Dorian woke to the sound of his bank account crying.
He checked his phone. $37.42.
A text from his sister, Simone: Hey. School trip next week. Need $50. Mom can't. Can you send?
He stared at the ceiling.
I spent my last decent money on a bracelet for Sarah. A bracelet. While my fifteen-year-old sister is begging for trip money.
His phone buzzed again. Not Simone.
Simone: It's okay if you can't. Just thought I'd ask. Miss you ❤️
Guilt. Sharp and immediate.
He typed back: I'll figure it out. Don't worry.
He had no idea how.
---
Tyler burst in holding a case of white cans with black text. He was wearing a hat with "BLIMP" stitched across the front.
"DUDE. IT'S HERE."
Dorian sat up. "What is that?"
"BLIMP." Tyler cracked one open. "Energy drink. For the modern grind. For the HUSTLE. For the—"
"It's water."
"It's MINIMALIST water. People will pay five dollars for this." He took a long sip. "Refreshing. Invigorating. Expensive." He handed one to Dorian. "Try it. You look like you need it."
Dorian took a sip. It was water.
Tyler pulled out a stack of business cards. White. Black text. BLIMP. Nothing else.
"Business cards. For the brand."
Dorian stared at them. "It just says BLIMP."
"That's the POINT. It's mysterious. It's exclusive. People will see it and think 'what is BLIMP?' and then they'll have to buy one to find out."
"I don't think that's how it works."
Tyler pulled out a hat. "Also, you need to wear this. For the photoshoot. I'm thinking—you, holding the can, looking at it like it changed your life."
Dorian took the hat. "I'm not wearing this."
"It's BRAND SYNERGY."
"It's a white can with words."
"That's the POINT."
Dorian threw the hat on his bed. "I'm not famous. I have thirty thousand followers. That's nothing."
"Thirty thousand people who've seen your face. That's THIRTY THOUSAND potential customers." Tyler pulled out a notebook. "We need a launch event. The art show? Perfect. Maximum exposure. Minimum effort."
Dorian grabbed his jacket. "I'm going to find a real job."
"THE BLIMP EMPIRE IS A REAL JOB."
Dorian closed the door behind him.
---
Campus was waking up. Students flowed between buildings, coffee in hand, laptops in bags, the usual Monday shuffle.
Dorian walked fast, eyes scanning bulletin boards. Food service. Tutoring. Library assistant. All taken, all requiring experience he didn't have.
Near the student union, a flyer caught his eye:
EVENT STAFF NEEDED. PAID POSITION. FLEXIBLE HOURS. CONTACT JENNA (EVENT PLANNING COMMITTEE).
He pulled out his phone.
Dorian: That event staff thing. Still available?
Three dots appeared. Then:
Jenna: For YOU? Absolutely. Come to the union in an hour. I'll make it happen.
Dorian: Thanks.
Jenna: VIP treatment, baby. You're welcome 😘
---
He needed coffee.
Maya's cart was tucked between the library and the science building, a permanent fixture on campus. The line was short. Maya was wiping the counter, ponytail swinging, a practiced customer-service smile on her face.
But she wasn't alone.
The guy at the front of the line was loud. Not loud like Tyler's excitement—loud like he owned the space and everyone in it. He wore a leather jacket, gold chain catching the weak sun, boots that looked like they'd walked through several countries and left footprints in all of them.
His voice carried across the quad.
"You telling me, fam, you can't make a caramel macchiato? A CARAMEL MACCHIATO, innit? Is not rocket science. It's coffee. Is milk. Is caramel. Is not—" He snapped his fingers. "What dem call it? Alchemy."
Maya didn't look up. "We have drip coffee. Black. We have vanilla syrup if you want."
"Drip coffee. BLACK. With vanilla syrup." He leaned on the cart, invaded her space like he was doing her a favour. "You know what dat sound like? Boring. Flat. No passion. How you work with coffee every day and have no passion for coffee, blood?"
"I have passion for paying rent."
He laughed—loud, genuine, surprised. He turned to the small line behind him. "All of you, witness! A coffee woman who won't make caramel macchiato and she's not even apologising! Dis is the tyranny we live under!" People in line chuckled. Maya almost smiled.
He turned back, pointed at her. "Aight, aight. You got something."
Maya finally looked at him. "Are you going to order?"
"I am ordering. I'm ordering YOU to have more options." He grinned. "But since yuh don't, mi take one drip coffee. Black. With vanilla syrup. Make it interesting." He dropped cash on the counter. "Keep the change. Maybe buy yourself a better attitude."
