The Observatory's stardust still clung to Liam, a phantom shimmer on his skin. But instead of wonder, it now felt like a brand, a visible mark of the impossible. He replayed the almost-kiss a thousand times in his head, the electricity crackling between them, the undeniable pull towards Ethan. Each replay only amplified the internal war raging within him.

Responsibility, duty, the future carefully mapped out since he was a boy – these were the foundations upon which his life was built. Head Boy wasn’t just a title; it was a promise. A promise to his parents, who had sacrificed so much to send him to Crestwood. A promise to the school, which had invested in his potential. A promise to himself, that he would be everything they expected and more.

And now, Ethan, this whirlwind of chaos and charisma, threatened to unravel it all. Ethan, with his rebellious streak and wounded eyes, had somehow found the chink in Liam’s armor, the soft spot he hadn’t known existed.

He paced his meticulously organized dorm room, the silence amplifying the cacophony of his thoughts. He glanced at his reflection in the polished surface of his desk. The image that stared back was one he knew well: the picture of impeccable order, of controlled ambition. But beneath the surface, turmoil churned. He was a ship caught in a storm, the compass spinning wildly, the anchor dragging uselessly in the sand.

He told himself it was infatuation, a temporary lapse in judgment. Ethan was intriguing, yes, undeniably attractive. But attraction was fleeting, a superficial pull. He just needed to refocus, to immerse himself back in his studies, in his duties. He needed to put distance between himself and Ethan.

This decision, however logical, felt like a betrayal. He knew, deep down, that it was cowardly. But the alternative – confronting his feelings and the potential consequences – was too terrifying to contemplate.

The next few days were a carefully constructed performance. Liam avoided Ethan in the dining hall, taking his meals early or late. He found excuses to miss their tutoring sessions, claiming an overwhelming workload. He even changed his usual route to class, taking the long way around to avoid any accidental encounters.

He saw Ethan watching him, his brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes holding a hurt that pierced Liam's carefully constructed wall of indifference. Each glance was a sharp pang of guilt, a reminder of the connection they had forged, the vulnerability they had shared.

During one particularly brutal history lesson, Liam felt a familiar tap on his shoulder. He instinctively tensed.

"Liam, could I talk to you for a second?" Ethan's voice was low, laced with a hesitant uncertainty that was entirely unlike him.

Liam kept his gaze fixed on the professor, feigning rapt attention. "Not now, Ethan. I'm trying to concentrate."

He felt Ethan's presence linger for a moment longer before he quietly retreated. The wave of guilt that washed over Liam was almost unbearable. He could practically feel Ethan's confusion and hurt radiating from across the room.

Later that evening, a crumpled note was slipped under his door. Liam hesitated before picking it up. The familiar, slightly messy handwriting sent a tremor through him.

*Liam,* it read, *What's going on? Did I do something wrong? If I did, just tell me. Don't ignore me.*

He reread the note several times, the simplicity of the plea twisting the knife in his gut. He knew he was being cruel, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He crumpled the note in his fist, the paper a physical representation of the feelings he was trying to suppress.

The following day, he found Ethan waiting for him outside the library. He looked exhausted, his usual spark dimmed. His dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept well.

"Liam," he said, his voice strained. "Please, just tell me what's happening. You're acting like I'm contagious."

Liam forced himself to meet Ethan's gaze, his heart aching at the vulnerability he saw there. "Nothing's happening, Ethan. I'm just… busy. I have a lot of work to do."

"Busy?" Ethan scoffed, a flicker of his old defiance returning. "Too busy to even acknowledge me? Too busy to explain why you're suddenly avoiding me like the plague?"

"Look, Ethan, I appreciate your… friendship," Liam said, the word feeling hollow and inadequate. "But I think it's best if we focus on our studies. This… this whole thing is becoming a distraction."

The word "friendship" hung in the air, a blatant lie that stung both of them.

Ethan’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. “So, that’s it? You’re just going to pretend like nothing happened? Like that night at the Observatory didn’t mean anything?”

Liam flinched. "It was a mistake, Ethan. A moment of weakness. It won't happen again."

Ethan stared at him, his face a mask of disbelief. “A mistake? Is that what you really think?” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Or are you just too afraid to admit that you feel something too?”

Liam stepped back, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t meet Ethan’s gaze. He was terrified of what he might see, terrified of what it might reveal about himself.

“Just leave me alone, Ethan,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. He turned and walked away, leaving Ethan standing alone in the courtyard, his silhouette a lonely figure against the backdrop of Crestwood's imposing architecture.

Later that night, sleep evaded Liam. He tossed and turned, haunted by Ethan's hurt expression, by the accusation in his eyes. He knew he was being a coward, sacrificing Ethan's feelings to protect his own carefully constructed world. But he couldn't bring himself to stop. The fear of losing everything he had worked for was too strong.

He imagined Ethan, alone in his room, feeling betrayed and abandoned. He imagined the pain he was causing, the wounds he was reopening. And yet, he remained paralyzed by his own fear, trapped in a cycle of doubt and denial.

He knew that what he was doing was wrong. He knew that he was hurting Ethan. But he convinced himself that it was for the best, for both of them. He told himself that he was protecting Ethan from the inevitable consequences of their… whatever it was. He told himself that he was doing the responsible thing.

But deep down, a small voice whispered that he was lying to himself. That he was sacrificing his own happiness, and Ethan's, for a future that might not even be worth having.

He finally drifted off to sleep, plagued by nightmares of falling, of losing his grip, of watching everything he had ever valued crumble around him. And in each dream, Ethan stood at the edge of the precipice, his hand outstretched, offering a lifeline. But Liam, consumed by fear, always refused to take it. He always let go.