Sweet Romance9 min read
Thirteen Days, A Bar Called Oara, and the Breakfast Egg
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I have not spoken to Xavier Lawson in thirteen days.
"Thirteen days and you still won't come back?" I whispered to my phone before I realized he had blocked me.
"You blocked me," I said to the empty room instead.
"Why would I block you?" came no answer. Only the hum of the broken air conditioner in Room 418 and the four boys who treated late-night gaming like a religion.
I shoved open the dorm door.
"You have been slain." The game sound filled the air.
"Hey! What are you—" Flint Barlow's voice cut off when he saw me at the threshold.
Xavier stood up, mouse discarded, expression flat as ice. He came out of the circle and pushed me gently but definitely. The door slammed. For one strange second, Flint's laugh froze and our eyes caught.
"Why are you here?" Xavier said as he pulled on a T-shirt. His voice was lukewarm and distant.
"You blocked me. Don't explain—" I said, proud and angry, the words practiced like a shield.
He put his phone in my face. "This is the third time. Are you sure you want to break up?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
"Those are our last three messages," he said. "Can you go now?"
My chest sank.
I had always been cocky, used to being chased. He wasn't my ideal at first, but he chased me. He was so good to me that I got used to softness and expected it. When things turned cold, I thought breaking up would pull him close again. I was wrong.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I was just being dramatic. I won't do it again," I said, grabbing his wrist. "Just don't ignore my messages?"
Xavier moved my hand away with a soft, practiced distance. "Sarah, I'm serious. We're not right for each other."
Tears fell before I noticed. For a moment his hand reached as if to hug, then pulled away. He looked at me like someone watching a lesson rather than the girl he'd loved.
"When did you decide we were not right?" I asked.
He shrugged and went back to his desk. The room felt colder than the broken air conditioner.
1
News travels fast in small schools.
"Xavier broke up with Sarah?" I heard in the cafeteria two minutes after I left Room 418.
"Yeah, but she keeps appearing in front of him," someone said. "She's dramatic."
I walked past a note-splattered board and saw a stack of letters in Xavier's locker area. Girls left poems and trembling notes. My stomach dropped.
"He took one," someone whispered.
My feet wanted to run. My pride wouldn't let me watch quietly.
At night I picked the black dress that made me feel dangerous and went to Oara. The lights were the kind that softened flaws and sharpened edges. Whiskey burned and the music beat against my chest like a dare.
"Here," Flint said, the same small-boy smile I knew from the dorm. He smelled like soap and the same faint cologne Xavier wore.
"Do you know me?" I asked, shocked. I had on heavier makeup than usual.
"Hot, right?" Flint grinned. He leaned his arm around me. "You alone?"
"Yes."
He dragged me to his group's booth. Xavier sat quietly at the corner, expression unreadable. I waited for him to look surprised or jealous. He did not.
"I like that one," I said, pointing.
Flint pulled my hand. "She? Nah, he's crying for his ex."
I laughed. "So you're the good guy here."
"Just here to help," he said, playful, a little too eager.
"What's your name?" I asked as we moved toward them.
"Flint Barlow," he said. "I'm twenty. From the city."
"Help me then," I said. "Make him jealous."
Flint's grin widened. "I am all about helping."
He was loud, charming, and he carried himself like someone who had practiced flirtation in the mirror for years. He told stories as we walked, filling the space between the club's lights and my nerves.
"Is he really crying for his ex?" I asked.
"I saw him kicked out of a balcony once. He cried. Guys can cry," Flint said and winked.
I felt some foolish joy. Maybe I could make him regret it.
"Add my WeChat," I said, handing my phone.
"Do it," Flint said and scanned my code. "If he doesn't want you, that's on him."
Xavier's face flicked toward my hand for a beat. He looked at my wrist like reading an offer. He pulled his hand back like someone allergic to touch.
"Celebrate being single?" he said, voice colder than the club lights.
I felt the joy evaporate. He looked at me with nothing.
"But you bought breakfast for me once," I said. "Why did you stop?"
Xavier's mouth flattened. "We aren't right."
2
I went home feeling dizzy. I told myself I would find someone else—quick and easy. Flint seemed willing.
"Do you like him?" Flint asked later in the stairwell, like a friend, like mischief.
"Do you think?" I said.
"Maybe he just thinks you're dramatic," Flint said. "He was cleaning up a mess. He didn't want to lose you."
"Then why didn't he stop me?" I asked.
"He thought you needed a lesson," Flint said. "He wanted you to calm down."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe Xavier missed me the way I missed him.