Maya poured the coffee, added vanilla, handed it over. He took a long sip, made a face.
"Terrible. Absolutely terrible." He handed it back. "Make another one. Dis time, put some effort inna it."
She stared at him.
He stared back. Grinning.
She poured another coffee, added vanilla, handed it over. He sipped. Nodded slowly.
"Better. Still terrible. But BETTER." He set the cup down, pulled out his phone. "What's your number?"
Maya's eyebrow went up. "You insult my coffee, embarrass me in front of my customers, and now you want my number?"
"You insult my order, I insult your coffee. We even." He shrugged. "Plus, you funny. Most people just take the insult. You give it back. Dat's worth a text."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she wrote her number on a napkin and slid it across the counter.
"Don't waste my time."
He pocketed the napkin, a slow grin spreading. "Waste time? Mi don't even have time to waste, love. Mi too busy making sure you don't serve terrible coffee to innocent people." He grabbed his cup, took another sip, grimaced, then winked. "Later, coffee queen. Keep the passion for rent. It's working for you."
He walked off without once glancing at Dorian, without once noticing he was there.
Maya watched him go. Her expression was unreadable—but not hostile.
Dorian stepped up to the cart. "That guy."
Maya's eyes flicked to him. "You know him?"
"No. Do you?"
She poured his coffee without asking. "No. Never seen him before."
"You gave him your number."
"Yeah. Why? You jealous or something?"
"Even though he insulted your coffee?"
"He paid for two cups. Left a five-dollar tip." She slid the cup across. "I can be insulted for five dollars."
Dorian took the coffee and walked away, the image of Kofi's grin stuck in his head. The way the whole world seemed to bend around him without him even trying.
He's not even handsome. Not really. But he walks like he owns the sidewalk. He talks like everyone should listen. And they do.
He checked his phone. An hour until Jenna. Time to kill.
---
The philosophy lecture hall was half-full.
Dorian found a seat near the back, pulled out a notebook, tried to look like he belonged. Professor Chen had said this was extra credit. He needed extra credit.
He scanned the rows. No sign of Sarah. He pulled out his phone.
Dorian: You coming to the guest lecture?
Sarah: Sorry, can't. I have an appointment that ran long. You go, take notes for me? ❤️
Dorian: Got it.
He put the phone away. The speaker was an older man with a grey beard and a voice that made the air feel heavier. Sartre. Freedom. Bad faith. The same concepts Dorian had been fumbling through all semester.
He was trying to focus. Really trying.
Then someone slid into the seat beside him.
"Bone structure guy!"
He looked up. Priya. She was wearing a sweater with a cat on it and carrying a notebook covered in stickers—one of them read "I'M NOT ARGUING, I'M EXPLAINING."
Dorian: "You're in philosophy?"
"Nope." She pointed two rows ahead. "My friend Samira is. She said the speaker was DEEP. I wanted to see if he's actually deep or just old-man deep. You know the difference?"
"I don't."
"I'll know when I hear it." She leaned forward, squinting at the speaker. "He's got the beard. That's a good start. Old-man deep always has a beard."
The speaker continued. Priya leaned closer. "What's he saying?"
"Something about freedom. Choice. Bad faith."
"Bad faith? Like... when you say you'll text someone back and then you don't?"
"Not exactly."
"Sounds like exactly. Shippo."
The speaker moved into a section about self-deception. Priya's friend Samira was taking notes furiously. Priya was watching the speaker's hands.
"He's doing the thing. The finger thing." She demonstrated. "Old-man deep ALWAYS does the finger thing. It's like they're conducting music no one else can hear."
Dorian laughed. Real laughter.
She grinned. "See? You get it. Most people pretend to be deep. You laugh at deep. That's better. Shippo, it's like... they're so serious about being serious."
Samira turned around, whispered something, handed Priya her phone. Priya glanced at it, made a face.
"She has to go. Something about her group project. People are fighting over a thesis statement. It's very dramatic." She looked at Dorian. "I kind of want to stay, though. This is entertaining."
The speaker gestured at a diagram on the screen. Priya tilted her head. "What's that?"
"Sartre's concept of the look. How being seen by others shapes your identity."
She considered this. "So... if someone's looking at you, you become a different version of yourself?"
"That's the idea."
"That's exhausting." She pulled out her phone. "You know what's less exhausting? Having someone to send notes to. Since I'm probably not going to remember any of this."
