Chapter Text
The Mars dormitory had never been quiet, not really. Even at three in the morning, there was always something—Pepper's gaming headset clicking in the next room, Nano's soft humming as he practiced choreography in his sleep, the distant thrum of the city bleeding through the windows like it was trying to join a party. But tonight, the silence was different. It was the kind of silence that sat heavy on Dylan's chest, pressing down until he could feel every single heartbeat.
He was sprawled across the common room couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, pretending to be asleep. Pretending he couldn't hear the front door opening. Pretending he couldn't hear the noise around him.
"Po, you're overthinking the lighting again," Jun's voice drifted in, warm and teasing "It's just a documentary, not a film festival."
"It's about art, Jun." Po's laugh followed, light and easy "You wouldn't understand"
"Hey! I have artistic sensibilities"
"Yeah, sure"
Dylan's jaw tightened. He could picture it perfectly without even looking—Jun's easy grin, the way he would lean into Po's personal space, the casual intimacy that came so naturally to him. The way it never, ever came to Dylan.
"You know, P'," Nano said, appearing from nowhere to drop onto the couch beside Dyhaln, "you're terrible at pretending sleep. Your eyelashes keep twitching"
Dylan didn't move. "Go away, go back to your room or something"
"Can't. My room's invaded by P'Pepper's vocal warm-ups. He is doing that thing where he sings in falsetto for an hour"
"Then join him"
"And miss this?" Nano gestured vaguely at Dylan's rigid posture "Never"
The door swung open fully, and Dylan's resolve crumbled. Through the gap in his arms, he watched Jun walk in, carrying two cups of bubble tea. He handed one to Po with a flourish, and Po laughed again, that bright unguarded sound that made something in Dylan's chest twist painfully.
"Dylan! You're awake!" Jun's voice was far too cheerful "We brought snacks. Po brought his laptop and his 'artistic vision'"
"Your snacks are going to be cold by the time you're done reading P'Po's thirty page treatment," Thame's voice came from the kitchen doorway. Their leader was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching the scene with an expression that was trying very hard to be casual and failing spectacularly. Dylan knew that look. He'd seen it in the mirror often enough.
"Nonsense," Jun said, already heading for the kitchen. "I'll reheat everything. You guys just sit and do your... thing"
"My thing," Po said dryly, "is literally the reason you have a job right now."
"You have a job because we have talent"
"And charisma," Thame added, and there was something soft in his voice that made Dylan want to scream.
Instead, he finally sat up, running a hand through his hair and forcing his face into something neutral. "Can you two be loud somewhere else? Some of us are trying to—" he waved vaguely "—exist."
"Exist?" Jun popped his head out from the kitchen, a wooden spoon in hand. "Dylan, it's barely nine. Since when do you sleep before midnight?"
"Since never," Nano muttered.
Dylan shot him a look. "Since I decided I value peace and quiet"
"Ah, so never," Jun said cheerfully, disappearing back into the kitchen. "Po brought those spicy noodles you like, by the way. I'll make you some"
Something treacherous fluttered in Dylan's chest. He crushed it immediately. "Don't bother. I'm not hungry"
"You're always hungry"
"I'm trying a new diet"
"You eat like a raccoon at three in the morning. There's no diet"
"Raccoons are very discerning eaters"
"Raccoons eat garbage"
"Then I guess we have something in common with your lyrics"
There was a beat of silence, and then Jun's head appeared again, one eyebrow raised. "My lyrics are good. Thame likes them."
"That's because Thame likes everything you do," Dylan shot back, and he didn't miss the way Thame stiffened slightly at the kitchen entrance. Maybe he'd hit a nerve. Good. Misery loved company.
Po had set up his laptop on the coffee table, completely oblivious to the tension. "Can you two fight later? I need to explain the narrative arc."
"Fighting is their narrative arc," Thame said quietly, but he was looking at Jun with that same soft expression that made Dylan want to throw something.
Dylan couldn't do this. He really, truly couldn't.
"Whatever," he said, standing abruptly. "I'm going to my room."
"Already?" Po looked up, genuinely confused. "But I haven't even shown you the mood board yet."
"I'm sure it's very moody." Dylan was already halfway down the hallway. "Night."
He heard Jun's voice from the kitchen, something about noodles going cold, and he had to physically restrain himself from turning back. Don't. Don't do it. He doesn't mean anything by it. He's just being Jun. He's always just being Jun.
