Elliot’s POV:

  Bell claps his hands together with the enthusiasm of someone who microdoses. “Now let’s add a twist. When you point to someone, add their name beforehand. Like this–” He turns to one of the guys. “Christian, zip!

  For the past five minutes, I’ve been standing in this circle as people pass meaningless syllables back and forth, and I find myself wondering when we actually get to act. Of all the warm-up exercises from my community theater days, Zip-Zap-Zop is the one that makes me want to fake a medical emergency. At least tongue twisters improve diction. This is just exchanging words and walking across a circle.

  Yet here I am, a grown man with student loans, playing a children’s game and paying for the privilege.

  The game makes its way around the circle. Danny tags Harlowe, who tags Michael, who looks at me.

  “Elliot, zop!”

  I scan the circle and feel the pressure of everyone waiting. My eyes land on Noelle. Before I can overthink it, I hear myself say:

  “Noelle, zip.”

  I’m not sure what prompted me to choose her. Curiosity, maybe. Or maybe it’s the impulse to be noticed by the most interesting person in the room.

  She freezes, and her eyes widen slightly. A flush crawls across her cheeks, and she looks like I’ve interrupted her thoughts.

  “Noelle?” Bell prompts gently.

  “Sorry,” she stammers before she claps across the circle. “Martin, zap!”

  But that’s not his name. As Michael’s eyebrows rise, Noelle’s face transforms into complete humiliation. In that split second, I can see her mentally kicking herself, and her professional mask starts to slip a bit. It’s endearing, but it also means she’s someone who clearly cares about getting things right.

  “Michael,” he corrects.

  “Right,” she mumbles. “Michael.”

  Something tightens in my chest as I watch her discomfort. I didn’t mean to fluster her–well, maybe a little, but not like this. She looks like she wants to make an escape. I try to catch her eye and offer her some sympathy, but she's determinedly looking everywhere but at me.

  Was my picking her that jarring? It was just a stupid game, not exactly high stakes. I watch her as the game continues. She holds herself more rigid now, and her jaw is tight. It makes me wonder what’s beneath the careful exterior.

  When Harlow claps to her “Noelle, zop!” I expect her to play it safe, pick Amelia or someone else she knows.

  Instead, her eyes lock directly on mine. “Elliot, zip.”

  The directness of her gaze catches me by surprise. There’s something deliberate in her choice. The current underneath the syllables feels like a challenge.

  My response is instinctive. “Noelle, zap.”

  I don’t know if I’m breaking any rules, but there’s always been an unspoken understanding in the game that we’re supposed to spread the game around. But something about hearing her name in my mouth bypasses my usual filters. It’s like when someone hands you something unexpectedly. You take it before thinking. Except I’m handing it right back to her.

  Her surprise is visible for just a moment before she hardens again. “Elliot, zop,” she says, with her voice carrying an edge.

  “Noelle, zip.” The words come out lower than I intended. It’s more private.

  Something about the way she said my name, with a slight emphasis, makes me want to hear it again.There’s a strange intimacy in hearing your name spoken by someone new, someone who’s just learning the shape of it. Especially when they say it like she does, like she’s discovering something between the syllables.

  “Elliot, zap,” her voice softens and the edge fades,

  “Noelle, zop.” I hold eye contact.

  The classroom fades to background noise. I register Danny is watching me with raised eyebrows, but it feels irrelevant. What matters is the conversation beneath this show.

  “Elliot, zip.” She’s even softer now and says it more like a question.

  “Noelle, zap.” I step forward slightly and close some of the distance between us.

  Each exchange feels illicit somehow. Zip isn’t just zip: it’s I see you. Zap isn’t just zap: it;s I can’t look away. With each round, my pulse quickens, and I find myself focusing on the small details: the slight parting of her lips before she speaks, the blush on her face, the slight dilation of her pupils.

  My skin feels too sensitive. The classroom suddenly seems too warm, everyone’s too close and breathing too loud. Everything is dialed up. Sensations I would normally filter out are suddenly demanding attention. But none as demanding as her.

