Onyx's POV
I told myself I posted the confession to clear my thoughts. That was the official reason. The logical one. The "professionally" responsible explanation.
But the real one?
I needed someone to tell me what I was too afraid to conclude on my own.
The notifications started seconds after I hit "post".
The numbers came at me in a steady rhythm at first—clear, distinct, easy to follow. But the longer I stared, the less they felt like numbers and the more they dissolved into something unreadable, overlapping until they lost all structure.
Then everything broke.
The thread exploded open—notifications flooding in all at once, lines stacking over each other faster than I could process, the screen alive with movement and noise.
CelestialTea (@cryinginorbit):
YOU CROSSED SOMETHING???
SIR YOU DIDN'T CROSS SOMETHING YOU RAN OVER THE LINE WITH A TRUCK!!!
Bea Ramos (@maincharactercomplex):
"I don't want to lose him in any category."
That is not friendship language.
That is marriage vows language.
Marco De Leon (@nocturnalstrategist):
You didn't "might."
You described attachment withdrawal symptoms.
You described territorial instinct.
You described emotional dependency.
You described panic at loss.
That's love.
TitaMaritesOnline (@gossipgirl):
I TOLD YOU.
I SAW IT SINCE PINKY CONTACT ARC.
AstroNerd_21 (@plutostillaplanet):
Data Analysis:
Missed presence
Physical anxiety response
Fear of demotion to academic partners
Desire to run to him
Conclusion: 98% probability this is romantic attachment.
MainCharacterEnergy (@deluluistherealsol):
HE SAID "I DON'T WANT TO CROSS BACK."
THIS IS A CONFESSION. SOMEONE SCREENSHOT THIS AND SEND THIS TO HIS FRIEND!
SituationshipVictim (@iknewitwasntplatonic):
You didn't lose your routine.
You lost emotional stability.
Welcome to being in love.
RealTalkRina (@emotionallytired):
The way you're more afraid of losing him than losing control? Yeah. That's it. And also, what do you mean by "operate this thing?"
I facepalmed so hard with that line, Mr. Loner.
OverthinkingScholar (@thesisngfeelings):
The sentence "I don't want him in any category removed" is devastating.
You are not processing.
You are grieving a future you haven't even lost yet.
Denise Lopez (@campusobserver):
WAIT WAIT WAIT!!!
He said he's better off being just your academic partner AND YOU FELT PANIC? That means you wanted something MORE.
Joshua Tan (@realistbutromantic):
You don't panic over friends stepping back.
You panic over people you love stepping away.
Nina Valdez (@chronicallyattached):
You didn't miss peace.
You missed HIM.
Carl Mendoza (@overthinker_1999):
"I don't like not liking something."
Bro you don't like losing him.
Say it with your chest. Be a MAN!
Kevin Morales (@neutralbutinvested):
The moment you described your room as "wrong" without him?
That was it. No need to ask more.
Adrian Chua (@logicversusheart)
You keep saying you don't understand it.
You understand it perfectly.
You're just scared of what it implies.
Patricia Ong (@emotionallynosy)
He stopped reaching.
You panicked.
You're in love.
Clarisse Tan (@romcomtheorist2):
Okay but where is MidnightDriver???
I KNOW he's reading this.
Miguel Santos (@mattressinvestigator):
We went from "accidental hand contact"
to "I don't want him to move out of my room"
to "I think I am in love."
Character development 100/100.
Jana Feliciano (@romcomtheorist):
HE'S NOT "JUST A PROJECT PARTNER"
HE'S YOUR HUSBAND.
Bea Ramos (@maincharactercomplex):
If you don't tell him this before he fully steps back, I will personally haunt you.
The thread kept refreshing.
The numbers climbed.
Notifications stacked on top of each other like impatient witnesses lining up to testify against me.
People tagging MidnightDriver.
People dissecting every word I wrote like it was evidence in court.
"TAG MIDNIGHTDRIVER. He needs to see this."
"We need the other side's statement."
"WHY ARE YOU CONFESSING TO US INSTEAD OF HIM???"
"GO. TO. HIM."
