Kyle parted the blackout curtain and glanced outside. It was already bright — well past morning.
Megan's car wasn't in the driveway. Either she'd already left, or she hadn't come home at all. He let the curtain fall shut.
He went downstairs, the white staircase leading into an equally white, marble kitchen.
Covered plates waited on the table. He lifted one lid: omelet, bacon, pancakes, toast, fruit. Everything had gone cold, parts of it already drying out.
The cook didn't wait for him to wake up.
Not a problem. There was a microwave.
He set the food to reheat — a couple of minutes — then opened a cabinet, looking for a mug. Empty. Another — the same. He paused, then realized: he'd left them all in his room.
Kyle rubbed the back of his neck, glanced across the other cabinets, and opened a few more.
"Oh… this'll do."
He took out a crystal glass — too thin for coffee, better suited for water or alcohol — and placed it under the coffee machine.
His vanilla latte capsules were gone. He pressed his lips together, exhaled. Espresso it was.
The microwave beeped. A chair scraped lightly against the marble floor, cutting through the silence.
For ten minutes, Kyle ate without much interest, barely noticing the taste. The quiet clink of the fork against the plate filled the space.
When he was done, he deleted traces of his presence, clearing the table and putting everything into the dishwasher. Then he headed back upstairs without rushing.
The PC hummed softly to life. On the screen, an unfinished assignment waited. Economics. Something his father would approve of.
Kyle stared at it a second too long — like he was looking, but not quite seeing. Then he started typing.
Numbers. Terms. Definitions. Pareto efficiency — the idea that improving one position meant worsening another.
He stared at the line again. It didn't feel like a theory anymore. The thought caught somewhere deeper — almost unfolding into something else. Almost.
His phone vibrated.
Meg:
Busy? Can I call?
Kyle leaned back, letting his head rest against the chair, phone in hand. His fingers hovered over the screen for a second.
Then:
Kyle:
ok
The phone slid slightly across the desk from the vibration but didn't go far.
"Hey," Megan's voice came through, warm.
"Hi," he replied evenly.
A faint rustle — Megan's voice sounded more distant.
"…wait a sec, I'll ask my brother…"
Not meant for him.
Kyle tapped his pen against the desk three times.
"Well?" he said.
"Yeah, I'm here," she said quickly. "So… we finally finished the presentation. Had to sacrifice part of Saturday, but…"
She hesitated.
"…we kinda want to celebrate. Pizza, beer, something like that."
There was another pause. As it stretched too long, Kyle cut it:
"Okay… and how does that involve me?"
"You wouldn't mind if we hang out at our place?" she said quickly, as if speed might make it easier for him to agree. "We won't bother you."
Kyle didn't answer right away.
He rolled the pen between his fingers, pressed it into the notebook.
"Don't know. I've got homework…"
He didn't get to finish.
"…hey, what are you doing—" Megan suddenly said.
Again, not to him.
"Hey, Kyle."
The voice was low. Calm.
Kyle's fingers stopped cooperating. The pen slipped from his hand and hit the desk with a dull thud. For a moment, the echo of the sound hung in the room.
He froze.
"You there?"
Kyle flinched. Drew a quiet breath through his nose, picked the pen back up and started filling the page with uneven lines and dots.
He cleared his throat and said:
"Uh… hi?"
"Yeah, hi. Darren — you probably figured that out already."
He spoke quickly, confidently, without leaving room.
"Nice to meet you. And—"
A rustle again. Fabric brushing against the mic. Fragments from another dialogue in the background:
"…hold on, I'll give it back in a sec. Let me try first — I'm hard to say no to…"
A brief silence.
"So," the voice returned, lower again, "you mind if I drop by?"
Easy. Almost casual. Still, his words carried a quiet insistence — as if he'd learned exactly how to make them sound that way.
"I won't bother you. Promise. I'm a quiet one, you know."
Kyle had been trying to say something this whole time. He didn't get the chance — Megan's friend spoke too quickly for him to find the right moment.
He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The rush of words finally stopped, and he said absently:
"…Fine. Do whatever you want. I don't care."
"Oooh!" right into his ear. "Thanks, man. Guess I'll see you soon."
You could hear the smile in his voice.
"…give it back," Megan muttered somewhere in the background.
Another irritating rustle.
"…he said yes," Darren added, still not letting go of the phone.
"Wait, what?" Megan didn't believe it. "Seriously?"
A beat. And she added:
"Nice."
"Hey, Kyle," she was back on the line. "You sure you're okay with it?"
Kyle dragged the pen across the page, crossing out a few uneven lines. He exhaled.
"I don't care. I'll be in my room."
"Come on, really?" a hint of disappointment in her voice. "What about hanging out with us? Or having a beer, huh?"
"Megan," he said flatly, "I'm seventeen."
"Not for long!"
Kyle rolled his eyes.
"I gotta go."
"Yeah, see you."
The call ended with a short tone, the line cutting out. Kyle placed the phone face down on the desk.
He leaned forward, pressing his face into his hands, staying like that for a moment. His heartbeat felt slightly off. The thought of Darren lingered — unpleasant and stubborn. Didn't want to let go.
Especially his voice.
Too steady. Too precise. Too confident. The kind you recognize right away.
And, apparently, not the kind you forget.