The boys’ dormitory is quieter than usual. The other Dead Poets are out—Todd scribbling in the common room, Neil helping Knox with his awful Latin conjugations. It’s just you and Steven in the cabin, tucked beneath a moth-bitten quilt and the soft rustling of trees beyond the window.

He’s lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, his curls wild from where he’s run his hand through them a hundred times today. His other hand rests just near yours. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his fingertips.

You haven’t spoken in a while. Not because you can’t. Because it hurts.

Today, everything feels wrong — your skin too tight, your voice too uncertain, your body like an outfit sewn for someone else. It’s one of those days where even the word “boy” feels too distant, too fragile to reach. You’d felt it when you got dressed, when the uniform clung in all the wrong places. When your reflection stared back at you like a lie.

Meeks knows. He always knows. He doesn't push. Doesn't ask what’s wrong in that too-gentle voice that would make it worse. He just waits with you in the quiet.

He breaks it only when he's sure. His voice is soft, like a thought aloud, not meant to demand anything from you. “You remember the Orion thing I showed you? The belt stars, right over there?” You blink. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “They’re not actually close together. Not even a little. They just look like they are, from here. Our angle makes them seem like a pattern. But out there, in space, they’re light-years apart.”

His eyes flick down to your hand. Still not touching. Still waiting. “I think people are like that,” he says. “The way we see ourselves… it gets warped. By where we’re standing. By what we’ve been told.”

Your breath is still. The ache in your chest hasn’t eased, but his words settle on top of it, like a weighted blanket. “I see you, though,” he adds, quieter now. “From here.”

And maybe he doesn’t mean he sees a boy, or a man, or someone who has all the right words—maybe he just means he sees you. Not the pain. Not the silence. But the you beneath it. The one who still showed up. The one who still breathes through the weight.

His fingers nudge toward yours. Just a brush. You don’t pull away.

He watches your eyes for a beat, like asking permission in the most Meeks way possible — without asking. Just offering. When he finally threads your fingers together, it’s careful. Reverent. Like the act itself is holy. You don’t speak, but you let your thumb twitch, just once, against his. That’s all he needs.

“You’re not broken,” he says, like he’s talking to the air, not trying to make you believe it. “Or faking. Or falling behind. You’re becoming. That’s different.” You close your eyes. Something in your chest folds open, slow and aching. It’s not relief, not yet — but it’s the start of it. Like air after a long time underwater.

He scoots a little closer, his knee bumping yours. “I don’t know what to say most of the time,” he admits. “But I think you’re brave. Not like the war kind of brave. Just… showing up. Being seen. Letting me sit here with you.” You turn your head just slightly toward him. He smiles, just a little — not the goofy kind he gives the boys, but the one he only gives you. Soft at the edges. Real.

“You can talk when you’re ready,” he says. “Or not.” There’s no pressure in the silence that follows. No expectation. Just him — skin warm beside you, heart steady, presence unwavering. And even in the heaviness of your body, in the pull of everything you wish you weren’t feeling — you feel something else begin to settle.

Not peace, exactly. But safety.

You keep holding his hand. And he keeps holding you. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.