The week after midterms brought a collective exhale across campus. With the most intense exams behind them, students emerged from their study hibernation, blinking in the autumn sunlight as if seeing the world anew. The pressure hadn't disappeared entirely—final projects still loomed on the horizon and grades were yet to be posted—but the immediate crush had lifted, allowing space to breathe, to socialize, to remember that college was about more than just academics.

  Donovan settled onto a bench outside Bryan Hall, soaking in the crisp November sunshine while he waited for his Digital Content Promotion class to begin. He felt cautiously optimistic about how his exams had gone—the PR campaign presentation had seemed well-received, his Ethics answers had flowed smoothly despite Dr. Rivera's notoriously tough standards, and his Spanish translation had benefited from his immersion experience in Barcelona. But like everyone else, he was in that limbo of post-exam anxiety, waiting to see if his confidence was justified.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, smiling when he saw Alejandro's name on the screen. Donovan wrote out his reply.

  Donovan: Midterms finally over. How did yours go?

  He waited, watching the typing indicator appear and disappear several times, as if Alejandro was composing a longer message than usual. Finally, the response came through.

  Alejandro: Not great. I think I barely passed Structural Design. Urban Planning was better, but still not confident. Sustainable Design might be my only decent grade.

  Donovan frowned, a twinge of concern replacing his earlier optimism.

  Donovan: I'm sorry to hear that. Were they as hard as you expected?

  Alejandro: Harder. And I didn't have as much time to study as I'd planned. There was a family emergency last week.

  Donovan: What happened? Is everyone okay?

  The typing indicator appeared again, disappeared, reappeared. Donovan could sense Alejandro's hesitation even across the digital distance.

  Alejandro: My grandfather's health took a sudden turn. He's in the hospital in Madrid. And it's not looking good right now.

  Donovan's heart sank. Alejandro had spoken of his grandfather during their summer together—a former engineer who had inspired Alejandro's interest in buildings, who had taken him to construction sites as a child and explained how structures worked.

  Donovan: I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?

  Alejandro: Not really. I've been trying to help from here, but it's hard being so far away. My mother calls with updates, but it's not the same as being there.

  Donovan: Are you going to Madrid?

  Alejandro: I went last weekend. Just for two days. Couldn't miss more classes with midterms. It was good to see him, but hard to leave knowing...

  He didn't finish the thought, but he didn't need to. Donovan understood the weight of what remained unsaid.

  Donovan: How are you holding up?

  Alejandro: Managing. Trying to focus on school. I can't afford another bad grade, so I'll need to study harder these next few weeks. Miguel's been helping—we've been meeting almost every day to work on projects.

  Donovan felt an immediate, visceral reaction to Miguel's name—a twist in his stomach, a tightening in his chest. The jealousy surfaced so quickly, so unexpectedly, that it caught him off guard. He stared at the message, trying to formulate a response that wouldn't betray his irrational reaction.

  Donovan: That's good. I'm glad you have someone there who can help.

  He deleted the message before sending it, dissatisfied with how stilted it sounded. He tried again.

  Donovan: Good to have study partners during tough times. How's the project with him going?

  That wasn't much better, but he sent it anyway, not wanting to leave Alejandro waiting too long.

  Alejandro: It's actually going really well. We make a good team. He's been understanding about the family situation too—picked up my slack last week when I had to go to Madrid.

  The jealousy intensified, a hot, uncomfortable sensation that Donovan knew was entirely unreasonable. Why should it bother him that Alejandro had someone supporting him through a difficult time? Wasn't that what Donovan would want for someone he cared about? And yet, the idea of Miguel being there, physically present in Alejandro's life when Donovan couldn't be, stirred something possessive in him that he didn't like to acknowledge.

  Donovan: He sounds like a good friend.

  Alejandro: He is. Makes things easier, especially now.

  There was a pause, then another message from Alejandro.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Alejandro: I wish you were here though. It's not the same.

  The simple admission sent a wave of longing through Donovan. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to imagine being back in Barcelona—walking its narrow streets, breathing in the Mediterranean air, being with Alejandro through this difficult time. The fantasy was so vivid he could almost feel the warmth of the Spanish sun on his skin, almost hear the distant sounds of the city.

  Donovan: I wish I was there too. I'd bring you coffee during late study sessions. Make you take breaks when you've been working too long. Just be there.

  Alejandro: I'd like that. The apartment feels empty without you in it.

  Donovan glanced around, suddenly aware that he was having this intimate exchange on a public bench in the middle of campus. But no one was paying attention to him—students hurried past, absorbed in their own concerns, their own lives. His private moment remained just that, despite being in plain sight.

  Donovan: How's your grandfather doing now? Any updates?

  Alejandro: Stable, but not improving. He's 87, so they don't expect much recovery at this point. My mother's with him every day.

  Alejandro: I don't really want to talk about it more, if that's okay. Tell me something good. Something about your day, your classes, anything.

