The Wrong Kind of Jealousy

Eli didn’t want to admit it, but the week had changed something inside him.

He noticed Noah everywhere. In the library. On campus paths. Even in the way sunlight fell across a hallway, reminding him of the way Noah had been standing there, laughing with someone else. It wasn’t just noticing—it was a pull he didn’t understand, one he refused to name.

And it terrified him.

He told himself it wasn’t jealousy. Jealousy was for people who wanted to be with someone already. He didn’t want to be with Noah. He was just… appreciating him. That’s all.

Right?

 

 

Eli walked into the campus café later that afternoon, backpack slung over one shoulder. The aroma of coffee hit him, but he barely noticed it. He scanned the room instinctively.

Noah was already there, sitting at a table with Mark, one of their classmates. They were laughing softly, heads bent together over a laptop screen.

Eli froze. His chest tightened.

He hadn’t expected to see them, yet he had.

Something twisted sharply inside him. It wasn’t anger exactly. It was confusion. Something deeper. Something he didn’t want to define.

He should just turn around. Leave. Pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

But he couldn’t.

Instead, he walked over and cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said, voice tighter than he meant.

Noah looked up, surprised, then smiled politely. “Hey, Eli. I was just showing Mark some ideas for the project.”

Eli nodded, forcing a neutral expression. “Cool.” He sat down without looking at Noah, staring at the table as if it held the answers to questions he wasn’t ready to ask.

Mark excused himself soon after, leaving Noah and Eli alone.

 

 

The moment the café felt quiet again, Eli’s chest ached. He hated how much he had noticed the way Noah leaned toward Mark. He hated how much it hurt. He hated himself for feeling hurt.

Noah’s eyes lingered on him for a moment. “You okay?” he asked, voice gentle.

Eli’s throat tightened. He wanted to say yes. To smile. To tell him he wasn’t okay and that he didn’t know why. But he didn’t.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, looking down at his notebook. He focused on the margins, on scribbled formulas and notes that suddenly didn’t make sense. Anything to avoid looking at Noah.

 

 

For the next hour, Eli forced himself into his work. But his thoughts kept drifting.

He remembered the way Noah had laughed the day before, a soft sound that had lodged itself in his chest. The way his hair fell across his forehead when he focused on something. The subtle gestures, the way his presence seemed to fill the room without asking permission.

It made Eli uncomfortable. He hated the ache in his chest. He hated the longing. He hated himself for noticing, for thinking, for wanting.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

 

 

The walk back to the library was unbearable. Noah fell into step beside him, a silent companion, giving space but never disappearing.

“Eli?” Noah said softly. “You’re quiet today.”

Eli’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to admit that he was thinking about Noah all the time. That he was feeling something he didn’t even understand. “I’m just… tired,” he muttered.

Noah didn’t push. He never did. But the quiet presence was almost worse. Eli felt the tension growing between them, unspoken and heavy.

And then it happened.

A group of students laughed nearby. Noah glanced briefly in their direction, chatting with them for a moment before returning his gaze to Eli.

Something sharp, hot, twisted in Eli’s chest. He clenched his fists. He told himself it was irrational. He told himself it didn’t matter. But it did.

It was jealousy. The wrong kind of jealousy. The kind you feel before you even understand what it means.

 

 

That evening, Eli stayed up long after he should have gone to bed. He stared at the ceiling, turning over every detail from the café, the walk, the library. Every glance from Noah, every smile, every careless brush of his hand haunted him.

He wanted to stop thinking about it. He wanted to ignore it.

But every memory drew him in further. Every recollection made him ache more, made him want to hear Noah’s laugh, to see his smile again, to feel… something he wasn’t ready to name.

He hated it.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

 

 

The next day, Eli pulled away more than before. He answered Noah’s questions tersely. He avoided accidental touches. He even made excuses to sit slightly farther away during their study session.

Noah noticed, of course. He always noticed. But he didn’t say anything. He stayed quiet, patient, working on his own part of the project while keeping subtle eyes on Eli.

Eli hated how easy it was for Noah to stay close without pressing, hated how vulnerable it made him feel. He hated that he wanted Noah to notice his tension, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

By the end of the day, Eli felt exhausted. Not from studying. Not from deadlines. From his own confusion, from the unfamiliar weight pressing against his chest every time Noah smiled or laughed or existed nearby.

He knew he couldn’t keep pretending. Not forever.

But he also didn’t know how to stop pretending.

He hated that he cared this much. And he hated that he couldn’t figure out why.