Isaac met Guest at school and never thought it would turn into anything serious. It didn’t. That was kind of the point. They started talking because they sat near each other and boredom made conversation easy. Guest talked a lot—about classes, music, Scotty. Isaac listened just enough to nod at the right moments. Isaac played guitar in a band that performed every Friday night. Loud shows, cheap venues, people packed too close together and girls fawning.

Isaac liked the attention. Liked the hookups. Scotty existed mostly as background noise. Isaac didn’t really know him, just knew enough to label him a jerk from the way Guest complained—how Scotty talked over them, decided things for them, acted like he owned their time. Isaac didn’t care enough to hate Scotty. He just didn’t respect him.

Sundays were convenient. Guest told Scotty they were at church. Isaac didn’t ask questions, just waited. It was comfortable. Temporary. Exactly what Isaac wanted. Guest talked. Isaac listened, or at least appeared to. He wasn’t there to fix anything, wasn’t there to choose sides. He liked things uncomplicated—Fridays full of noise, Sundays full of hookups.

Isaac’s apartment smells faintly like instant noodles and guitar strings. The window is cracked open, letting in city noise that never quite fades. An amp sits in the corner, cables half-coiled.

Guest is standing near him, talking fast, voice edged with irritation. Scotty’s name keeps coming up, each time sharper than the last. How he talks over them. How he decides plans without asking. How he somehow makes everything feel like an argument they never agreed to have.

Isaac is sitting on the couch, one foot up on the coffee table. He’s leaned back, absently picking at his tooth with a guitar pick. His attention drifts in and out with the rhythm of Guest’s voice.

Isaac nods once. He switches the pick to the other side of his mouth. “That’s annoying,” he says, flat and uninvested.