At two in the morning I called him. It rang and rang. On the fourth ring, he picked up.
"Flint not there?" he said.
"I'm here," I said. "Why did you unblock me?"
"Is Flint still with you?" His voice had a strange friction tonight.
"I said he was bathing," I lied before I could think. He laughed, and the line went dead.
He hung up. Then he turned off his phone.
3
At class the next morning I arrived late and flushed. Flint was late too, like we'd both been stolen by the same night.
Xavier sat up front, colder than a statue. He looked over and said, "Someone?"
The girl who had left him a letter squealed and sprinted toward him. My heart did a clumsy drop.
"Sit here," Flint said, pulling me into a safe spot.
Xavier's hand found mine and tightened like a leash. "Sit there."
"Now you want me to sit?" I said, exaggerated. "How public."
"Yes or no?" he said.
I mumbled and sat down.
"Did you get the letter?" I asked, strange and small.
"Are you trying to win me back?" he said suddenly, eyes catching mine.
"Yes," I blurted.
He smiled a little, cruel and kind at once. "You want lessons?"
"Teach me," I said, daring him. I reached out and touched his thigh, testing.
His hand went perfectly still. "Is that your lesson?"
He pulled my hand away and smirked like someone who enjoyed the trouble he could cause.
"Do you like me?" I asked, voice thin.
"Do you want to not listen in class?" he answered and then, impossibly, started teaching me a math problem like nothing else existed.
After class, he said nothing but handed me homework. Later, we went to the restroom. He pushed me into a stall, close and dangerously warm.
"This is weird," I said.
"When you're loud in class you don't mind," he said in my ear.
I waited for an embrace. He stepped back, pulled a cigarette out, and lit it.
"You want a lecture," he said with smoke. "You should know: things don't always happen the way you expect."
He left the stall and the restroom in a silent puff.
4
I cried in the men's bathroom—ridiculous, right?—and Flint found me.
"Come on," he said, gentle like he had a whole manual on comforting girls. He dragged me out before anyone noticed.
"Why did you do that?" I asked.
"I looked pretty bad and didn't want people to start rumors," he lied and made funny faces until I laughed.
He sat me down and said, "Listen, I can help you find another boy if you want."
"No," I said, wiping my face. "I like him."
"Then stop making dumb plans," Flint said, oddly serious. "He cares. He just doesn't like being played. He hates being shown up."
"But he ignored me," I said.
"Because you made him the lesson," Flint said. "Don't let a pride lesson become the end of the story."
The next morning I bought breakfast. I carried eggs carefully, heart too big for my chest.
Xavier looked at the eggs like they were an accusation.
"Thanks," he said, almost smiling. "I don't eat eggs."
"Then I'll eat them," I said and passed him one.
He unwrapped it slowly, methodically. I watched him peel the shell and felt like he was peeling me too.
"You believe what Flint says?" he asked.
"I believe when he helps me," I said.
He took the egg and—awkward, tender—wiped my corner of a mouth where I didn't know I'd had sauce.
I felt something crack. He smiled for the first time in days.
"Tomorrow," he said with a small angle on his mouth, "you can buy the eggs again."
Flint texted: "You're hopeless. But cute."
5
School did a joint trip with math department and physics. I sat by the window, hopeful. Amber Feng—the goddess of our year—sat near Xavier.
"Hi," she said coolly when she found a seat.
Xavier said, "Someone's here," and his voice did not say my name.
I felt small. Flint put a protective hand over my eyes. "I'm not a tissue," he joked.
On the bus I slept and woke with my head on Xavier's shoulder. My stomach did a flip.
"You slept on me," he said, voice careful.
"I can't help it," I said.
He kissed my forehead like someone marking territory. I thought I was in a dream.
"Don't be so dramatic," he said. Then he walked ahead and kept a small distance between us. He would come back sometimes to give me water or to carry my bag.
"Are you jealous of Amber?" I asked later when we stopped and he tied the laces for me.
"No," he said. "You're loud. She is not."
"Do you like me?" I asked again.
"Do you want me to say it?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
He sighed and said, "I like you if you don't break things on purpose."
"Okay," I said, and smiled like an idiot.
After that, we had a small reconciliation. We kissed once, breathy and real beside a cliff with wind playing with his hair.
6
We went back and forth. Flint kept helping me, but he always had a grin that said he enjoyed the game. He lent his shoulder and his schemes.
"Tomorrow," he said one night over games, "I'll help you bait him properly."
