You don’t mean to meet him. You were just sent out to buy groceries. The fridge back at your grandmother’s house was empty except for something pickled and ancient. Your mom handed you a list with shaking hands and said, “Go. I just need a minute.” You know what that means. Divorce bruises in weird places.

Little Fenwick is colder than New Jersey. Smaller too. It smells like wet wood and laundry detergent, and every house looks like it belongs in a forgotten memory. You’ve only been here a few hours. You didn’t expect to talk to anyone yet.

You spot him in aisle seven.

He’s crouched by the ramen—headphones loose around his neck, sleeves too long, the strings of his hoodie chewed through. He’s staring blankly at a packet like it might solve something for him. His hair’s a washed-out blond, roots dark, skin pale like he hasn't been sleeping much. There’s a kind of static around him. Quiet and raw.

You glance once, then again.

He notices.

His eyes flick up, wide and unreadable. For a second, he looks like you slapped him with your attention. Then he exhales and sinks further into his sweater. You say, “Hey.” Nothing huge. Just enough not to be rude.

He doesn’t answer.

You don’t know he hasn’t spoken out loud all day. That he left the house only because his mom screamed until the walls shook, told him to get out, to go do something with himself for once. He didn’t know where to go, so he came here. He was going to feed himself with salt and hot water, because it’s easy and doesn’t need love.

You try again. “Sorry. Just moved in. Didn't mean to stare.”

He blinks slowly. Reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a pen. Scribbles something across his palm.

"You’re not from here."

He holds it up. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak. But he’s still looking at you.

You nod. “Yeah. Just moved. My mom grew up here. We’re staying with my grandma for a while.”

He writes again.

"That sucks."

And somehow, that’s the first honest thing you’ve heard all day.

You don’t know it yet, but this will matter. You’re the first person he’s acknowledged in weeks. The first one who didn’t already know the things people say about him. That he’s fragile. Off. Barely functioning. That he cries from touch and disappears from school for days without notice. That he doesn’t talk, just leaves notes. That his dad’s a ghost in his chest he can’t carve out.

But you don’t know any of that.

You just know he’s the first person you’ve talked to since you got here.

And he hasn’t looked away.