate makes you tea every night.
She sits with you when you cry for no reason at all.
She offers to skip class with you.
She offers to drive you off campus for a day trip.
She offers to beat him up (jokingโฆ mostly).
She doesnโt know how big this is for you.
On the seventh night, she walks into your room with a pair of jeans and a top you havenโt worn in months.
โYouโre getting dressed.โ
โA party,โ she says. โNot at the frat house. Calm down. At a friendโs. Small. Safe. Quiet. You need to see other humans before you dissolve into a ghost.โ
She pulls you upright, braids your hair, fixes your mascara, and tells you firmly,
โTonight youโre going to breathe air that doesnโt smell like heartbreak.โ
You smile, a weak, wobbly thing.
What you donโt knowโwhat you couldnโt knowโis that Aegon almost showed up at your dorm that same night.
He stands outside your building.
Jaw clenched like heโs trying not to scream.
He lifts his hand to buzz your room.
Room key cold against his fingertips.
He whispers your name under his breath like a confession.
The party is small, ten people, maybe twelve. Music low. Soft lights. Someoneโs dog stumbling happily between peopleโs legs.
It should feel like a break.
You smile politely at strangers.
Eat crackers you canโt taste.
Your phone stays in your pocket.
You go outside halfway through, the cool air stinging your cheeks, and you tell yourself this is fine, this is good, this is healthy. You left your phone on silent. You didnโt notice the notification.
You donโt see his name on your lock screen until youโre back in your dorm that night, kicking off your shoes, pulling your sweater over your head with a sigh.
You stare at the screen for a long, long time before you finally tap it open.
are you done avoiding me or should i stop trying for real
Your breath catches in your throat.
You sit down on the edge of your bed.
The tea mug on your nightstand is still warm.
Your roommate is brushing her teeth in the bathroom down the hall.
You stare at his message like itโs a live wire.
Your heart is already answering him.
But your fingers hover over the keys.
Because you donโt know what hurts more:
Or that he thinks you might say stop.