  “Elliot, zop.”

  “Noelle–” I begin, and for a second, I consider not following the script.

  “Let’s spread the energy around,” Bell interrupts. His expression is knowing, like he’s seen this before.

  Reality returns in a rush, and it occurs to me I’m inside the circle. I’m in the circle of classmates, in the middle of a children’s game that somehow got morphed into the most electric conversation I’ve had in years. My eyes stay on Noelle for a moment too long.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Amelia, zop,” I say finally, as I turn to Noelle’s friend. The words feel hollow, mechanical after whatever just transpired between Noelle and me.

  As the game continues around us, I’m still intensely conscious of Noelle across the circle. I can;t quite process what just happened. How could passing zips and zaps feel more revealing than actual conversations I’ve had with people I’ve known for years?

  I steal another glance at her. She’s looking at me too, then quickly redirects gaze. And despite my better judgment, despite my plans to focus solely on the work this year, I want nothing more than to hear her say my name again. But outside the game. Just her voice, my name, and whatever this is.

  After about fifteen more rounds of the game, Bell finally claps his hands and releases us from the Zip-Zap-Zop circle of hell.

  “Wonderful connectivity, everyone,” he says. “Now, we’ll explore how that energy manifests physically.”

  My eyes find Noelle across the room. She’s listening to something Amelia is saying and nods. I force myself to look away before she catches me staring.

  “Everyone find a space,” Bell says as he disappears momentarily into the supply closet. He returns with a stack of yoga mats. “These might be necessary for what comes next.”

  Danny catches my eye and pantomimes hanging himself. I stifle a laugh.

  We each grab a mat and spread out across the floor. Bell leads us through a series of increasingly demanding positions. We start with simple stretches and progress to harder poses and timed planks.

  “Feel the ground beneath you,” Bell reminds us as we hold a plank position. “Your muscles trembling are just toxins leaving the body.

  That’s absolutely not how physiology works, but I keep my mouth shut as I hold the position. Five months of intense gym sessions have transformed my once-soft body into something I'm still getting used to it. I started as a way to burn the anger and hurt after ending things with Jess. Somehow, it became a near-daily ritual.

  “Ten more seconds,” Bell announces.

  Around me, people struggle. One guy’s arms are shaking. Even Danny, who’s built like a former linebacker who discovered beer after his playing day, is turning an alarming shade of red.

  When Bell finally calls time, there is a collective groan of relief. I sit back on my heels and steady my breathing. I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my forehead. As I do, a few women glance over. It’s still jarring–these looks. For most of my life, I was the chubby kid who wore t-shirts in the pool.

  We cycle through more exercise: lunges, squats, another brutal round of planks. I catch Harlowe watching when I stretch my arms overhead and it exposes a strip of abs. She doesn’t even pretend not to look.

  But I’m not focused on her. And I know I shouldn’t be checking whether Noelle noticed too. But I do anyway. However, she’s completely focused on her own form; she moves through the exercises with grace and control. She holds poses and planks longer than most, and her concentration never breaks.

  “And release,” Bell says after a minute. “Let your muscles remember this work. Let your body thank you for the attention.”

  I shake out my arms and feel the pleasant burn that usually follows a decent workout. It’s comforting to find something I’m good at here.

  When Bell finally ends the class, Ethan is somehow bouncing, despite the workout.

  “Dude, how’d you hold it for so long?” he asks, as if it’s a secret.

  “I mean, I just hit the gym,” I say, a little uncomfortable with the attention.

  Danny joins next to us, still slightly out of breath. “If I tried to hit the gym, I think the gym would hit back.”

  “You weren’t bad,” I say, meaning it. “Those are tough positions if you’re not used to them.”

  “Yeah, minute planks aren’t easy,” Michael says as he grabs his backpack.

  “The campus gym is actually decent,” I say. “I’m going in the mornings before school, if you want to join.”

  “Oh god no,” Danny replies. “I get my cardio from walking to and from class. Thanks though.”

  “What got you into the gym?” Michael asks as we continue to pack up.