"Are you going to tell him?"
"Are you going to let him walk away?"
The phrases repeated over and over—no longer just words, but something closer to a chant. An order.
I swallowed, my throat tightening as I refreshed the page again.
For a split second, the screen flickered.
And then—It appeared.
MidnightDriver (@noonespecial):
You say you panicked when he stepped back? Interesting. You only started naming your feelings after he decided to stop reaching. Funny how clarity shows up the moment something is about to be taken away. Just make sure you're not calling it love simply because you're afraid of losing access. There's a difference between wanting someone and not wanting to be left alone. You've spent a long time convincing yourself that people are temporary, that distance is efficient, that being alone is safer. Now that someone stayed long enough to disrupt that system, you panic. So ask yourself honestly: do you love him, or do you just not want to go back to being "Mr. Loner"? When you finally found someone who sleeps on your bed, occupies your space, calls your name, reaches for your hand — did you love him, or did you love the fact that you weren't alone anymore? Be careful. A person is not a cure for isolation. He's not something you keep so your room doesn't feel quiet or your routine feels warmer. If he stepped back, maybe it wasn't because he stopped caring. Maybe it's because he got tired of being something you weren't ready to choose. You panic now. He probably panicked earlier. If you think you're in love, make sure it's him you want — not just the comfort of not being alone. Because once someone decides to protect their pride, they don't come back easily. And once someone stops reaching, they don't always try again.
The room suddenly felt colder.
Or maybe it was just me.
My fingers had gone slightly numb against the keyboard, and I told myself it was optional. Temporary. Just a passing reaction. A cure for isolation shouldn't feel this sharp.
But every line on the screen felt directed. Precise. Personal. As if each of the words he said had dissected something I didn't even realize I had exposed.
My heart was beating too loudly for someone who hadn't moved an inch.
He probably panicked earlier.
The sentence replayed in my head like a quiet accusation.
Had he?
While I was calculating?
While I was structuring everything into manageable pieces?
While I was making sure everything stayed efficient instead of emotional?
I stared at the blinking cursor for a long time, the silence stretching thin around me.
Then I typed.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Not defensive.
Not aggressive.
Just... honest.
Mr. Loner (@certifiedloner):
You're right about one thing Sir MidnightDriver. I might not want to go back to being alone. But I don't think that automatically makes my feelings counterfeit. If this were only about access, convenience would have been enough. It isn't. Silence used to be comfortable for me. Predictable. Structured. Now it feels incomplete — not because it's quiet, but because something specific is missing. Not noise. Not attention. Him. There's a difference. You asked whether I love him or just the absence of loneliness. I don't have a complete answer yet. But if this were about avoiding solitude, anyone could replace him. But they can't. I don't miss having "someone." I admit I miss him. His habits. His unnecessary dramatics. The way he disrupts systems I thought were permanent. And yes — maybe I reacted late. Maybe I recognized it when it was already slipping away. That doesn't mean it wasn't real before. It means I am slow. Not insincere. You said he stepped back because he was tired of feeling optional. If that's true, then I owe him clarity — not calculations. I'm not afraid of losing access. I'm afraid of losing him. There is a difference. And I'm still figuring out what to do with that.
I hit post and leaned back in my chair, the soft creak of it louder than it should have been in the quiet.
The thread exploded. Notifications stacked over each other. People arguing. People choosing sides. Some dissecting him like he was a case study. Others dissecting me like I was the problem to solve.
Aeris Valen (@aerisreads):
ARE WE WATCHING A LOVE STORY COLLAPSE IN REAL TIME OR WHAT.
Theo Marquez (@logicbeforelove):
MidnightDriver is 100% the friend. No normal person analyzes like that unless they're directly involved.
Luna Hart (@lunawithcoffee):
The way MidnightDriver said "You don't miss someone. You miss him specifically." That wasn't advice. He was fighting for his life. For the "Friend's" POV
Kai Villamor (@kaidecodes):
This is a couple fighting but pretending they don't know each other.
Mira Solene (@softlysolene):
I'm sorry but MidnightDriver kinda ate him up. Mr. Loner needed to hear that.
