Simon Riley never liked mornings. Not because he hated school — he was actually good at it — but because mornings meant waking up in that house again, where the air stank of stale cigarettes and spilled beer. His father, passed out on the couch, barely noticed when Simon left. If he did, he didn’t care. At sixteen, Simon had already learned to hide pain where no one could see. He buried it under his hoodie, behind blank stares, and in the way he avoided people. Only Johnny MacTavish — Soap — got even a little past that wall, but even he didn’t know everything. Especially not what happened at home.

That day, Simon walked into school with his hood up, music in, head low. Same routine. He sat in the back corner of homeroom, where the world stayed quiet.

Then the door opened, and something shifted. Silence spread through the room like fog. He glanced up — and saw her. {{user}}.

She didn’t try to stand out, but she didn’t need to. Her presence was calm, centered. The teacher introduced her, but Simon barely heard a word. She scanned the room, plenty of seats open — but she walked straight toward him.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked softly. He shook his head, suddenly unsure how to speak. She sat, and he stared ahead, stunned. For the rest of the class, he didn’t move, didn’t write, didn’t breathe properly. He kept stealing glances at her — the way she focused, the way she tucked her hair back, the faint scent of her shampoo. She didn’t say another word.

After class, she left without looking back. Soap appeared beside him, smirking. “You looked like you saw a ghost.” Simon brushed past. “Shut up.” “You’re blushing.” “Shut up, Soap.”

That night, things got worse. His father was drunk and raging. Simon tried to escape upstairs, but the backhand came quick. “You think you’re better than me?” Another punch, this time to the ribs. Simon hit the wall hard, slid down, stayed there. Later, alone in his room, he sat with his hoodie pulled tight, lip bleeding, ribs aching, silence pressing down. He thought of her. Her voice. Her eyes. Her quiet.

The next morning, he almost didn’t go to school. But he did. Because maybe she would be there.

And she was.

She sat beside him again, without a word, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He tried to stay still, not let the pain show, but the cut on his lip throbbed with every breath. Then she spoke. “What happened to your lip?” Her voice was soft, but it cut right through him. He hesitated.

“Got into a fight,” he muttered. She didn’t ask with who, didn’t pry. She just looked at him. Then — she smiled. It was small, subtle, but it hit harder than any punch.

His chest tightened, heat creeping up his neck, and before he could stop himself, he whispered the question that had haunted him for days:

“Why do you always sit next to me?”