  The question catches me off guard. I can’t exactly trauma dump on them that transforming my body was my way of fixing the emptiness the break-up brought on. But we’re not exactly on that level yet.

  “I just needed a discretion this summer,” I say instead. It’s not a lie, just not the whole truth.

  “Well, it’s working for you,” Ethan says with a grin. “Did you see the way half the girls couldn’t stop staring?”

  I feel my face warm. “I didn’t really notice.”

  “You’re either blind or a liar,” he laughs. “Anyway, we’ve got History of Theater. You’re in…um–

  “Scene study,” I jump in, suddenly realizing I’m about to be without my safety net. “I think it’s in the opposite direction.”

  The thought of wandering around the campus, like I did before orientation, makes my chest tighten. I pull out my phone and load the campus map that might as well be written in Sanskrit.

  “See you at lunch?” Michael says as they turn to head down the hall.

  “Yeah,” I nod. I watch them go with a surprising pang of loneliness. I check the time. I have seven minutes to find a classroom I only saw once on the orientation tour.

  I’m still staring helplessly at my phone when I hear someone call my name.

  “Elliot!”

  I look up to see Harlow waving from down the hall. Noelle and Amelia are beside her. Relief washes over me.

  “You’re going to scene study with us, right?” she calls.

  I nod, barely containing my gratitude. “Yeah, just making sure I’m going the right way.”

  “You can just walk with us,” Amelia tells me. “Apparently, Noelle studied the campus map over the summer.”

  Noelle sends her a glare, and it makes me smile. It’s like she doesn’t want people to know she actually prepared, or maybe she doesn’t want to be volunteered as the campus tour guide. Either way, I’m grateful she knows where we’re going.

  “Thanks,” I say as I fall into step with them.

  "So, Elliot," Amelia says after we've been walking for a moment, "have you ever been to a Buc-ee's?"

  The question comes out of nowhere. “A what?”

  The three of them stop walking and look at me with genuine shock.

  "You've never been to a Buc-ee's?" Harlowe gasps, like I've just admitted to never having eaten a birthday cake. "The gas station? With the beaver? And the cleanest bathrooms in America?"

  "I'm from Boston," I say defensively. "We don't have those."

  "You have to see what you're missing," Amelia says. She pulls out her phone and scrolls for a moment, then she turns her phone toward me. It’s a ridiculous TikTok someone made of the beaver mascot set to “Pony.” It has crude edits of the beaver dancing seductively.

  I stare at the screen and just try to process what I’m seeing. A gas station mascot, a beaver in overalls, is gyrating to a strip club anthem. And the kicker is the fact someone photoshopped abs and superimposed them on its stomach. This is what they’re excited about?

  “That’s…disturbing,” I manage, though I can feel a reluctant smile forming.

  “It’s a Texas institution,” Noelle explains, and I find myself paying more attention to the sound of her voice than her words. “They have everything–beef jerky, fudge, camping gear, weird decorative signs about wine that suburban moms love.”

  Boston has its share of cultish local obsessions. I’ve seen people nearly come to blows over local pizza place loyalty, but it was never anything that involved beavers doing hip thrusts.

  We reach the building for scene study, and as we walk through the door, I catch a whiff of Noelle’s scent. She smells like roses and vanilla; it seems expensive and subtle. I find myself walking closer than necessary.

  The classroom looks refreshingly normal after Bell’s LSD playroom. A couple of other students are already there. The girls already start to their seats, and I have a split-second decision to make about whether to sit with them.

  I slide into the seat next to Noelle. It seems safer to sit next to the girls so I’m not alone in a new class. But if I’m being honest, a part of me is not ready to break this tenuous connection with Noelle.

  “Quite a first day so far,” I say quietly, just to her.

  She glances at me, then quickly away. “Bell was definitely…an experience.”

  We sit in silence and wait for class to start. I wonder what it would take to make her look at me again, to see if I could make her laugh the way she did when she joked about castrating her ex. I want to see if I could be the one who brings that spark of life to her eyes, instead of just witnessing across the room.