The Space Between Us - Jay

Thursday came and went in a blur of half-finished equations and hastily scribbled notes. Mr. Moon had been absolutely right—there wasn't nearly enough time to get through even half of the assignment. There were too many outstanding points, too many variables to tie together, and the main question loomed over us, unanswered, with a pile of working out still to do. It felt like a race against time, one we weren't equipped to win.

After school, Sam and I went over the logistics again: how I'd get to his house and how I'd get back. My mom, ever curious about my social life—or lack thereof—offered to give me a ride. I suspected her offer was more about scoping out this "Sam" than convenience. She hadn't said it outright, but I could tell she was intrigued. It wasn't often I hung out with someone new, and the shift in my routine had her antennae up.

The hardest part of planning wasn't figuring out the details, though—it was telling my friends I had other plans. Friday was sacred: our film night tradition, something I looked forward to all week. The group chat practically exploded when I mentioned I wouldn't be coming.

Questions poured in faster than I could answer them. Everyone wanted to know more about Sam. Alex, ever the instigator, had a field day teasing me, firing off exaggerated predictions about how I'd return a football fanatic.

"Next thing we know, you'll be asking to join the team," Alex typed, followed by about fifty laughing emojis.

I rolled my eyes, typing back that it was just a school project. No, I wasn't becoming a football fan. No, I wasn't joining the team. Yes, I'd still do movie night next week. My explanations fell on deaf ears, of course. The group kept spiralling into wild theories, but I couldn't be too annoyed. At least their antics were a distraction from the daily texts I'd been getting from Ben.

Every day this week, like clockwork, Ben had sent me a message asking me to meet up. The latest one was no different:

Ben: "I just want to talk."

I didn't bother replying. I couldn't. Ignoring him wasn't easy—every message felt like a tiny weight added to my chest—but I knew responding would make things worse. Instead, I turned my focus to my music lesson on Friday. Playing the piano was one of the few things that could quieten my thoughts, and I needed that now more than ever.

But even as my fingers moved over the keys, I found it hard to concentrate. Yesterday's math class kept replaying in my mind: Sam sitting next to me, his casual "Hey" ringing louder in my memory than it had in the moment. And then there was the thought of the study session later.

Study date, my brain supplied unhelpfully. I cringed. It wasn't a date. It couldn't be a date. Sam was straight—everyone knew that. There were even rumours he was dating some girl from a nearby college. No one seemed to know who she was, which only fuelled the mystery. My friends had been trying to uncover her identity in the group chat for weeks.

After my lesson ended, I decided to stay behind for a bit, practicing a new piece. Without film night to rush home for, I had time to kill, and the thought of pacing my bedroom, trying to calm my nerves before heading to Sam's, was unbearable.

I was halfway through my second run of the piece when the door to the music block swung open. The abrupt sound made me falter, my hands stilling on the keys as I turned toward the interruption.

No one ever came into the music hall, especially after class on a Friday.

But there he was—Ben—standing in the doorway, his glare sharp enough to pierce through me. The door swung shut behind him with a loud thud, and he wasted no time making his presence known.

"Why haven't you been answering my texts?" he demanded, his tone impatient, his body tense.

My stomach dropped. "Because you can't even say hello to me outside of this hall," I blurted out, my irritation bubbling to the surface.

"You know why," Ben shot back, his voice rising slightly. "I'm not out, and I don't plan to be."

"Yeah, I get that," I snapped, pushing back the sting of his words. "But you could at least acknowledge me. I don't want a boyfriend who can't even say hi to me."

"Wait," Ben said, a sharp laugh escaping his lips. "Is that what you think this is?"

His words hit like a slap, and I flinched inwardly, even though I'd known better. Of course, we weren't boyfriends but perhaps I hoped we could be and hearing him say it out loud—laughing about it—it cut deeper than I'd expected.

"We were never going out," he added, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I know," I said quietly, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound strong.

"This is just a bit of fun," he continued, his tone dismissive. "I'm not even gay."

I stared at him, my chest tightening with a mix of anger and hurt.

"We can still meet up, though," he added casually, as if he hadn't just stomped on whatever fragile connection we'd had.

"No," I said firmly, standing up. The space between us suddenly felt suffocating. "I don't want to."

"Fine," Ben said, his eyes narrowing as his voice turned venomous. "It's not as if anyone would want you anyway, you fucking queer."

