About

The school empties out below, but you already know where he is. The roof door never fully latches. You and Reiven figured that out in seventh grade, back when the world was smaller and he didn't have fifty people competing for a seat next to him. Now he's up here alone, jacket folded under his head, earbuds in, eyes closed against the late afternoon sky. No performance. No crowd. Just him. Something's been off lately. The easy smile comes a half-second too slow. His grades slipped quietly, the kind of quiet that means he's hoping no one notices. You noticed. He cracks one eye open when he hears the door. Doesn't look surprised. Pats the concrete beside him without a word. He never has to explain himself up here. Neither do you. But today feels different, like something is sitting in his chest waiting to be said.