HIS ROOMMATE

ADRIAN OR AUSTRALIA

CHAPTER 30

ADRIAN’S POV

A few people shift. This isn’t the speech PR wrote.

“But I was wrong,” I continue. “It’s not heavy when you don’t carry it alone.” My eyes flick to Kai for half a second. She doesn’t look away. “My parents built this company with heart. Mr. George kept that heart beating while I figured out how to use mine again.”

I pause. Take a breath. The room is quiet, but it’s not the suffocating quiet from the mansion. It’s listening quiet.

“So here’s my promise,” I say, voice steady now. “I’m not my father. I’m not going to pretend I have all the answers on day one. But I’m Adrian Reyes. And I’m not going anywhere.”

I lift my glass. “To the people who stayed. To the ones who kept the lights on. Let’s build what’s next. Together.”

The room erupts. Clapping. “To Mr. Reyes!” Glasses raise.

Mr. George hugs me again, hard. “Proud of you, kid,” he mutters in my ear.

When I step down, Kai’s already there. She hands me a plate with two slices of cake on it. Chocolate. My favorite. The one she always steals half of.

“Told you CEO’s can have dessert,” she says, grin back in place. “House rules.”

I take the plate. The weight in my chest is different now. Not gone. But lighter.

“Thanks,” I say. “For staying.”

“Always,” she answers. Like it’s obvious. Like it always was.

The party goes on around us. Speeches. Photos. Handshakes I’ll have to make later. But right now it’s just Kai, cake, and the fact that I’m not scared of tomorrow anymore.

KAI’S POV

The day after the party, I just stepped into my apartment when I received a message from the agency. The one I emailed back in January. Before prom. Before Adrian showed up at my door looking like a ghost.

The one that was supposed to find me a decent job.

I totally forgot about it with everything that’s been happening. Hospital visits. Soup. Dragging him to bed. Terrible coffee.

I open the message and I freeze.

*Congratulations, Kai. Position secured. Senior Designer, Melbourne Office. Relocation package includes: apartment, car, salary +40%.*

I read it three times. My hands go numb around my phone.

This is what I have always wanted. Since I was 18, sketching dresses on the back of my notebooks. “I’m leaving,” I told everyone. “Australia. My own studio. My own life.”

I was supposed to scream. Cry. Call Nancy. Book a flight.

But my happiness becomes short-lived the moment my eyes come to a stop on that one word: *Melbourne*.

Australia.

16 hours flight. 10 hour time difference.

I’m supposed to be happy that my dream of leaving here and starting my own life was coming to life.

But I’m not.

These past two years with Adrian made me forget about everything. The applications. The “I’ll go someday” talks. The plan I had taped to my fridge.

I forgot because he needed someone to stay. And I stayed.

Because watching him learn how to breathe again felt more important than my own escape plan.

My apartment feels too quiet now. The email glows on my screen. *Reply by Friday to confirm.*

That’s three days.

I drop my bag on the floor. Walk to the window. Same window I stood at three months ago, watching him sign papers and wondering if he’d actually show up to the party.

He showed up. In a suit that finally fit. And he danced with me like the whole world wasn’t watching.

“CEO’s can have dessert,” I’d told him. Like it was a joke. Like I wasn’t terrified he’d break if I let go.

Now I’m the one who might break.

If I go, he’s okay. He’s Mr. Reyes now. He has Mr. George. He has the company. He’s not scared anymore.

If I stay… what am I staying for? Friendship? Guilt? The way he said “thank you for staying by my side” last night like I was the only solid thing in the room?

My phone buzzes. Adrian.

*“You alive over there? Mr. George is making me try terrible champagne again. Save me.”*

I stare at the message. Then at the email.

Australia. My dream.

Adrian. The part of my life I didn’t plan for.

I don’t reply to either of them yet.

I just sit on the floor. Same spot I sat two years ago when he wouldn’t sleep. And I wonder when “staying” stopped being about him… and started being about me.

Why am I so scared of leaving?

I sit on my floor, knees pulled up, phone still glowing with two messages. Australia. Adrian.

Isn’t it because I think he won’t be able to cope? That’s what I tell myself. That’s the easy answer. The noble one.

He’s Mr. Reyes now. He has Mr. George. He has a board, a company, a driver, a mansion that doesn’t echo so much anymore. He has people. He has *me* for two years straight.

He’ll be okay. He said it himself last night. “I’m not scared anymore.” And he meant it. I saw it in his eyes when he was dancing with me.

So why is my chest tight?

But what about me? Will I be okay...?

I’ve been “okay” on my stepfather’s couch. “Okay” working three freelance gigs to pay rent. “Okay” telling everyone “I’m leaving someday” like if I say it enough it’ll come true.

Melbourne was my “okay” plan. My own apartment. My own car. My own studio with light that doesn’t come from a streetlamp. A salary that means I don’t check my bank account before I buy groceries.

That’s “okay.” That’s the dream I’ve carried since I was 18.

Will I be okay leaving?

The truth hits hard: I’m scared because for the first time in years, “okay” isn’t enough.

“Okay” was surviving. “Okay” was waiting for my real life to start.

These past two years with Adrian… they weren’t “okay.” They were messy. Loud. Terrible coffee at 7am. Him learning how to laugh again. Me learning that staying for someone doesn’t make me smaller.

I’m scared because if I go, I get everything I planned for. And I lose the part of my life I never planned for.

I’m scared because what if he *is* okay without me… and I’m not okay without him?

My phone buzzes again. Another message from him: *“I got two takes out, wanna join me? I can let you share one "

He’s joking. But there’s something else in it. The same thing that was in his eyes last night when he said “thank you for staying.”

He’s not asking me to save him. Not anymore.

He’s asking if I’m still here.

I look at the email. *Reply by Friday.*

I look at his text. *I can let you share one*

I don’t know what “okay” looks like anymore.

But I know this: Two years ago he was breaking, and I stayed.

Now I’m the one breaking. And I don’t know if staying is still the right answer… or if leaving is.

My thumb hovers over the reply button.

Australia. Or Adrian.

Dream. Or the part of my heart I didn’t know I had.

I exhale. Long. Shaky.

“Will I be okay leaving?” I whisper to my empty apartment.

And for the first time, I don’t have an answer.

I was supposed to be just his friend.

That was the rule. Day one, when he showed up at my door, eyes red, suit rumpled, looking like the world ended.

“Don’t leave me alone tonight,” he said. And I didn’t. I made soup. I slept on my floor. I told him the pain only makes us stronger because someone had to say it.

Friend. That was it. Friend with terrible coffee and no boundaries when it came to dragging him out of bed.

So why does my chest hurt when I think about Melbourne?

Not because I think he’ll fall apart. He won’t. He’s Mr. Reyes now. He stood at that mic last night and said “I’m not going anywhere” and he meant it. Mr. George has him. The company has him. He has people.

But not me. Not if I go.

Not feel things because it is wrong.

Wrong how? Because he just got out of a disaster with Valerie? Because I was the one holding his pieces together? Because friends aren’t supposed to notice how good he looks in a suit that finally fits? Because friends aren’t supposed to want to stay on his dance floor even after the music stops?

He is my friend and I don’t want to lose that because some feelings I can’t control.

TBC