I didn't respond. I couldn't. I pushed past him, my steps quick and deliberate as I headed for the door, behind me, I heard him shout, "Fuck!" The word echoed in the empty hallway, sharp and angry.

The encounter left me rattled, my emotions a tangled mess for the rest of the afternoon. Anger, hurt, nervousness, and excitement swirled together, leaving me feeling like I was teetering on the edge of something I couldn't name.

Ben lingered in my thoughts like an unwelcome guest, overshadowing everything else. And yet, even with all that anger and hurt swirling inside me, I couldn't ignore the nervous energy building as I thought about Sam and the math assignment.

What was wrong with me?

Sam and I had spent most of yesterdays lesson going over the theme park business case, crunching numbers until my brain felt like it was ready to melt. By the time we called it a day, we'd gotten through most of it. We still needed to pull it together into a cohesive presentation. In theory, that shouldn't take long. But the idea of spending time at Sam's house—it made my stomach churn with a mix of nerves and excitement. What would we do once we were finished? Would I just pack up and leave? Should I hang around?

It wasn't just the project making me jittery. It was Sam himself. This guy was practically a campus legend—athlete, swimmer, football star, with a collection of trophies that could probably fill a museum. He carried himself with such ease, like the world bent to him effortlessly. And then there was me: quiet, unassuming, and decidedly average. My main goal was to get through college without making too many waves. Spending an afternoon with someone like Sam, even for a math assignment, felt surreal. Like stepping into someone else's world—a world I wasn't sure I belonged in.

My phone buzzed as I slid into the car with Mom. It was a text from Sam:

Sam: "Hey, I'm back from swim class already. I grabbed some pizza—hope you like Hawaiian. If not, let me know while I'm still at the store."

I replied instantly, my fingers moving before my brain caught up.

Me: "Sounds great!"

He was right—pineapple on pizza was definitely my thing. My heart did a tiny flip as I reread the text. It was casual, friendly, like we'd been doing this for ages. It made me smile, but also threw me off balance. I wasn't used to this kind of easy camaraderie. It felt nice—too nice. And then the reality of it hit me: this was Ben's friend, too. A wave of doubt crept in, tugging at the corners of my mind. Was there an ulterior motive? Did Sam have some reason for inviting me over that I didn't understand?

When we arrived, I waved goodbye to my mom, trying not to make a big deal out of it even though I could feel her eyes lingering, curious about who I was meeting. I knocked on the door, and almost instantly, it swung open. Sam stood there, his bright orange scales catching the light in a way that made them almost glow. He flashed me an easy smile, the kind that seemed to disarm everyone around him.

"Hey, glad you could make it," he said, stepping aside to let me in. His voice was warm and inviting, like we'd been friends forever. "Come on up. We can set up in my room."

His room? For some reason, I'd pictured us working at a dining room table or maybe a quiet corner of the living room. The idea of seeing his room, a space so personal to him, made my chest tighten. It wasn't that I didn't want to go—it was that I did. And that realization scared me. The last thing I needed was to develop some hopeless crush and start pining for Sam like a lovesick fool.

I followed him through a sleek, modern hallway that seemed to echo with every step. The house was as pristine as I'd expected, everything clean and orderly, like something out of a home design catalogue. The walls were bare, the furniture minimalistic, and there wasn't a single personal touch in sight. It gave off a polished, almost clinical vibe, like the house was more a showroom than a home. I wasn't surprised—most of the football team came from well-off families, and Sam's house fit the stereotype perfectly.

When we stepped into his room, though, it was like entering a completely different world. His space was massive, easily twice the size of mine. A huge double bed dominated one side, and a flat-screen TV hung on the wall opposite. Between the two was a sectional couch that created a cozy nook, complete with a few throw blankets that looked too soft to be decorative. A desk sat off to the side, a laptop open and ready, and the shelves were crammed with trophies—evidence of his endless accomplishments.

The walls were plastered with posters: a sleek sports car, a football player mid-action (someone famous, I guessed), and a pop band I vaguely recognized. It was all so... Sam. Confident, sporty, and effortlessly cool. It was the complete opposite of my room, where posters of boy bands and rainbow flags were plastered everywhere. Sam's room wasn't just tidy—it was immaculate. The air smelled faintly of fresh laundry, and everything seemed to have its place.

It reminded me a little of Alex's room, except it was cleaner, neater, and without the constant chaos of comic books and energy drink cans lying around. The whole setup felt curated, as if the house itself had instilled this sense of order into Sam from a young age. It was intimidating in a way, but also impressive.