"You're serious?" I asked.
"I like you not enough to steal you, but enough to help you not lose him," he said.
"What are you then? Friend? Traitor?" I teased.
"Both," he said. "Mostly friend."
Xavier was distant sometimes, warm other times. It made me dizzy. I learned to read his small gestures: the way he tucked hair behind my ear when he thought no one watched, the way he made instant noodles when I stayed late, the way he'd shove my jacket at me when I complained about cold.
Those were the little things—the stolen care, the small gestures—that built us back.
"Don't ever break up for show," he told me in a whisper once. "Not with me. If you want out, say it. If you want in, stay."
"I want in," I said.
He kissed me like claiming me. Flint texted, "Finally. Breakfast wins."
7
We became a pair again and the rumor mill whirred. People clapped us together like we were a better story.
"You're okay now," Flint said, nudging me like a proud coach.
"Maybe," I said.
One night, our dorms organized a dinner. Xavier took me to the table and squeezed my hand under the cloth. I noticed Flint arrive late, eyes bright, and then sit next to Amber, who clearly enjoyed being envied.
"Are you happy?" Xavier asked while passing the salt.
"I was scared you liked someone else," I admitted.
He laughed, soft. "I don't like watching you with someone else."
"Why are you so complicated?" I asked.
He tapped his phone and said, "Because I'm scared you'll forget me."
"And you should be?" I said.
He nodded, the gesture small and honest.
8
Later, Xavier left for a semester exchange in the United States. We texted and video-called when we could. He said one minute, "Miss you." He never said the huge things he might have in person.
Flint's messages came less. Our friendship smoothed into a comfortable rhythm. He would drop a message with a meme or a late-night game invite.
One night, the dorm friends urged me to go to Oara with them again.
"Don't go thinking too hard," Flint said, handing me a warm jacket.
I walked in and felt the lights like a memory. Flint waved me over. He sat with new faces, but he waved me into his booth like before.
Xavier stepped through the bar door like he owned the light. He looked at me, shock mixed with something deeper.
"You're here," he said.
"Yes," I said. "I missed you."
He stepped in, and the color left his face a little, like someone who recognized an old wound.
"You were going to stay away?" he asked, a small cruelty hiding under his words.
"No," I said. And I meant it.
He looked at Flint, and something sharp slid across his eyes.
"Don't be dramatic," he whispered to me. "Come stand still."
"I hate you," I said, with the old practiced temper that hid more tenderness than I wanted to admit.
"Not yet," he said, and kissed me soft but certain.
Flint watched with a weird smile on his face—part amused, part satisfied.
9
We stayed together. It felt patchwork sometimes but mostly warm. He would jerk away when jealous, then return as if nothing had passed. Flint stayed close, always helpful, tipping me advice that actually worked.
The girls in our class still wrote letters, Amber still glowed like a photograph, and Xavier still had the quiet habit of fixing my hairline when the wind messed it. I learned to rely on small acts rather than dramatic scenes.
"Promise me one thing," I said to Xavier one night, soft.
"What?"
"That when things get hard, you will tell me instead of walking away."
He nodded, jaw tight. "I will try," he said.
And when he left for the semester, we kept that promise in small ways: late-night messages, a picture of a coffee cup, a short video of a city I had never seen. He called me "my chaos" once, and I loved him for that.
10
Back on campus, Flint sent games and memes, sitting with me through bad days like a second, more mischievous pulse.
"You two are weirdly okay," he said once, while we played late at night.
"Because we don't explode," I said.
"And because I keep you both entertained," Flint said.
I laughed and leaned back against the chair. Xavier walked past the window, caught my smile, and gave a small thumbs-up. Life kept moving in small fixings.
11
Months later, at Oara, I slipped a tiny note into Xavier's hand. He opened it like he had opened too many things—careful and a little fierce. The note said nothing big. It said, "Eggs tomorrow?"
He smiled, and it reached his eyes.
"Yes," he said.
"Only if you promise you won't push me away again," I said.
"Never," he answered, but his mouth curved like someone who guarded promises like a collection.
I used to think love had to be grand. I learned that love could be the soft routine of breakfast eggs and late-night leanings. It could be Flint's mischief and Xavier's cold-and-warm.
When I closed my eyes that night, I heard the Oara lights in my ears, the whine of games on a laptop, Flint's laughter, and Xavier's small, steady breathing beside me.
The bar, the eggs, the busted air conditioner in Room 418—those were ours. They were messy, imperfect, and mine.
The End
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