Dorian saw the opening. "I could send you some stuff. If you want. About the lecture. The finger thing."
She perked up. "You'd do that?"
"Sure. Let me get your number."
She handed him her phone without hesitation. He typed his number, sent himself a text.
Priya saved the contact. "Bone structure guy," she read. "That's what I put. You can change it if you want."
"It's accurate."
She grinned. "I know."
She stood to leave, then paused. "You know what I think? About the being seen thing?"
"What?"
"If you're always being someone for other people, when do you get to be someone for yourself?" She shrugged. "Anyway. Text me. I want to hear your thoughts on the finger thing."
She walked out.
Dorian sat there, her number in his phone, her question hanging in the air.
If you're always being someone for other people, when do you get to be someone for yourself?
His phone buzzed.
Unknown: You have her number. Good.
Unknown: Now make her feel something.
He didn't reply.
---
The lecture ended. Dorian walked out into the cold air, pulling his jacket tighter.
His phone rang. His mom.
He answered. "Hey."
"Hi, baby. How's school?"
"Good. Busy."
"I know you're busy. I don't want to bother you. I just—Simone mentioned she texted you about the trip. You don't have to send money. She shouldn't have asked."
"It's okay. I want to help."
"You need to help yourself first." Her voice was tired. "I know things are tight. I'll figure it out."
"Mom—"
"Focus on your studies. We'll be fine." A pause. "You're eating okay?"
"Yeah. Fine."
"Are you sleeping?"
"Some nights."
"Some nights isn't enough." Another pause. "I'm proud of you for always looking out for your sister. She's lucky to have you."
Dorian's throat tightened. "Thanks."
"I love you."
"Love you too."
The line went dead.
He stood there for a moment, phone in hand, the campus moving around him. Students laughing, shouting, living their lives.
She thinks I'm helping. She thinks I'm doing better. If she knew what I'm actually doing—who I'm actually becoming—
He shoved the phone in his pocket.
---
Jenna was waiting outside the student union, clipboard in hand, hair pulled back. She spotted him and lit up.
"There he is. The new hire." She hugged him. Brief. Warm. "I pulled strings for this. You owe me."
"I'll work. That's what you're paying me for."
"I'm paying you to look good and move things. Mostly look good." She handed him a schedule. "We have a mixer this week. Philosophy and Psychology departments. Need bodies to set up, tear down, make sure people don't set anything on fire."
Dorian looked at the schedule. "That's it?"
"That's the job. You show up, you smile, you carry a chair occasionally." She tapped his arm. "You can handle that, celebrity."
"Not a celebrity."
"Thirty thousand people disagree." She smiled. "But fine. Not a celebrity. Just a guy who happens to have a viral photo and a girlfriend and a new job that puts him in the same room as me for hours." She stepped back. "See you Thursday. Don't be late."
She walked inside. Dorian watched her go, the schedule in his hand.
---
He walked back to his dorm, his mind on the photo, the text, the timer. His feet carried him on autopilot.
The door was ajar when he arrived. He pushed it open.
Marcus was inside, sitting on his bed, lacing up high-top sneakers. A basketball sat on the floor beside him. He was wearing sweats, a hoodie, his usual quiet energy.
He looked up when Dorian entered. "Hey."
Dorian sat on his own bed. "Hey. Basketball?"
"Club. We have practice." Marcus tied the second shoe, pulled it tight. "You want to come? We need an extra body."
"Nah. I'm good."
Marcus nodded. "You look like you just ran a marathon without moving."
"Long day."
Marcus didn't push. He finished lacing, grabbed the ball. "Priya told me she saw you at the lecture. Said you two talked."
Dorian's stomach dropped. "Yeah. She was with a friend."
"She seemed happy about it." Marcus bounced the ball once. Caught it. "I mean, she talks a lot. But she said you actually listen."
"She's easy to talk to."
Marcus stood, bounced the ball again. "Yeah. She's a lot, but she's a good lot."
He headed for the door, then paused.
"Dorian."
"Yeah?"
Marcus looked back. His face was calm, unreadable. "She's my a lot."
He left.
The door clicked shut.
Dorian sat there, the weight of the words pressing down.
She's my a lot.
His phone buzzed. He didn't want to look. He looked.
A photo. Him and Priya at the lecture, laughing. Her head tilted, his mouth open mid-laugh. It looked genuine. Real.
Unknown: She likes you.
Unknown: Let's see how much.
Unknown: This is going to be fun.