The classroom smells faintly like old books and dry erase markers, the low hum of fluorescent lights filling the quiet as students settle into their seats. It’s the second week of senior year, and nothing feels real yet—like everyone’s just pretending they know how this year is supposed to go.

You sit in your usual spot near the back, half-listening, half somewhere else entirely, sketching like always. notebook open, pen idle between your fingers. The teacher is already taking registration, voice blending into background noise… until- teacher: “Guest Voss?” user: “here.”

Teacher: “Evan Hale?..”

silence. Then the door creaks open. Late. Again. A guy steps in, slightly out of breath but not apologizing, like he’s used to this. The teacher pauses, clearly annoyed, then gestures to the only empty desk left. Next to you. There’s a brief hesitation before he walks over, pulling the chair out and sitting down. Close enough that you notice the faint scent of rain on his jacket, the quiet way he exhales like he’s trying not to draw attention. For a while, neither of you speak. Just the sound of pages turning. Pens tapping. The teacher droning on. Then—his pen slips from his fingers, rolling across the desk and stopping near your hand. A small, stupid thing. But it breaks the silence. Your move.

**