The something club

Love is supposed to be complicated. Everyone says so. Movies, books, whatever. But Mrs. Mathers managed to boil it down to four colors in under two minutes.

"There are three eye colors," she said, standing at the front of the classroom in her gray pencil skirt and clicky heels, like she was explaining algebra. "Gray means you’re not in love. Red means you are. Pink is a crush or mild romantic attraction. And black means you’re heartbroken. Any questions?"

I stared at her like she’d just declared gravity optional.

Around me, people were nodding. Actually nodding. some girl, Marissa leaned over to whisper something to her friend and then turned just enough to show off her pink eyes like they were the new iPhone. And just like that, the room felt twenty degrees warmer, stuffed full of people who knew exactly what they were feeling, all wrapped up in a neat little color code.

I looked down, letting my dark hair fall forward like a curtain. My notebook was blank. I'd written the date, but nothing else. My pencil sat in the groove of the desk like it was mocking me for not doing anything useful with it.

Was I broken? Everyone else seemed to have these... feelings. These big, sparkly crushes and secret glances and accidental eye color reveals that felt like entire plot twists. And I just... didn’t. Love seemed like a party I hadn't been invited to. Or maybe worse—I’d been invited, but I couldn’t find the door.

I pressed the heel of my hand into my chest, like I could push the weird ache back in. Not pain exactly. Just pressure. A low-grade sense of not fitting in, like wearing a shirt that looked fine but didn't sit right.

Mrs. Mathers kept talking, probably saying something about the ethics of privacy and eye contact, but her voice blurred into the hum of fluorescent lights.

The bell rang. Chairs scraped. I didn’t move.

i go outside

I wandered out to the courtyard and sat under one of the trees that smelled like pollen and misplaced optimism. Everyone else seemed to cluster in groups, all noise and wrappers and energy drinks. I just wanted quiet.

“Mind if I sit?”

This cool as hell dressed person, I believe is named Nova. had a juice box and a half-dead flower tucked behind one ear.

I shrugged.

They sat cross-legged like they owned the ground. “You looked like you were about to implode. Figured I’d interrupt before it got messy.”

I blinked. “Do we know each other?”

“We do now.”

I almost rolled my eyes, but something about their presence felt... still. Like they weren’t performing. Just being.

They poked the ground with a stick. “This whole eye-color drama thing? It’s like someone tried to turn love into a traffic light.”

I snorted. “Don’t forget the romantic cops.”

“Oh right, the Eye Patrol,” they said. “Better not make eye contact or you’ll get a ticket for mild affection.”

I cracked a smile despite myself.

Maybe Nova looked sideways at me. “You don’t strike me as broken. Just... observant.”

I stared at them.

They sipped their juice box. “I say people get stickers if they pass my vibe test. Ten percent approval minimum.”

“Do I get one?”

“Maybe. You haven’t said anything awful yet.”

..

By the time I stumbled into the kitchen the next morning, Mom was already sipping tea, dressed like she had somewhere to be even though she didn’t.

She looked up and grinned. "Morning, sweetheart. Your eyes are still gray, huh?"

I groaned and pulled the "Eye Color Cheat Sheet" off the fridge, sliding it toward her like a lawyer presenting evidence.

"You really need to stop with the eye color commentary. It’s not charming anymore."

She laughed, tracing her finger down the list like she hadn’t memorized it ten years ago. "Gray: not in love. Are you sure there's no one you’re forgetting to mention?"

"Yes, Mom. If there was, my eyes would tell on me. That’s kind of the whole point."

"Well, sometimes it takes a while to notice," she said, like she was offering me a soft place to land. "You know, subconscious feelings and all."

"You sound like the guidance counselor."

"I like her. She seems smart."

I made a face and grabbed a slice of toast, already regretting not grabbing my headphones first. "If I start blushing every time someone holds a door open for me, I’ll let you know."

She smiled, but there was that tiny flicker of something in her eyes—like she was watching for a hint of something she wasn’t saying.

"Just... be open to it, okay?"

I didn't answer. I just shrugged, popped the toast in my mouth, and let the front door shut behind me.

The gray stuck with me all the way to the bus- and to school.

The bus was already rumbling with chatter when I climbed on. I slid into an empty window seat, pulled my hoodie tighter around me, and stared out at the blurred rush of street signs and telephone poles. I tried to ignore the buzz of voices, the squeaky laughter, the occasional thud of someone dropping their backpack.

“Hey,” came a familiar voice.

Eleanore. Of course.

She dropped into the seat across the aisle, her cheeks pink from the cold, her grin too wide for the hour.

“What color are your eyes today?” she asked, leaning on the edge of her seat like she was trying to read my aura.

I gave her a flat look. “Gray.”

She clicked her tongue. “Still not in love? Really?”

“Yup. Not in love, not interested. Can we move on?”

Eleanore raised an eyebrow. “Most people get all mopey about the gray. You’re just… what, fine with it?”

I rolled my eyes—not that it mattered. “I’m not mopey. I just don’t get the point of it. The whole eye-color thing feels like a party trick. A shallow one.”

“Shallow, huh?” she said, clearly amused. “That’s a little dramatic, even for you.”

