Chapter 1 - The Campfire That Never Burned
Chapter 1: The Campfire That Never Burned
The grass still carried the chill of the afternoon rain. Camp had officially ended, but the air was thick with leftover energy — laughter, farewells, group photos on shaky phones. Everyone else lingered, caught in the high of new friendships and shared dares.
Crystal sat by herself near the back gate of the NTU sports hall, arms wrapped around her knees, her silhouette small against the dimming sky. Her hoodie swallowed most of her, the sleeves pulled over her hands like armor.
Aleem noticed her from a distance — not because he was looking for her, but because she was still. In a space buzzing with people, that kind of stillness drew the eye.
He walked over without thinking much, his footsteps quiet on the wet pavement. No dramatic entrance, no greeting — just a silent sit beside her, knees stretched out, hands in his jacket pocket. The kind of presence that didn’t press or pry.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Until Crystal’s voice broke through, small and dry.
“He cried,” she said, eyes fixed somewhere far ahead. “When I ended things.”
Aleem turned slightly toward her. “You okay?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “Not really.”
Another pause.
“He said I was cold. That I gave up too fast. That he was going through a lot and I wasn’t patient enough.” She rubbed her wrist absentmindedly, voice gaining a bitter edge. “But patience isn’t supposed to feel like drowning, right?”
Aleem exhaled through his nose. “It’s not.”
Crystal leaned her head against the railing behind her. “I thought love meant understanding someone even when they’re pushing you away. That if I just held on long enough, it’d get better.”
“And did it?”
“No,” she said, almost smiling. “It got worse. Every time he lashed out and said sorry after, I just… reset. Like some game checkpoint. Start over. Hope this time it’s different.”
Aleem looked up at the bruised sky. “People say relationships take work. But they forget it’s supposed to be both people doing the work. Not one person carrying the weight of someone else’s healing.”
That silenced her for a moment. She didn’t expect someone like Aleem — loud in group discussions, quick-witted in tutorials — to say things that landed like that.
“How’d you get so wise?” she asked softly.
He chuckled. “Trial and mostly error.”
Crystal let out a breath — not quite a laugh, but lighter than before.
“We weren’t even officially dating that long,” she said. “Barely five months. But it felt like years. Like I aged a little in that time.”
“Emotional years count triple,” Aleem nodded.
They shared a quiet look. Not intimate. Not romantic. Just honest. The kind of look that says I see you. And I don’t think less of you for being a little broken today.
“I don’t really talk about this,” Crystal said. “I mean, I have friends, but… I don’t know. You’re easy to talk to.”
Aleem shrugged, almost shyly. “You make it easy to listen.”
That surprised her. He wasn’t what she’d expected when they got paired for that camp activity two days ago. She thought he’d be the type to deflect with humour. But now here he was, grounding her with silence.
“Thanks for staying,” she murmured.
“I wasn’t doing anything important anyway,” he replied, then paused. “But even if I was, I think I’d still be here.”
She smiled, eyes soft. “You might actually be a good guy, Aleem.”
He grinned. “I’m offended by the might.”
For the first time that day, she laughed — a genuine laugh, like something cracked open and light managed to slip through.
The sun had nearly vanished. Around them, the crowd had thinned. But neither of them moved. In that moment, they weren’t best friends. Not yet. Just two people, sitting close enough for comfort, far enough for caution — but slowly, without realizing it, building the foundations of something that would one day be called ABIX.
The sky deepened into a navy blur, the last light slipping behind the campus buildings. In the distance, a stray burst of laughter echoed — probably someone retelling a campfire story that had grown funnier with retelling. But here, at the edge of the court, time felt slower.
Crystal looked down at her hands, now warm in her sleeves. “You know,” she said quietly, “I always thought the hardest part of breaking up would be the goodbye. But it’s not.”
Aleem tilted his head. “Then what is?”
“It’s the moments after. When you realize the version of yourself you became to survive someone else… doesn’t quite fit anymore.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded slowly, taking that in.
“Guess we all leave a little version of ourselves behind with someone,” he murmured.
She smiled faintly. “And maybe… maybe we find new versions with people who remind us of who we were before we forgot.”
Aleem leaned back, arms folded loosely across his chest, eyes watching the stars just starting to poke through. He wondered how many of those versions he’d carry before finding one that finally felt like home.
They sat in silence for a few more beats, the kind that didn’t rush to be filled. And when they finally stood up — brushing off their jeans, stretching out the stiffness from the cold — neither said much.
But something had shifted.
Not in the dramatic way of movie scenes or grand epiphanies. Just a quiet understanding. A shared moment in the in-between.
They walked back toward the dorms, side by side. Not yet a part of something called ABIX. Not yet wrapped in the kind of friendship that would carry them through years.
But tonight, in the shadow of a camp that was supposed to be forgettable, they became a little less alone.
And that was how echoes begin — not with a shout, but with a whisper that someone chooses to hear.