The door to his room closed behind him with a soft click, and Dylan let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His room was small, cluttered with notebooks and scattered lyrics pages, the walls covered in posters of artists he admired and half-finished sketches. In the corner, a guitar leaned against the wall, its strings slightly out of tune.
He sank onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.
This is fine. This is completely fine. You're a grown man. You can handle watching the person you—
No. He wasn't going there.
The soft knock on his door came an hour later. Dylan didn't move.
"Go away."
"It's Nano, P'"
"I know. Go away."
The door opened anyway, because Nano had never listened to anyone in his life. The youngest member of MARS slipped in like a shadow, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care. In his hands was a plate of the spicy noodles Jun had mentioned.
"I brought tribute," he said, holding them up like a peace offering. "The kitchen smelled like an argument, so I figured you might need sustenance."
"I'm not hungry."
"You always say that when you're upset." Nano sat down on the edge of the bed, uninvited. "And then you eat six servings of whatever P'Jun makes because you can't say no to him."
Dylan finally looked at him. "I'm not—"
"You are." Nano's voice was gentle in a way that made Dylan's throat tight. "I know you are. Everyone who's not P'Jun or P'Po knows."
"Knows what?"
"That you're in love with him."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and undeniable. Dylan opened his mouth to deny it, to laugh it off, to do something, but nothing came out. He just stared at Nano, and Nano stared back, and neither of them blinked.
"How long have you known?" Dylan finally managed.
"Since the first time I saw you write a love song." Nano shrugged. "You're a rapper, P'. You write about struggles and anger and the complexity of the world. But then you started writing about..." he gestured vaguely, "tender things. Soft things. Things that made P'Thame ask if you were dating someone."
Dylan closed his eyes. "I'm not."
"I know. Because the songs were always about P'Jun."
There was no use denying it anymore. Dylan had been so careful, so meticulous in hiding his feelings, but he'd forgotten about Nano. Nano who noticed everything. Nano who watched everyone with those dark, perceptive eyes.
"I'm going to move on," Dylan said, and the words felt strange in his mouth. Like he was trying on clothes that didn't quite fit. "I have to. He's... he's clearly into Po. And even if he wasn't, he's never seen me as anything but a friend."
"You don't know that."
"I do." Dylan sat up, running his hands through his hair roughly. "I've known him for years. He's never looked at me the way he looks at Po. He's never smiled at me the way he smiles at Thame. I'm just..." his voice cracked, and he hated it, "I'm just the one he argues with. The one he makes food for because he feels obligated. The one he tolerates."
Nano was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You're an idiot."
"Excuse me?"
"P'Jun is blind," Nano said firmly. "He's been blind since we met him. The man can't see what's right in front of him to save his life. But that doesn't mean what you think you're seeing is real."
Dylan stared at him. "He's been flirting with Po all night."
"P'Po is oblivious. P'Thame is pining. And P'Jun is..." Nano paused, considering. "P'Jun is P'Jun. He's friendly with everyone. He's warm with everyone. But you're the only one he cooks for."
"He cooks for everyone."
"Not specifically. Not knowing exactly what they like. That's just you." Nano leaned forward, suddenly intense. "You're the one he argues with because you're the only one who challenges him. You're the one he writes songs with because you understand him. You're the one he—"
"Stop." Dylan held up a hand. "I can't do this. I can't... analyze every interaction like there's some hidden meaning. I've been doing that for three years, Nano. Three years of hoping, and all it's done is hurt."
"So you're giving up?"
"I'm moving on." Dylan's voice was steadier now, more certain. "There's a difference."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." He looked at Nano, and for the first time, he let himself be honest. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep watching him, wanting him, knowing he'll never want me back. It's eating me alive. I need to let it go."
Nano studied him for a long moment, and Dylan could practically see the gears turning in his head. The youngest member of MARS had always been wise beyond his years, and right now, he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world.
"Okay," Nano said finally. "Okay. Then let's do it."
"Do what?"
"Move on." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled receipt and a pen. "Let's make a plan. A real plan. A list of things you can do to get over him."
Dylan blinked. "You're serious?"
"I'm always serious." Nano's expression was completely solemn. "I've had to watch you pine for three years. I've had to witness your love songs and your longing glances and your pathetic pining. It's time for it to end."
