The night stretched endlessly, a suffocating silence that clung to Archie's skin. He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, but all he could hear was the pounding of his heart in his chest. The moment from earlier—the man, the woman, the rejection—looped in his mind like an incessant, broken record. It was like a film reel that wouldn't stop, flickering with images of something he knew was real, but the more he tried to grasp it, the more it slipped through his fingers.
His eyes burned, his chest tight with a pressure he couldn't shake.
He had to breathe, but the air felt too thick. He curled into himself, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders, trying to block out the coldness that had settled deep inside him. His heart kept aching, a hollow place in his chest where something—someone—should have been. But there was nothing there. No answers, no sense of closure. Just the space where the connection used to be, and the terrible ache of knowing he'd imagined it all.
At some point, the tears came, quiet at first, like a soft drip of rain against his skin. But soon, they came faster, harder, filling the space around him with a choking kind of grief. His chest heaved with every breath, each sob pulling something more out of him—something that he couldn't put into words.
The thought of the man's face—the confusion in his eyes—only made it worse. He had imagined it all, hadn't he? A moment that didn't exist, a person that wasn't real. The dream had been a lie. The connection he had felt, the pull—gone in an instant. He was alone in this. He had always been alone.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, a sharp, jarring sound that pierced through the quiet of the room. He barely glanced at it, too consumed by the crushing weight on his chest. But then a message popped up, and something in him stirred.
It was from Anne.
"You good?"
He stared at the words, his vision blurry through his tears. He could feel the weight of them—her, the knowing question, the unspoken concern. He wasn't good. He wasn't even close.
But he didn't have the energy to lie. He typed back quickly, his fingers shaking as he hit send.
"No."
A few minutes passed, but then a soft knock echoed from the door, a sound that seemed impossibly gentle in the dark.
"Archie?" came Elliot's voice, quiet but concerned. "You okay, man?"
He couldn't answer, couldn't speak past the sobs that were still wracking his body. He felt pathetic. Weak. But he couldn't stop it. It felt like something was breaking inside of him, something that had been buried too long, and now it was all spilling out.
The door creaked open a little further, and then Elliot stepped inside. Archie didn't move, didn't even look up. He could hear his dormmate's careful steps approaching, the soft rustle of the bedsheets as Elliot sat down on the edge of the bed, hesitant at first.
"Hey," Elliot said gently, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're not alone, okay?"
Archie didn't reply, the words stuck in his throat. He had never let himself break in front of anyone. Not like this. Not in this mess of confusion and hurt. But it was too much to hold inside anymore.
Elliot didn't ask any questions, didn't push for explanations. He simply sat there, quiet, a presence that felt like a quiet kind of comfort. Slowly, the bed shifted as Elliot lay down beside him, letting their shoulders touch.
Archie felt a hesitant, steady hand on his back, rubbing small circles. The touch was warm, grounding. It felt like nothing he'd ever allowed himself to accept before.
"I don't know what's going on," Elliot said quietly, "but I'm here. Whatever you need, I'm here."
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Archie let himself cry. He cried for the person he'd imagined, for the pieces of himself that were still missing. He cried for the strange, aching emptiness that lingered behind his ribs.
Elliot didn't say anything more. He just let Archie cry. The minutes stretched on, but it didn't matter. The room was quiet except for the sound of Archie's breathing and the soft rustling of sheets.
When the tears slowed, and the weight on his chest felt a little lighter, Elliot spoke again.
"I don't know if you'll ever find the answers you're looking for," he said, his voice still soft but firm. "But you're not in this alone, okay? I know it feels heavy right now, but you've got us. We're here."
Archie finally pulled away, turning to face his dormmate. His eyes were raw, red, his face streaked with tears. He couldn't remember the last time he had let himself be so vulnerable, let someone else see him this broken. But in that moment, it felt like the only thing he could do.
"Thanks," he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking. "I—I don't know what to do anymore."
Elliot gave him a small, comforting smile, his eyes tired but warm. "Just take it one step at a time. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."
For a long while, they stayed like that—quiet, but not alone. The weight of the night didn't disappear, but for the first time, it felt a little more bearable.
Archie closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Elliot's presence beside him, a steady reminder that even when everything else felt uncertain, there were still people who cared. And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to keep moving forward.