Space and Silent Aches

The locker room hummed with post-practice noise—guys shouting, cleats clanging against benches, the sharp tang of sweat and turf in the air. Bryce sat on a bench, unlacing his cleats, green eyes narrowed, jaw tight. He'd been off all morning, slamming into drills harder than he needed to, and Ryan noticed. His best friend dropped beside him, peeling off his own gear, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"What's with you, Callahan?" Ryan said, voice loud over the din. "You've been a moody bastard all practice. Coach yell at you or something?"

Bryce yanked a cleat off, tossing it into his locker with a clang. "Nah," he muttered, voice gruff, scrubbing a hand over his buzz cut. "It's Elliot. My roommate. He's pissing me off."

Ryan raised an eyebrow, grin widening. "The quiet one? What'd he do, not say hi loud enough?"

Bryce scowled, green eyes flicking to the floor. "Told me not to call him Eli yesterday," he said, the words bitter, sharp. "Said only 'nearer people' get to—like Lila can, but I can't. What the hell's that about? I've been living with him for weeks."

Ryan snorted, leaning back, clearly enjoying this. "Aw, you sulking 'cause he took your nickname privileges away? That's adorable, man. You sound like a kicked puppy."

"Shut up," Bryce snapped, elbowing him hard, but his scowl deepened, green eyes flashing. "It's bullshit. Lila's known him, what, a month? I'm stuck with him every day, and I don't get it? He's so damn closed off—won't even look at me half the time. Drives me up the wall."

Ryan laughed, loud and unapologetic, dodging another shove. "Dude, you're whining. Chill out. He's new, still adjusting—probably doesn't know how to deal with your loud ass yet. Give him some space, let him figure it out."

Bryce's jaw tightened, green eyes narrowing further. "Space?" he said, voice low, rough. "He's already a ghost. Barely talks, bolts every time I say anything. Screw that—I'm done. Not talking to him anymore. He can keep his stupid distance." He slammed his locker shut, the bang echoing, anger flaring hot and stubborn. Nearer people, he thought, the words stinging again, sharp and uninvited. Fine. I'm out.

Ryan shook his head, still grinning but softer now. "Yeah, sure, tough guy. You'll last two days before you're bugging him again. Bet you miss him already."

"Fuck off," Bryce grunted, slinging his bag over his shoulder and storming out, green eyes burning. He didn't miss him—didn't care—but that ache from Elliot's snapped "Don't" stuck, gnawing at him, and he hated it.

Later that afternoon, the campus was quiet, a cool breeze rustling the bare trees as Bryce cut across the quad, still simmering. Practice had burned off some of the edge, but not enough—Ryan's teasing, Elliot's wall, that damn "Eli" thing looping in his head. He didn't get it—didn't get why it hit so hard, why he cared. He's just a roommate, he told himself, kicking a stray pebble. Who gives a shit?

Then he saw him—Elliot, alone on a bench near the library, hunched over a sketchpad, pencil moving slow across the page. The sight stopped Bryce cold, green eyes narrowing as he took it in—Elliot's dark hair falling into his face, shoulders slumped, ocean-blue eyes fixed on the paper with a heaviness that wasn't there before. He looked… sad, like something weighed him down, something that hurt. The pencil scratched a jagged line—waves, maybe, crashing hard—and Elliot's brow furrowed, a flicker of pain crossing his face, quick but raw.

Bryce's chest tightened, unexpected, sharp. What's wrong with him? he thought, green eyes tracing that hunched form. He looked smaller, fragile, like the world was pressing too hard, and Bryce felt it—a sudden, stupid urge to cross the quad, wrap an arm around him, pull him in tight. Hey, it's okay, he imagined saying, voice rough but steady. Whatever it is, it'll be fine. But he didn't move—couldn't—feet rooted, anger and confusion locking him in place.

Elliot didn't see him, lost in the sketch, ocean-blue eyes shimmering with something deep, something old. He was thinking of the crash—headlights cutting through rain, his mother's scream, the world flipping upside down—the memory clawing up unbidden, sharper since Bryce's warning. He hates people like me, he thought, pencil faltering, the waves turning black. He'd hate this too. The fear had settled in, heavy and cold, pushing him further from Bryce, from anyone, and it ached—quiet, endless, a pain he couldn't draw away.

Bryce watched, green eyes softening for a heartbeat, that urge flaring stronger. He looks like he's breaking, he thought, fingers twitching at his sides. But then the anger surged back—He told me not to call him Eli. He doesn't want me close.—and it choked the impulse, turned it sour. Fine, he thought, jaw clenching. He can sit there alone. I'm done. He turned, stomping off toward the dorm, bag thudding against his back, but those ocean-blue eyes stayed with him, sad and distant, gnawing at the edges.

Elliot didn't look up, didn't know Bryce had been there, pencil scratching slower now, the waves swallowing something he couldn't name. Distance, he thought, mantra steady, but it felt heavier today, like it cost more than he could pay. The sketch blurred under his gaze, ocean-blue eyes glassy, and he pressed his palm to his chest, willing it to stop hurting.

Back in the dorm, Bryce paced, green eyes restless, Ryan's words—Give him space—clashing with his own Never talking to him again. He didn't get it—why Elliot's "Don't" ached so much, why that sad look tugged at him. He's just a roommate, he told himself, dropping onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. I don't care. But he did, and it pissed him off more, that jolt lingering—sharp, quiet, and impossible to shake.

Later that night, Elliot slipped in, sketchpad tucked under his arm, head down as always. Bryce was sprawled on his bed, scrolling his phone, green eyes flicking up just once—catching that hunched form, that quiet pain—and then away, fast. He didn't say a word, didn't move, the silence thick and deliberate. Elliot felt it, ocean-blue eyes darting to Bryce, then dropping quick, and he curled onto his own bed, back to the room, walls rising higher.

Bryce's thumb paused on the screen, green eyes staring at nothing, that urge flickering again—Everything'll be fine—but he buried it, anger winning out. He doesn't want me close, he thought, jaw tight. So I won't be. And the ache stayed, silent and shared, stretching the space between them wider than ever.