"It's not pathetic—"
"It absolutely is." Nano was already scribbling on the receipt. "Okay. Step one: Stop eating everything he makes you."
Dylan opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. "That's... actually not a bad idea."
"Step two: Start flirting with someone else."
"I'm not—"
"Step three: Write songs about something other than his entire existence."
"They're very nice eyes—"
"Step four: Learn to tolerate his cooking without making it weird."
"I can do that."
"Step five: Stop writing his name in your notebooks."
Dylan's eyes widened. "How do you know about—"
"Step six: Forget his favorite color, his favorite food, and the way he laughs when he's genuinely surprised."
"I don't know his favorite—"
"You definitely do." Nano looked up from the receipt. "You've made it your whole personality. And I'm saying this with love, but it's time to make space for something else."
Dylan stared at him for a long moment. Then, to his own surprise, he started laughing. It wasn't a happy laugh—it was cracked, slightly hysterical, edged with something that felt dangerously close to tears.
"Three years," he said, and his voice wobbled. "Three years of loving someone who doesn't even see me."
Nano's expression softened. "He sees you, P'. He just doesn't know what he's looking at."
"Maybe." Dylan took a shaky breath. "But I can't wait for him to figure it out. I have to move on."
"Good." Nano handed him the receipt. "Start with this. Stop being so obvious about it, and maybe by the time you've gone through all these steps, you'll actually believe you're over him."
Dylan looked at the list. It was ridiculous—written on a crumpled convenience store receipt in Nano's messy handwriting. But somehow, it felt like a lifeline.
"What about my notebook?" Dylan asked quietly. "The one with all the songs?"
Nano's expression flickered. "What about it?"
"I should burn it."
"P'Dyl—"
"I should." Dylan was already standing, heading for his desk. "It's pathetic. All those songs, all those words, and he's never even... he doesn't even know." He yanked open the drawer, pulling out the worn leather notebook. "I should burn them all. Start fresh. Write about something real."
"P', stop." Nano was on his feet now, genuine alarm in his voice. "You can't burn your songs. They're beautiful."
"They're lies."
"They're honest." Nano reached for the notebook, but Dylan pulled it back. "Those songs are about love. Genuine love. That's not something to destroy."
"It's something to move on from."
"By burning them? By pretending they never existed?" Nano's voice was sharp now. "You can't erase three years of feeling, P'Dylan. You have to process it. You have to let it go properly."
Dylan held the notebook against his chest. It felt heavy, weighted with all the words he'd never been brave enough to say. All the times he'd sat in his room, guitar in hand, trying to capture the exact shade of Jun's eyes, the exact timbre of his laugh.
"What do I do, then?" His voice cracked again. "What do I do with all of this?"
Nano stepped forward, and for the first time, he looked like the youngest again—like a kid who'd been forced to grow up too fast, but still had enough compassion to hold space for someone else's pain.
"You let yourself feel it," Nano said softly. "All of it. The love, the hurt, the anger, the frustration. You let yourself be sad. You let yourself be angry." He paused. "You let yourself cry, P'Dyl."
And then Dylan was crying. Big, ugly, heaving sobs that shook his entire frame. The notebook fell to the floor, and he didn't care. He just let himself fall apart, right there in front of the youngest member of his group.
Nano caught him, pulling him into an awkward hug. He was shorter than Dylan, but somehow he felt solid, grounding.
"I've got you," Nano murmured. "I've got you. Let it out."
And Dylan did. He cried until his throat was raw and his eyes were swollen. He cried for all the years he'd loved in silence, for all the songs he'd never be brave enough to sing, for all the moments he'd watched Jun from across the room and pretended he wasn't aching.
"He's so stupid," Dylan sobbed. "Why does he have to be so... him? Why does he have to make me food and argue with me and look at me like I'm actually someone? Why can't he just be terrible?"
"He's not terrible," Nano said gently. "He's just oblivious."
"He's the worst."
"You don't think that."
"I know." Dylan laughed through his tears. "I hate that I don't think that."
Eventually, the tears stopped. Eventually, the sobs faded into shuddering breaths, and then into exhausted silence. Nano stayed the whole time, steady and present, not saying anything, just... being there.
"You should rest," Nano said eventually. "We can figure out the rest in the morning."