  Donovan understood the need for distraction, for a conversation that didn't center around illness and worry. He shifted gears, typing out a light-hearted summary of his PR team's latest campaign idea for the Farmers Market—a series of cooking demonstrations featuring simple meals college students could make with fresh, local ingredients.

  Alejandro: That's actually really smart. I'd go to that. My cooking skills are still limited to pasta and whatever my mother sends in care packages.

  Donovan: I remember. You nearly set off the smoke alarm trying to make toast.

  Alejandro: That was ONE time. And the toaster was defective.

  Donovan smiled at the memory—a lazy Sunday morning, Alejandro cursing in rapid Spanish as smoke filled his tiny kitchen, both of them laughing as they fanned the air with dish towels. It was one of those ordinary moments that had somehow become precious in retrospect, a snapshot of domestic intimacy that Donovan hadn't appreciated fully at the time.

  Alejandro: Miguel's terrible at cooking too. We tried to make paella last week after studying and nearly poisoned ourselves.

  The mention of Miguel again, so casual and unexpected, brought the jealousy rushing back. Donovan tried to analyze the feeling objectively, to understand why it bothered him so much. It wasn't as if he had any claim on Alejandro's time or attention. Their summer together had been just that—a summer, a temporary connection that was never meant to extend beyond those few months. He was with Tyler now, back in his real life. Alejandro was free to spend time with whoever he wanted, to cook terrible paella with study partners, to build new connections.

  And yet, the idea of Alejandro and Miguel in the same kitchen where he and Alejandro had shared so many meals, the thought of them laughing together over culinary disasters, created a hollow feeling in Donovan's chest that he couldn't quite shake.

  Donovan: Some people just shouldn't be allowed near stoves.

  It was a weak response, but the best he could manage through the conflicting emotions.

  Alejandro: Speaking of things I'm bad at—I should get to my next class. Professor Ferrer will have my head if I'm late again.

  Donovan: Me too. Digital Content in ten minutes. Talk later?

  Alejandro: Definitely. Thanks for listening about my grandfather. It helps, even from far away.

  Donovan: Anytime. Really.

  As Donovan prepared to tuck his phone away, he found himself lingering on that final exchange. "Even from far away." That was their reality now—a connection maintained across thousands of miles, a relationship (if it could be called that) conducted entirely through screens and messages.

  Most days, Donovan was able to compartmentalize effectively—to be present in his life in Pullman, with Tyler and his friends and his studies, without constantly thinking about Barcelona, about Alejandro. But conversations like this one blurred those carefully constructed boundaries, leaving him in a strange liminal space where he was physically in one place but emotionally tethered to another.

  What bothered him most, perhaps, was the realization that his feelings for Alejandro hadn't diminished with time and distance as he'd expected they would. If anything, they had deepened, becoming more complex, more nuanced. What had begun as a summer fling, a passionate but temporary connection, had somehow evolved into something Donovan didn't have a name for—not quite a relationship, but not simply a memory either.

  And his reaction to Miguel—this irrational jealousy over someone he'd barely even met—suggested that he was more invested in Alejandro's life, in the possibility of a future connection, than he wanted to admit.

  "Who's that?"

  Donovan's head snapped up, startled. Tyler was standing a few feet away, backpack slung over one shoulder. He'd been so absorbed in the conversation with Alejandro that he hadn't noticed Tyler approaching.

  "Oh, hey." Donovan quickly locked his phone screen, his heart suddenly racing. "Just... someone from my Barcelona program."

  "Alejandro?" Tyler asked, and something in the way he said the name made Donovan's pulse quicken. Not angry, just... paying attention. Noticing.

  "Yeah, he's—his grandfather is sick. I was just checking in on him."

  Tyler nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "You mention him sometimes. Seems like you two stayed close."

  "He's a good friend," Donovan said, and hated how defensive it sounded.

  "That's nice," Tyler said, his tone carefully neutral. There was a pause, a moment where Donovan felt certain Tyler was going to say something more, ask something that would crack everything open. But instead, Tyler glanced at his watch. "I've got to run to my finance study group. See you tonight?"

  "Yeah, tonight," Donovan confirmed, relief and guilt washing over him in equal measure.

  Tyler started to walk away, then paused and looked back. "I hope his grandfather is okay," he said, and there was genuine kindness in his voice that made Donovan's chest tighten.

  "Thanks. I'll tell him."

  As Tyler disappeared into the flow of students, Donovan sat frozen on the bench, his phone still clutched in his hand. Tyler's casual question had felt weighted somehow, like he was paying more attention than he let on. The way he'd said Alejandro's name, the slight pause before "stayed close"—it all suggested an awareness that Donovan had been hoping to avoid.

  He glanced at the time. Five minutes until class. He should go, should pack up his things and head inside. But he sat there a moment longer, caught between the conversation he'd just had with Alejandro and the brief exchange with Tyler, feeling the distance between his two worlds growing somehow both wider and more dangerously thin.

  Finally, he gathered his things and headed toward Bryan Hall, unable to shake the feeling that something had shifted, that Tyler's casual question had been anything but casual, and that the careful balance he'd been maintaining was becoming increasingly precarious.