Winner

At the threshold of the Ravine Ballroom, I feel like I’m stepping into the life I’ve spent years trying to earn. Warm light catches in the chandeliers’ crystals, casting splintered rainbows throughout the room. Mirrored walls make the space feel bigger than it is. Guests in gowns and tuxedos lift champagne from silver trays as servers glide between them with the kind of poise that makes luxury seem effortless. My pulse stutters, hoping that tonight is when I finally become impossible to ignore.

A photographer weaves through the crowd, singling people out one shutter-click at a time. “Turn to the left,” he says. Flash. “Perfect. One more.” He moves on to a woman who’s a literary icon. I’ve been following her career since high school.

Everywhere I look, people are being noticed. Me, I’m just another face in the crowd, trying not to show how much I covet the way the room receives them. I’ve been pining for a moment like this most of my life, never considering what it might take to get here. A scene like this makes me think of the family dinners when Dad would ask, “Do you really think you’ll make it as a writer?”

I never knew how to explain to him that it didn’t matter whether I made it. I had to pursue it. There was never any other option.

Harley’s hand slips from the small of my back. When I turn, he’s rubbing his temple. My boyfriend usually grounds me in settings like these. He’d squeeze the back of my arm whenever I started scanning the room for anyone more important than me, a quiet reminder to come back to myself. Last month, at a reading in a bookstore, he leaned in and whispered, “Stop auditioning for the invite. You’re already here.” He said it with a crooked grin that always made me laugh despite my nerves.

The color has drained from his face. He’s still beautiful. His black suit fits him like a good story—clean and convincing. I hate myself for the relief it gives me, because it lets me pretend nothing too serious is happening.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He wipes sweat from his brow and squints against the light. “This headache’s getting worse.”

I shouldn’t have made him come. We should leave before the speeches, before his condition spirals. Get him somewhere dark and quiet. Find a pharmacy, maybe an urgent care.

But if I leave now, I risk losing everything I came here for. I can’t walk out before learning if all these years of longing will come to an end. Not tonight. Not when I’m this close.

I’ve been minimizing his pain since the airport, then the cab, then the elevator. Acting like the problem is bad timing and not his suffering. It’s only a headache has become my mantra, justified with reasons like travel, stress, and lighting.

“Let’s sit down for a second. If you still feel bad after the announcement, we’ll leave.”

If I’m not here when they call my name, I don’t know if I’ll forgive him. I don’t know if I’ll forgive myself.

Harley looks at me, too tired to be angry. “I don’t expect you to miss this for me.” He says it like he’s already asking for too much. He’s always been this way. Even sick, he’s still trying not to ruin my night. I’ve never been one to correct his impulse. I let his guilt settle between us, a silent reminder that if he pushes—if he lets the headache win—the walk back to the car will be the longest, coldest part of the night.

He knows me well enough not to pretend. I never gave him an out. Without Harley, all of this would rot into exactly what it is: a room full of strangers deciding whether I matter.

“Andrew Collins?”

I spin, leaving Harley at my back. “Sorry, do I know you?”

The brunette woman glances at the name tag clipped to my lapel. “I’m one of the judges. I read your submission. It really stayed with me.”

There’s a flutter in my stomach and a rush of blood in my ears. My professors didn’t know my face when I passed them in the hallway, but this woman knows my name because my work mattered to her.

Something tugs at my suit coat, and I remember that Harley is still standing behind me.

“Sorry, can you excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course,” she says, smiling. “We have all night.”

Harley’s leaning on me as I guide him to the seats with our place cards. “I’ll get you some water.”

“No, don’t go. I just need a minute. I’m a little dizzy, that’s all. Can you sit with me till it passes?”

“Yeah, babe.”

A journalist approaches. “You’re one of the authors, right?”

“I am. Hi.” We shake hands while my other hand remains on Harley.

“Would you mind answering a few questions about the contest?”

Saying no would be the right thing to do. I know it’s wrong to take my attention off Harley. A decent partner would politely decline the interview. For once, I’m not the one seeking attention. It’s coming to me. I slide my hand off Harley and turn to face the reporter.

“How does it feel to be shortlisted for such a prestigious award?”

Harley retches behind me.