Dylan nodded, too drained to argue. He let Nano guide him to the bed, let himself be tucked in like he was the youngest instead of the older.
"Don't burn the notebook," Nano said, pausing at the door. "Promise me."
"I promise."
"I'll check your trash for ashes."
"I believe you."
Nano smiled, small and soft. "Goodnight, P'Dyl."
"Goodnight, Nano." Dylan paused. "Thank you."
"Always."
The door clicked shut, and Dylan was alone with his thoughts. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying to process everything, trying to find some equilibrium in the chaos of his emotions.
He was in love with Jun. Jun didn't love him back. Jun was falling for Po. Or maybe Thame. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.
Dylan was going to move on. He had a list now. He had a plan.
He was going to be fine.
He was not fine.
Dylan woke up hungry, which was somehow the worst part. He'd spent the entire night crying, and now his body was demanding sustenance like nothing had happened. Like his heart wasn't still bruised and battered.
"Fucking biology," he muttered, dragging himself out of bed.
The dormitory was quiet—that strange liminal hour between late night and early morning when the world felt suspended. The hallway was empty, and the common room was deserted. Dylan made his way to the kitchen on autopilot, his thoughts still sluggish with exhaustion.
He didn't expect to find anyone else awake. He especially didn't expect to find Jun.
Jun was at the stove, humming something soft under his breath. He was wearing an oversized sweater that made him look smaller, softer, and he was stirring something in a pot with the kind of care he usually reserved for his favorite recipes.
Dylan stopped in the doorway, his heart doing that familiar stutter-step.
No. Stop. We're moving on. Remember the list.
But he couldn't look away. Jun's profile was soft in the low light, and there was something so achingly domestic about the scene that Dylan had to physically remind himself to breathe.
"Oh, you're up." Jun turned, smiling when he saw Dylan. "Good. I was hoping you'd come out eventually."
"Were you?" The words came out sharper than intended. Dylan forced himself to step into the kitchen, to grab a pan from the cupboard. "I was just going to make something quick."
"You don't have to." Jun gestured at the stove. "I made enough for two."
Dylan's heart clenched. Of course he did. Of course Jun, the human embodiment of kindness, had made food for Po. For the person he was clearly interested in.
"I'm fine," Dylan said, keeping his voice flat. "I can make my own."
"Don't be ridiculous, Dyl. You just woke up. Sit down and eat."
"I don't want your charity food."
Jun paused, his expression shifting to something unreadable. "Charity food? What are you talking about?"
"What do you think I'm talking about?" Dylan's grip on the pan handle tightened. "You don't have to pretend to care, Jun. I get it. You're being nice. But I don't need your pity meals."
"Pity meals?" Jun set down the spoon, turning to face him fully. "Dylan, what the hell is wrong with you?"
"I'm just saying, you don't have to cook for me. I'm not Po. I'm not Thame. I'm just..." he gestured vaguely at himself, "I'm fine. I don't need your special treatment."
Jun stared at him. "You think this is about Po?"
"It doesn't matter what it's about."
"It matters to me." Jun's voice was quiet now, but there was an edge to it that Dylan had never heard before. "It matters to me that you think I'm just... what? Being nice to you out of obligation?"
"I don't know what you are." Dylan's voice cracked. "I don't know anything."
Jun ran a hand through his hair roughly. "I made this for you, Dylan. I always make food for you. I know you didn't eat dinner. I know you went to bed hungry because you were upset about something. I could tell. I can always tell."
Dylan blinked. "What?"
"So I made you food. Your favorite. The spicy noodles you like with the extra eggs that you always steal from my bowl anyway."
"But... Po..."
"What about Po?" Jun's expression was genuinely confused now. "Po came over to work on his documentary, and left with Thame to go out to who knows where. That's all. That's literally all."
"You were laughing with him. Smiling at him."
"I was being friendly. That's what I do, Dylan. I'm friendly with everyone."
"So that's it." Dylan's voice was bitter. "I'm just everyone."
"Dylan—"
"Don't." Dylan held up a hand. "I can't do this right now. I can't have this conversation."
"Then sit down and eat." Jun pointed at the table. "We can fight after you've had something in your stomach."
"I don't want to fight."
"Then we won't fight." Jun's voice was gentler now. "We'll just... we'll sit. We'll eat. And then we'll figure out whatever this is. Okay?"