“It’s not dramatic. It’s practical. Why would I want to walk around flashing my feelings like a traffic light?”

“Because feelings are part of being alive, Kyan,” she said with mock sincerity. “You might enjoy it someday.”

“I’m good with neutral.”

Eleanore tilted her head, something knowing flickering in her expression. “Or maybe you’re just scared of what’ll happen when it’s not.”

“Let me guess,” I said, leaning back. “You think I just need to meet the right person.”

“Oh, definitely,” she said without missing a beat. “One tiny spark and your eyes’ll be pink before you can say ‘romantic awakening.’”

“I’m begging you. Don’t.”

She laughed and let it go—for now. But Eleanore didn’t really let things go. She just waited for the next opening.

..

First period was English, which usually meant journaling time or reading aloud while the teacher pretended not to grade papers. Today it was journaling. Everyone hunched over their notebooks like they were writing something important. I stared at my page.

“Write about a time you felt something deeply,” the prompt said.

Sure. I deeply wanted to not be here.

Eleanore plopped into the seat next to me like gravity gave up on her early. “Hey, Kyan,” she said, dragging out my name like it had an extra syllable. “You look tired. Emotional existential spiral, or just Tuesday?”

I blinked. “Just Tuesday.”

She grinned. “Same.”

This pretty girl was across the aisle, legs crossed, pen tapping against her knee in a steady rhythm. Black nail polish chipped. Hoodie layered over a uniform she didn’t bother ironing. I’d never talked to her—at least not beyond group projects—but there was something kind of cinematic about the way she existed. I always thought she was cool and wanted to talk to her but most people don’t find me their own cup of tea. not even my ex friends really got me, maybe its something wrong with me

The teacher cleared her throat and read another example from a past student. Something about heartbreak and a pet fish. The class laughed politely. I didn’t.

Eleanore leaned toward me again, whispering, “I think Ms. Grace has a secret fish trauma.”

That made me snort.

Across the aisle, the girl glanced over.

Our eyes met for half a second. Then she looked away, but not fast enough to make it meaningless.

I felt submerged within anxiety, and decided to channel this energy, I bent over my notebook and, for the first time all week, started to write.

..

By the time we got to the cafeteria, I was already mentally bracing myself for another day of dodging nosy questions and casual teasing. Eleanore, however, wasn’t done with her “helpful” advice.

“You don’t know what genders you’re into?” she asked as we walked to the eatery.

“Perhaps,” I mumbled. “Should I know by now?”

“Not necessarily. But thinking about it could help.”

“I overthink it when I try,” I admitted. “It’s just… confusing.”

Eleanore tilted her head thoughtfully. “Okay, let’s try this. Have you ever had a crush before?”

“…Once.” I look aside thinking of other times but I pretend to only recall one for mystery

Her eyes lit up. “Really? Who was it?”

“My best friend,” I said reluctantly.

“Oh? What was his name?”

I hesitated, then muttered, “Her.”

Eleanore’s grin widened. “Oooh, interesting. Did you tell her?”

“Nope. And we’re moving on.”

We made it to school, but she kept the interrogation going on the walk to homeroom.

She smirked but didn’t push it. That was one thing I liked about her—she teased, but she knew where the lines were.

she pulled out her phone and grinned. “Let’s figure out your type.”

“No thanks.”

She was already scrolling through a photo gallery. “Guy with green eyes? Girl in a sundress? Guy in a leather jacket? Come on, give me something.”

I shrugged. “They all kind of look like toothpaste ads. and they're way too cishet for me”

Eleanore laughed. “Okay, harsh. Your turn.”

I opened my phone, scrolling through my usual feed of queer creators. My thumb paused on a goth person in layered mesh and eyeliner sharp enough to be a weapon. Their whole vibe was unbothered in a way I envied.

Eleanore leaned over. “Ohhh. That’s your type.”

“Maybe.” I quickly locked my phone. “We’re done here.”

She winked. “We are so not.”

..

Later, heading to homeroom, I collided with someone. Tall. soft, smells nice. black denium. Dark eyes sharp enough to slice.

“Watch where you’re going,” they said.

“Yeah, okay, sorry,” I muttered—then caught a pansexual flag pin on their jacket. Just a tiny shimmer of color on black denim.

“Hey. Nice pin,” I said, before I could overthink it. “Like… really nice.”

Their face softened. “Thanks. Most people don’t notice.”

“I’m nonbinary,” I said.

They smiled. “Cool!!. She/her or they/them. You?”

“They/them.” I scratch the back of my neck nervously

“I’m Rylan.”

“Kyan.” I foot the ground a bit.

“Cool name,” they said, and before I could react, they were already walking off.

When I got to homeroom, Rylan slid into the seat beside me like they’d always belonged there.

“Mind if I sit here?” they asked.

I shrugged. “Sure.”

As I doodled in my notebook, they leaned over.

“Once you’re done, wanna chat? I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Their voice was casual, but warm. Friendly, not flirty. I nodded before I could second-guess myself.

“Sure. Why not.”

As we talked, I noticed the way their pale gray eyes shifted in the fluorescent light. Calm. Steady. Strange how someone could look like ocean water and still seem so grounded.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if my gray would ever change.

But it hadn’t yet.

And maybe that was okay—for now.