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You meet Rashawn on a Tuesday. It’s one of those Tuesdays that feels like it should be a Thursday—heavy with the weight of something not quite settled. You’re sitting on the bleachers during lunch, earbuds in, hoodie up, pretending you’re invisible. You’re not trying to be edgy. You’re just tired. Tired of school, of routine, of the weird ache in your chest that you can’t explain.

He walks over like he’s not afraid of anything. Like he doesn’t even consider whether you want to be alone. He has this way about him—loose shoulders, half-smile, dark curls tucked under a beanie like he’s out of a music video someone tried too hard to make look effortless.

“Hey,” he says, like he’s known you forever.

You lift one earbud. “Hi?”

“You always sit here?”

You shrug. “I guess.”

“I’m Rashawn,” he says, and sits down without asking.

You’re too stunned to tell him off. And if you’re honest, a little curious. He doesn’t pull out his phone. Doesn’t ask for your Snapchat or drop some awkward pickup line. He just sits there, like he’s trying to see something in the clouds that only you can explain.

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