Dylan wanted to say no. He wanted to walk away, to go back to his room and his plan and his safe, comfortable pain. But he was hungry, and Jun was looking at him with those eyes, and the food did smell exactly like his favorite.
"Fine," he heard himself say. "Fine. But I'm not going to make this easy."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
Dylan sat down, and Jun put a bowl in front of him. It was perfect—spicy noodles, extra eggs, exactly the way he liked it. The same way he'd had it a hundred times before.
His heart started up again, treacherous and loud in his chest.
I hate him. I hate him so much.
"You're making that face again," Jun said, settling into the chair across from him. "The one where you're thinking really hard and pretending you're not."
"I don't make faces."
"You always make faces. You make approximately three hundred and forty-seven different faces per conversation."
"That's not a real number."
"It's an emotional number." Jun smiled, and Dylan's heart stuttered again. "Eat, Dyl. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"Thanks for that."
"You're welcome."
Dylan picked up his chopsticks, and he ate. And despite everything, it was good. It was so good. It was Jun's cooking, and it tasted like home, and Dylan hated how much he loved it.
They ate in silence for a while, the only sound the soft clinking of chopsticks against bowls. Dylan could feel Jun watching him, could feel those eyes on his face like a physical weight.
"What?" he finally snapped.
"Nothing." Jun looked away quickly. "Just making sure you're actually eating."
"I'm eating."
"Good."
Another silence. Dylan focused on his noodles, trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding.
"You know," Jun said eventually, "you're the only one I cook for like this."
Dylan's chopsticks froze. "What?"
"I mean it. I cook for everyone, sure. But I don't... I don't pay attention like I do with you. I don't remember what everyone else likes. But I know what you like. I always have."
"Because you're observant."
"Because I care." Jun's voice was quiet now, barely above a whisper. "I know I'm not great at showing it. I know I'm... I'm a lot. But I care. I care about you, Dylan. More than you probably think."
Dylan couldn't breathe. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that." His voice was shaking. "Don't say things like that when you don't mean them."
"I don't say things I don't mean."
"You do." Dylan's eyes were burning again. "You say things all the time. You say them to everyone. That's the problem."
"I'm sorry," Jun said quietly. "I didn't realize—"
"You never do." Dylan pushed his bowl away. "That's the thing, Jun. You never realize. You never see."
"See what?"
"Nothing." Dylan stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "It's nothing. Thanks for the food. I'm going back to bed."
"Wait—"
"No." Dylan was already moving toward the door. "No, I can't. Goodnight."
He didn't look back. He couldn't. If he looked back, he'd see the confusion on Jun's face, the genuine bewilderment that Dylan had come to know so well. And that would break him.
In his room, Dylan slid down against the door, his legs too weak to hold him up. He was shaking, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He'd almost told him. He'd almost said the words out loud, three years of hiding unraveling in a single moment of weakness.
"Fuck," he whispered into the darkness. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
But even as he said it, even as he cursed himself for being so obvious, there was something else there. Something that felt dangerously like hope.
Jun had looked at him. Jun had looked at him. Not with pity, not with obligation, but with something that might have been...
No. No. We're not doing this. We're moving on.
But the notebook was still on the floor where he'd dropped it, and when Dylan picked it up, he couldn't help but open it. Couldn't help but read the words he'd written—all those songs, all those feelings, all those years of love that had nowhere to go.
His eyes landed on a verse he'd written just last month:
The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching
Like maybe I'm something worth looking at
But then you turn away, and I'm left wondering
If I imagined the whole damn thing
Dylan laughed, bitter and broken. He hadn't imagined it. He'd never imagined any of it. Jun had looked at him, had seen him, had made him food and argued with him and treated him like someone who mattered.
And it still wasn't enough. It had never been enough.
"Okay," Dylan said to the empty room. "Okay. We're doing this. We're moving on."
He picked up the paper Nano had given him, smoothing out the wrinkles.
Step one: Stop eating everything he makes you.
He'd already failed at that one.
Step two: Start flirting with someone else.
Dylan snorted. Like he had any interest in anyone else.
Step three: Write songs about something other than his entire existence.
He looked at his notebook, filled with pages and pages of Jun-inspired lyrics.
Maybe start with step three, he thought. Start with the songs. Let go of the words first, and the feelings might follow.