Eli Navarro (@capslockeli):
WHY DO I FEEL LIKE I'M THIRD WHEELING A RELATIONSHIP THAT HASN'T BEEN CONFIRMED YET.
Raine Callisto (@rainewrites):
The tension between these two accounts is insane. I need popcorn.
Caleb Ortiz (@calebquestions):
Mr. Loner finally said he might be in love and y'all are attacking him like he committed a crime.
Seren Vale (@serenvale):
Nah. MidnightDriver is right.
You don't realize love only when you're about to lose access. That's fear.
Adrian Cole (@adriandissects):
The fact that Mr. Loner didn't defend himself aggressively tells me he knows MidnightDriver hit something true.
Lila Monroe (@lilamonologue)
They're both hurting. That's the worst part.
Devon Cruz (@devonwithtea):
Imagine if MidnightDriver ISN'T the friend and we're all wrong.
Hana Flores (@hanareadsalot):
No. I refuse. MidnightDriver talks like someone who stepped forward and got tired.
Marcus Lin (@marcus_analyzes):
This is what happens when two people refuse to communicate directly.
Aiden Cho (@aidenwritesback):
"Once someone protects their pride, they don't come back easily." That sounded like a warning, not advice. But If I were you, talk to your friend, Mr. Loner. Don't let him go away.
* * *
I did not sleep properly after that. It wasn't the comments that kept me awake—the arguments, the strangers dissecting my words, the notifications that refused to slow down. I had already learned how to compartmentalize public noise. It was the silence after I closed my laptop that unsettled me.
MidnightDriver's words replayed in my mind with clinical persistence, like audit findings highlighted in red ink across a report I had carelessly submitted.
Optional.
Temporary.
Cure for isolation.
The phrases echoed with uncomfortable precision. I turned them over repeatedly, testing their structure, searching for weaknesses in the argument, as though emotion itself could be dismantled with enough scrutiny.
I dislike unresolved variables. Ambiguity irritates me. It lingers. It destabilizes systems.
So I decided to prepare.
Not emotionally. That would be inefficient.
Logically.
If there was a misunderstanding, it needed clarification. If there was emotional ambiguity, it required definition. If there was tension, it demanded to be addressed with precision. Problems, after all, were solvable. They simply required the correct framework.
Howard once said I needed to be unpredictable sometimes. That I relied too much on structure. Fine. If unpredictability was required, then I would plan it. Spontaneity, if necessary, could be engineered.
I opened my notes app on my phone and began drafting. A message. A conversation outline. A structured approach. I wrote, deleted, rephrased. Then redrafted. Then reorganized the sequence to ensure optimal clarity. I removed any phrasing that sounded emotionally unstable. Adjusted tone. Neutralized implications. Formatted it cleanly. Because clarity matters. Precision prevents damage.
The clock crept forward while I worked, and somewhere between revisions I realized tomorrow would not unfold as originally planned. The Planetary Museum trip was unlikely to happen after what transpired. The structure of Sunday—previously organized down to the hour—no longer felt relevant. So I scrapped the entire schedule without hesitation.
If the day was going to be disrupted, then it would be disrupted for this.
For once, the priority was not efficiency.
It was resolution.
* * *
It was Monday again.
Time had moved indecently fast—as if the weekend had been a rumor I imagined. I had been too occupied to notice it passing. Too busy thinking. Revising. Rewriting.
By the time I left for the university, I had finalized a structured conversation outline—clean, precise, and strategically sequenced—ready to execute when I talk to Jace.
I stopped just outside the lecture hall and reviewed it one more time, leaning against the cold hallway wall as students streamed past me in waves of noise and perfume.
* * *
Conversation Draft – Version 6.3
Opening Statement:
"Jace, there was a miscalculation last Saturday. I would like to correct it."
(Pause. Observe response. Adjust tone if hostility level > moderate.)
Point 1 – Clarification of Event:
"I did not reject you. I processed slowly."
Define variable: Reaction delay is a processing issue, not emotional absence.
Point 2 – Impact Acknowledgment:
"If my actions made you feel optional, that was not my intention."
