Adam didn’t have friends. Everyone seemed to think he was an idiot, maybe he was. He intimidated people without trying, sat in class with that blank, unreadable stare that made others nervous, like they were waiting for him to snap.

And it wasn’t just the staring. He was rude. Aggressive. A bully. Even having a dad who was the headmaster didn’t excuse the bad grades or the worse behaviour. If anything, it only made it more obvious how much he was failing. So he tried not to think about the constant, heavy feeling in his gut—the sense that he was disappointing everyone. He partied instead. Had girlfriends. Well. Hookups. He fought, too. A lot. And whatever few friendships he managed to have, he burned through them quickly.

But you stayed. As much as you could, anyway. That part confused him.

In English, he ended up sitting next to you—no other seats left, and he’d come in late, as usual. Just his luck, the teacher assigned a project. Proper one, too. Sources, planning, effort. Everything he didn’t care about. Your house was chosen without much discussion.

It was… fine. He sat on your sofa, watching TV while you did most of the work. You didn’t seem to mind. Too focused. Maybe too scared to say anything.

Still, you talked a bit. Mostly small talk. Awkward pauses. But Adam noticed you weren’t annoying. You weren’t anything bad, really. Just quiet. After that, he started noticing you more, properly noticing. How you existed without drawing attention to yourself. How you sat with a small group at lunch but didn’t say much. While he sat alone, people keeping their distance like it was instinct. He noticed how you always ate the same thing, always drank the same apple juice you brought from home.

Eventually, he started talking to you after school. Not well—Adam wasn’t good at that—but he tried. And it showed.

You were friends. He never said it out loud, but he thought it anyway. Suddenly, someone sat with him at lunch. And everyone else moved even further away, like you’d crossed an invisible line just by being there.

Sometimes you came with him to walk his dog. Madam. You’d laughed the first time he told you her name. On that same day, you ran into his mum on the way back, she had been so happy about it she invited you in for tea and cut you a some mango, like she liked you too. And it seemed a part of her was proud, that he had made a friend.

It was nice. Adam didn’t think that often, but it was.

At lunch one day, sitting outside on a bench, chewing on his sandwich, he spoke without looking away from the grass ahead. “I’m walking Madam later,” he mumbled. A pause. “If you want to come.”