But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't that simple. You couldn't just erase three years of feeling. You couldn't just decide to stop loving someone, not when that love had become part of who you were.
"You're such an idiot," he told himself. "Such a fucking idiot."
And somewhere in the distance, he could hear Jun's voice, could hear him humming that same soft melody from the kitchen.
Dylan pressed his palms against his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.
He must have fallen asleep eventually, because the next thing he knew, light was filtering through his curtains and someone was knocking on his door.
"Dylan?" Jun's voice, muffled through the wood. "Are you awake?"
Dylan didn't answer. He didn't move.
"Look, I know you're probably still mad at me. I don't really understand what I did, but I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry."
Still no answer.
"Also, I made breakfast. Just... in case you're hungry. It's on the counter."
Footsteps retreating. The sound of a door closing.
Dylan lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling. Then, slowly, he got up.
The kitchen was empty, but there was a plate of food on the counter, covered with foil. Pancakes—the ones Dylan liked, with the little blueberries mixed in. A note next to it, written in Jun's messy handwriting:
Eat. You looked like you needed it. —J
Dylan stared at the note. Then at the pancakes. Then back at the note.
His heart was doing something stupid again, something that felt suspiciously like hope.
"No," he told himself firmly. "No. We're moving on. We have a list."
He picked up the plate and walked to the trash can.
He stood there for a full minute, plate in hand, unable to move.
Step one: Stop eating everything he makes you.
But the pancakes were still warm. And they were his favorite. And Jun had made them specifically for him, had probably woken up early to do it.
"Fuck," Dylan whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He put the plate down on the counter and walked away.
He made it three steps before he turned back, grabbed the plate, and started eating.
So much for step one, he thought bitterly. But the pancakes were perfect—light and fluffy, with just the right amount of blueberries—and Dylan couldn't stop the stupid smile that tugged at his lips.
He hated this. He hated how easy it was for Jun to do this to him. He hated how much he loved it.
"You're in love with him," Dylan told himself between bites. "And he's never going to love you back. So get over it. Get over him. Move on."
But even as he said it, he was already thinking about the next time Jun would cook for him, the next time they'd argue in the kitchen, the next time Jun would look at him with those eyes.
He was so, so screwed.
Later that day, Nano found him in the common room, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at nothing.
"How'd the moving on go?" Nano asked, dropping onto the couch beside him.
"Great," Dylan said flatly. "I ate his pancakes."
"So step one failed."
"Completely."
Nano snorted. "You're hopeless."
"I know."
"You know," Nano said thoughtfully, "maybe you should just tell him."
Dylan nearly choked on his coffee. "Absolutely not."
"Why not? The worst he can say is no."
"The worst he can say is no, and then I have to see him every single day for the rest of our careers. That's not just the worst, Nano. That's a nightmare."
"So you'd rather suffer in silence?"
"Yes. Yes, I would." Dylan set down his coffee. "It's easier. It hurts less."
Nano looked at him for a long moment. "Does it, though? Does it really hurt less?"
Dylan opened his mouth to answer, then closed it.
No, it didn't hurt less. It hurt exactly the same. It had been hurting the same for three years.
But at least this way, he still had hope. At least this way, he could pretend that maybe, someday, things might change.
"I have a plan," Dylan said finally. "I'm going to follow the plan. I'm going to get over him."
"And the pancakes?"
"The pancakes were a minor setback."
"Uh-huh."
"They were."
"Sure." Nano stood up, stretching. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Dyl."
Dylan watched him go, a strange feeling settling in his chest.
He was going to get over Jun. He was going to follow the list and move on and find someone else to love.
But even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. He'd been in love with Jun for three years. He'd be in love with Jun for three more. Maybe forever.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
That night, Dylan sat in his room with his guitar, trying to write something new.
It was supposed to be about moving on. About letting go. About finding the strength to walk away.
But every word he wrote, every chord he played, sounded like Jun.
Fuck, he thought, setting down the guitar. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He was never going to get over him. He was never going to be able to write about anyone else. He was never going to be free of this feeling, this ache, this desperate, hopeless love.
"You're such an idiot," he told himself again. "Such a fucking idiot."
But even as he said it, he was smiling. A small, sad, hopeless smile.
Because loving Jun was the worst thing he'd ever done. But it was also the best.
And that was the problem.
Dylan picked up his guitar again and started to play.