"Wow," I muttered, unable to stop myself from looking around.

Sam caught my expression and grinned. "What?"

"Nothing," I said quickly, feeling my cheeks warm. "Just... your room's cool."

"Thanks," he said, plopping down on the couch and motioning for me to join him.

I hesitated for a moment before sitting beside him, trying to focus on the project and not the strange mix of awe and nervousness swirling in my chest.

"I figured we could start with the business case first," Sam said as I flopped onto the couch, his legs stretching out like he had all the time in the world. He made it seem so effortless, like none of this could possibly stress him out. "Mr. Moon wants us to focus on marketing the theme park, right? It's mostly math, but there's some strategy stuff too."

"Yeah," I said, feeling a little more comfortable now that we had something to focus on. Sam's confidence had this calming effect, like he could make even the most daunting task seem manageable. "We'll break down the costs, look at projected attendance, figure out pricing for the rides... That's pretty much it, right?"

It was easy to talk about school stuff with Sam. The topic was right there in front of us, like a buffer between my nerves and the actual conversation. I didn't have to think about what to say next or worry about filling any awkward silences.

We dove into the project, and to my surprise, the numbers clicked into place quickly. I'd pegged Sam as the classic athlete—the guy who coasts through group work on charm alone. But he proved me wrong almost immediately. He didn't just follow along; he understood the math behind the marketing strategies and even offered suggestions that made sense. Sam wasn't just the guy with the muscles and the trophies. He actually got the project.

I expected him to rush through it, tossing out half-baked ideas and calling it good enough. But instead, he took his time, double-checking our calculations and making sure everything lined up. We even caught the tricky little red herring Mr. Moon had slipped into the assignment—a subtle misstep that would make the business case look profitable at first glance, but ultimately doomed to fail once you ran the numbers properly.

Catching that felt like a victory in itself, and I couldn't help but smile. "I think we've got it," I said, feeling more confident in our work. If nothing else, this would be a solid grade on our coursework.

"Alright," Sam said, leaning back with a satisfied stretch. "I think we've nailed it. We can submit this on Monday, no problem." He glanced over at me with a grin. "What do you say we take a break?"

I blinked. "A break? Yeah, I could definitely use a break." I didn't even bother hiding my relief.

"Good," he said, standing up and smirking down at me. "I'll throw the pizza in the oven. But first—Mario Kart?"

I blinked again, caught off guard. "Mario Kart?" I hadn't expected that. Honestly, I wasn't sure what I'd expected, but finding out Sam was a gamer wasn't on the list. I'd played a little before, mostly with my sister when she was younger, I was actually quite good at it And, well, if Sam was offering... why not?

"Uh, sure. Why not?" I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Sam grinned and flicked on the TV, opening a cupboard underneath to reveal a Nintendo Switch and two controllers ready to go. I sat down on the couch, trying not to seem too out of my depth. He handed me one of the controllers, his grin widening like he was already enjoying himself.

"I'm warning you," he said, his tone playful, his eyes glinting with challenge. "I'm pretty good at this. But I'll go easy on you. Promise."

I laughed, the sound surprising even me. "We'll see about that." I wasn't about to let him have it easy. Sure, I couldn't beat him on the football field, but as Yoshi in Mario Kart? I liked my chances.

The next half hour was a blur of colourful tracks, sharp drifts, and dodging red shells. Sam, as expected, was good—really good. But I wasn't bad either. I got lucky a few times, managing to steal a couple of victories. Every time Sam won (which was often), he didn't gloat. He just grinned and nudged my shoulder like it was all in good fun.

It was easy to relax around him, and soon we were both laughing between races. It wasn't like playing with Alex, who'd practically rage-quit if a red shell hit him at the wrong moment. Sam just laughed it off, even when I beat him. There was no ego, no tension. Just fun. And it was... nice.

I started to understand why Sam was so popular. He wasn't just the golden boy of campus because of his achievements. He was chill, easy to be around, and his energy was infectious.

"So, uh... I didn't expect this," I said between races, my words finally coming out without the usual filter of overthinking. "You're pretty good at this, I'm normally the king of Mario Kart!"

Sam chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I've had a lot of practice," he admitted. "But honestly, sometimes it's nice to just kick back, you know? Mess around and enjoy the moment."

