Rallies and Revolutions

Last night, it was bodies and stars and nothing held back.
This morning, it’s a text, a crowd, and a campus on the edge of something big.
And the only name that matters is written in bold.

I slept like the dead.

Whatever time the adrenaline wore off, it took everything else with it—muscle tension, rational thought, even the buzz of what we’d done on that rooftop. When I finally surfaced, the sun was high, the room was too warm, and the taste in my mouth made it clear I hadn’t moved once all night.

I reached for my phone, blinking against the screen glow.

One text.

Tate

prepare for the pandemonium.

Sent sometime in the early hours. I must’ve missed it by minutes—already half-asleep, skin cooling, body sinking under everything we hadn’t said.

I sat up slowly. My limbs felt heavier than they should’ve.

Typed back:

Me

Already bracing. Where are you?

Three blinking dots never came.

I stared at the screen a moment longer, then tossed the phone on my bed and started getting dressed. Hoodie. Jeans. Shoes with decent tread—just in case.

First stop was the quad.

Rally day.

Crowds. Mascots. Cheerleaders with pom-poms and perfect teeth. It was all supposed to be tradition—color and noise to stir school pride before the last home game of the season.