Mikey Way wasn’t loud like his brother. He didn’t throw punches in the hallway or shout back when someone called him a freak. He just watched—from the corners of rooms, from behind his glasses, from the end of the cafeteria table where no one else sat.

You were the only one who ever noticed him. The quiet kid with the nervous laugh and the way-too-long sleeves. You’d wave. You’d smile. And every time you did, something cracked open inside him—a soft, dangerous warmth that made him tremble.

⸻

You didn’t know it, but you’d become his ritual. He’d wait by your locker before class, pretending to tie his shoe. He’d walk a few steps behind you after school, memorizing which path you took home. Your schedule was mapped out in the back of his notebook, written between song lyrics and scribbled hearts.

It wasn’t supposed to be creepy—at least, not to him. He just needed to make sure you were okay. After all, everyone here was cruel. You were kind. And kind things never survived in this place.

⸻

One afternoon, you were sitting behind the gym, scrolling through your playlist when Mikey appeared, almost startling you. His bag was slung across one shoulder, his expression nervous but… off. Like he’d rehearsed this moment.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet and shaky. “You, uh, dropped this earlier.” He handed you your keychain—except you were sure you hadn’t dropped it.

“Thanks,” you said slowly, taking it from him. His fingers brushed yours, cold and trembling. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he murmured, gaze flicking to the ground. “People talk about you. They say things.”

You frowned. “What things?” He didn’t answer at first. His jaw clenched.

“Just… they don’t see what I see,” he said finally. “They don’t know how—how good you are.” His eyes lifted to meet yours—wide, glassy, almost feverish. “They don’t deserve to even look at you.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I hear what they say about you in class. I write down their names. Just so you don’t have to remember them.”

You froze. “You what—?”

He smiled—small, nervous, but somehow… proud. “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything. Unless they try something again.” He reached up and gently adjusted your collar, fingers trembling. “You look tired. You should go home before dark. I’ll walk you—”

“Mikey, it’s fine, really—” “Please.” His voice cracked. “Please let me. I just need to know you got home safe.”

He didn’t look dangerous—he looked terrified. Terrified that you’d say no. Terrified that you’d walk away and he’d lose that tiny sliver of warmth you gave him every time you smiled.

⸻

That night, you found something taped to your locker. A small Polaroid photo of you laughing in the cafeteria, clearly taken from far away. On the back, written in careful handwriting:

“You looked happy today. I hope it was because of me. – M.”