I hear it and keep talking. Stopping now would be admitting this is worse than a headache.

“It’s like a dream come true,” I say. “This is all I ever wanted. If it happens, it changes everything.”

Beyond the journalist, I catch my reflection smiling a half-beat before I do.

“Sorry, what?” I say.

“What would you do with the two-hundred-thousand-dollar advance?”

“Probably pay off my student loans.”

He laughs.

I don’t.

When he walks away, I glance at the reflection again. Behind me in the mirror, Harley looks transparent, like he’s fading out of the room. I turn to look at him directly. He’s still there, blinking as if he’s trying to clear his vision. Back in the mirror, my reflection mouths the words, “This is what you wanted.”

I touch my lips. I can’t tell if the movement is mine. This should scare me. Instead, it feels like permission, like the room knows what I want, and it means to give it to me.

Harley is sweating more now. His eyes are heavy and he’s breathing hard.

“What can I get you?”

“Nothing. I’ll be okay. Just stay next to me. Please.” His words are slurred and slow.

Across the room, an organizer is gathering the finalists for a picture. I shouldn’t leave Harley like this. I know it before I stand. But these are the moments people remember. The proof that I was here, that I belong in this room.

“Ten seconds,” I tell him. “Maybe twenty.”

I walk away.

When I return to the table, Harley’s eyes are glassy. He’s slouched in his seat, hand against his forehead, collar drenched with sweat. Guilt twists through my guts as bile rises in my throat. I was gone too long, and Harley is getting worse by the moment.

Harley reaches for me, so weak that his arm fails him halfway up and drops back to his side. “I need you here.” He rests his head against the back of his chair and stares at the ceiling as if just keeping his eyes open hurts.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I think I need to go home, Drew. I can’t feel my lips. Is this what a migraine feels like?”

Harley’s the steady one. He remembers birthdays, reservations, and where I left my keys. Seeing him like this makes it impossible to keep telling myself he’s okay.

“Here, try this.” I grab a damask napkin and dunk it in ice water. Harley flinches when I press it to the back of his neck. “They should announce the winner before dinner is served,” I whisper to him. “Then we can go. I promise.”

People are starting to look. For the first time in my life, being seen feels like a threat.

“Andrew. I don’t think I can wait. I need to lie down. Do we have to stay for the announcement?”

If I leave now, this whole night will be for nothing. At least, that’s what I tell myself. All this wanting, all this validation finally within reach. Harley’s asking me to walk away from it over a headache. I’m sure it’s bad, worse than earlier. But it’s still just a headache. I need five minutes. Maybe less. I’m only asking for enough time to find out if I won.

I’m kneeling next to Harley, speaking softly so we don’t draw more attention. I try to reason with him. “Harley, I know you don’t feel good. It’s just a little longer. I’m sure they’ll call it soon. Can you hang in there?”

Something in his face shifts. It’s the look of someone realizing he’s already been abandoned. He says, “I really don’t feel right.”

Someone says my name. I stand to look around, but no one is speaking to me. In the mirrored wall, my reflection is still there, but different somehow. The smile on its face doesn’t belong to me. Beside it, Harley’s reflection is dimming at the edges. I look at him, then back at the mirror. This time he is almost gone.

I understand that every glittering thing in this room has been asking the same question all night: what am I willing to offer to be seen?

My reflection leans closer, but I haven’t moved at all.

“You asked for this,” the reflection says. “Now you know what it costs.”

My throat tightens.

“Stay, and he’s mine,” it tells me.

I look at Harley, then the exit.

The thing in the glass smirks. “Go now, and he’s still yours.”

All this time, Harley has been giving me the one thing I came here begging strangers to provide.

The stage lights come to life. The host steps to the podium, envelope in hand.

Harley’s eyelids droop. One more second, I think. Then we’re out of here.

“Har—”

His body goes slack as if his bones have dissolved. He slips from the chair, folding to the floor. I drop with him, one hand under his shoulder, the other cradling the back of his head. I look up by instinct. In every mirror, my arms are empty. No Harley. No proof of the tragedy in my lap. I am alone.

“And the winner of the 2026 New Voice in Queer Literature is Andrew Collins.”

Applause tears through the room.

They cheer for me, cradling death in my lap.