Note: Acknowledge emotional consequence without over-apologizing.
Point 3 – Reclassification of Role:
"You are not limited to academic collaboration in my system."
Optional expansion if necessary:
"You occupy space in my life that is not easily replaced."
Point 4 – Proposal:
"I am not asking for immediate restoration. I am requesting an opportunity to respond correctly."
Observe micro-expressions.
If resistance persists, proceed to Addendum.
Addendum (Conditional Use Only):
"I do not want you reduced to something temporary."
Operational Constraints:
– Avoid premature use of the word "love."
– Maintain steady eye contact, but do not escalate.
– Do not over-explain physiological reactions.
– Do not retreat into sarcasm.
Closing Statement:
"If you choose distance, I will respect it. But I prefer decisions based on accurate data."
* * *
I read it again carefully, forcing myself to assess it the way I would assess a project proposal. Objectively, it was solid—direct without being harsh, measured without sounding cold, non-accusatory while still clear. Emotionally intelligent, even. If this were a graded presentation, I would have given myself full marks without hesitation.
I had already practiced delivering it earlier while walking toward campus, keeping my voice low enough that no one would notice. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Controlled.
"Jace, I think we both misunderstood each other yesterday," I murmured under my breath, adjusting my tone until it sounded neutral and balanced.
Not clingy. Not defensive. Just... reasonable.
I repeated the opening line several times in my head, refining the pacing like I was rehearsing for a debate competition instead of preparing for something far less predictable. This was not a confession. It was a clarification. There was a difference—a significant one—and I needed to hold on to that distinction if I wanted to stay composed.
Naturally, I had also prepared potential responses and counter-responses. If there was one thing I refused to be, it was unprepared.
If he said, "It's fine."
I would say, "It doesn't feel fine."
If he said, "Let's just focus on the project."
I would say, "Let's patch things up first."
If he said, "You're overthinking."
I would say, "I might be. But I don't want silence to replace clarity."
I had even written everything on a small folded piece of paper. Not because I intended to read from it—that would be humiliating—but as insurance. A reference point in case my memory betrayed me under pressure. And it might. Because this undefined, unlabelled, emotionally inconvenient thing between us was overwhelming in ways I did not appreciate.
I slipped the folded paper into my chest pocket, telling myself it was simply a precaution. Safe. Controlled. Calculated. That was how I preferred things.
I inhaled slowly and steadied myself. This would work. It should. My heart was beating faster than necessary for what was, in theory, a simple conversation. But that was fine. I was not nervous. I was prepared.
And in my experience, preparation always won.
I entered the classroom earlier than necessary.
The room smelled faintly of whiteboard marker and morning air-conditioning. A few students were already scattered around, their voices low and unfocused. I took my usual seat, opened my laptop, and arranged my notebook and pen at a precise angle.
Prepared.
This was fine.
While he was not yet here, I had enough time to become one hundred percent ready to deliver my perfectly calculated and analyzed lines.
Not defensive.
Not condescending.
Balanced.
Strategic.
Carefully engineered to patch whatever had cracked between us.
I reread the draft in my head as if I were about to take an oral examination.
Opening line.
Pause.
Controlled breathing.
Maintain neutral tone.
Do not overcompensate.
I was mentally rehearsing the phrasing for the third time when I glanced at the door.
And there he was.
Jace.
He stepped inside like he always did—unhurried, composed, as if the room subtly adjusted itself around him. Conversations dipped for half a second before resuming. He walked toward his usual seat.
I quickly redirected my gaze to my laptop screen, pretending to focus on something intensely academic and not on the way he pulled his chair back.
He placed his bag down.
Sat.
I began counting silently.
One... two... three...
Just to give him space.
Just in case he wanted to speak first.
Four... five... six...
Maybe he would say good morning.
Seven... eight...
Maybe he would say he'd like to clear things and will let me explain my side.
Nine... ten...
My pulse was louder than the air-conditioning.
Eleven... twelve...
And before I could reach twenty—
"Good morning, class. Please go to your proper seats as we will be starting our lecture," the professor announced brightly from the front. "We will not be working on the Capstone Project today. We need to focus on the midterm coverage."