"I get that," I said, surprised by how genuine he sounded. For someone who seemed larger than life most of the time, Sam felt refreshingly down-to-earth in moments like this. It was easy to forget his reputation as the untouchable campus legend and see him as just... Sam. And I liked that.

After a few more rounds of Mario Kart, Sam's phone buzzed with a timed alarm. He glanced at it and grinned. "Pizza's ready," he announced, setting his controller down on the coffee table.

"can't wait," I replied, my stomach chiming in with a perfectly timed grumble.

Sam laughed as he stood, stretching briefly before heading downstairs. Left alone in his room, I felt the faint tug of curiosity. The shelves along the walls were lined with trophies, medals, and what looked like framed certificates, each one practically gleaming under the warm light. The urge to look closer itched at me, but I forced myself to stay put, fiddling with the controller instead.

Moments later, Sam returned, carrying a large plate piled high with pizza slices. The smell hit me first—hot cheese, ham, the pineapple. My mouth watered immediately.

"Here we go," he said, setting the plate on the coffee table and plopping down next to me, "and by the way pineapple on a pizza, good choice!"

"it's the best!" I say, already reaching for a slice.

We dug in, the conversation flowing effortlessly as we ate. It wasn't deep or overly meaningful—just random topics: school, movies we wanted to watch, our favourite foods. But somehow, the simplicity of it made it feel... real. Easy.

As I finished my second slice, my gaze wandered back to the shelves. "You've got a lot of trophies up there," I said, nodding toward them.

Sam looked over and smiled, his expression softening. "Yeah, I guess I do. It's not really about the trophies, though. I don't, like, do it for those. It's just... part of who I am, you know?"

I nodded, wiping my fingers on a napkin. "Makes sense. Still, it's pretty cool. I just think it's a shame they don't hand out trophies for Mario Kart as a sport. I'd totally clean up."

Sam laughed, his grin widening. "Oh yeah? You think you'd be a champion?"

"Absolutely," I said, leaning back smugly. "But you already know that—you've seen me in action."

His grin turned playful, the corners of his mouth curling in challenge. "Wanna race again?"

I laughed, picking up the controller again. "You just want me to beat you again."

He nudged me with his elbow, smirking. "Let me remind you—I've won the last five races."

"Only because you cheat," I shot back, laughing as his paw playfully reached over to wrestle with my controller.

"Sabotage isn't cheating; it's strategy," he teased, his grin practically daring me to fight back.

I shoved him lightly with my shoulder, but he was stronger, he managed to press the joypad causing my character to spin off the track. Sam laughed triumphantly, clearly enjoying his 'victory.' It was ridiculous and infuriating, but in a way that made me laugh too.

Still, I didn't want to grab his controller back. It wasn't that I didn't want to—it was more like I wasn't sure what the boundaries were. Every playful nudge, every accidental touch, sent sparks racing under my skin. It wasn't just about Mario Kart or winning streaks anymore.

The way he leaned in, laughing, so casually close, made my chest tighten. It was dangerous—feeling this way, having this reaction—because it couldn't mean anything, right? Guys mess around like this all the time. It didn't mean anything more than that.

But it felt like more. Every brush of his paw against mine, every glance he threw my way, left me wondering. And hoping. And panicking.

By the time my mom arrived at exactly 9 PM, we'd played so many rounds I'd lost track. Her honking horn outside broke the spell, and I reluctantly stood, grabbing my bag.

Sam followed me to the door, grinning as he said, "We'll have to do this again soon."

"For sure," I replied, smiling despite the nerves twisting in my stomach.

The car ride home was its own kind of battle. My mom immediately launched into questions. "So, who's this Sam? A new friend? Do you work on projects together a lot?"

I did my best to appease her without giving away too much, my answers short and vague. She finally let up, though I could tell she was still curious.

When I got to my room, I dropped my bag and collapsed onto my bed, ready to text the group chat about how weird—but fun—the night had been. But before I could even type, my phone buzzed with a message.

Sam: Had fun tonight. We should hang out again, maybe without an assignment to do!

I stared at the screen, my heart doing an unsteady flip. Was I reading too much into it? Was this just how Sam talked to everyone?

I hesitated before replying, trying not to overthink it.

Jay: Me too. Definitely. We need a rematch!

I hit send, staring at the conversation like it held all the answers to the universe. Were we just friends? Was there something more? I didn't know, but the thought of seeing him again—just hanging out, no excuses, no math projects—sent a flutter of excitement through me.

And that was dangerous too.