Of course today was lecture day.
Fine.
No Capstone discussion. That meant I would have to initiate it myself later.
The professor began explaining key concepts, her voice steady and structured. I followed along, typing notes automatically, but my focus fractured every few minutes.
Because Jace was not listening.
He was scrolling through his phone.
Calm. Detached.
I stared at him for a moment, then decided against whispering. The professor had sharp peripheral vision.
So I texted him instead.
Me:
Why aren't you listening to the professor? You might regret missing something important later. Have you prepared your notes, or have you been too busy? I can send you mine if you need them. Midterms are coming up soon, and I know you're working at the ice cream stall, so you probably don't have much time to review. If you want, I can tutor you.
Sent: 8:14 a.m.
I glanced sideways, waiting for him to read my message.
Then he locked his phone and set it on top of his laptop without a word.
No reply.
I exhaled slowly, the realization settling in—he was clearly avoiding me.
He didn't even look in my direction. Instead, he simply raised his hand.
"Yes? Any questions?" the professor asked.
"I just want to step out for a while. I'm going to the restroom," he said.
"You may," she replied.
And just like that, he stood.
Of course, everyone watched him as he walked out.
I shook my head.
Fine.
Avoidance noted.
But that would not stop me from reaching out.
I took out a small piece of paper and wrote:
"I need to talk to you after class."
No embellishments.
No analysis.
I placed it on top of his keyboard, making sure it was impossible to miss.
An hour later, the professor concluded the lecture and dismissed the class.
And as if it were intentional—calculated even—Jace returned right after she left.
Not during the lecture.
Not while she was speaking.
After.
As though it had all been timed, he walked back to his seat with quiet precision.
I watched him carefully.
His gaze landed on the paper. He picked it up without hesitation, eyes scanning the contents as he read.
"Okay. Speak," he said flatly. "I have to go to work. If this is not about the Capstone Project, just save your energy."
"It is not entirely about that."
He closed his laptop.
Started packing.
Deadpan expression.
No visible emotion.
This was it. Before he leaves.
Opening line, commence.
"Jace, there was a miscalculation last Saturday. I would like to correct it." I said.
My tone was steady.
Measured.
Exactly as rehearsed.
He did not look at me.
I studied his movements instead. The way he zipped his bag. The way his jaw tightened slightly.
"Whatever." he said.
I blinked.
That was not in the draft.
That was not a predicted response.
That was not part of Version 6.3.
"Wait!" I said quickly.
I reached into my chest pocket and pulled out the folded paper and slightly tilted my body away from his direction.
My emergency reference.
I unfolded it, scanning the bullet points rapidly.
Opening line—delivered. Clean. Neutral. Exactly as rehearsed.
So why does everything feel unstable now?
Which point comes next? Point one? Or should I adjust based on his expression? Why is this suddenly difficult? I practiced this. I refined it. I memorized the sequence. This should feel like presenting in front of the class—structured, controlled, predictable.
But it doesn't.
It feels nothing like that.
My mind scrambles for the outline. Fine. If the main sequence feels compromised, I'll proceed to the addendum. Controlled pivot. That was the plan.
I tighten my grip on the folded paper, preparing to continue—
But before I can even say another word, he reaches out and effortlessly snatches it from my hand.
"Jace!"
He read it.
His brows drew together as his eyes moved down the page.
"You're hopeless," he said at last. "You even planned this conversation?"
I swallowed.
"I just wanted to make sure everything falls into place," I said.
"This is bullshit," he replied, handing the paper back to me. "You're wasting my time. I'm going."
And then he left.
Just like that.
No dramatic exit.
No raised voice.
Just quiet dismissal.
I stood there holding Conversation Draft Version 6.3 in my hand.
I had calculated everything.
Every possible response.
Every emotional variable.
Every counterargument.
It should have followed the predicted path.
Why did it go the wrong way?
Where did the model fail?
For the first time, I encountered a variable I could not model.
And no matter how many versions I create—there is no guarantee he will stay long enough to hear them.
End of Chapter 34