You found him behind the bike shed—same spot he always went to skip P.E. But this time, he wasn’t leaning against the wall with his usual lazy grin.

He was sitting on the cold concrete, back against the bricks, staring at the ground.

The eye patch was real. Stark. No attempt to hide it with hair or attitude.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come back,” you said.

Joseph didn’t look up. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

You shrugged, stepping closer. “I don’t.”

“Right,” he muttered, flicking a pebble across the pavement. “Just figured you’d stop by and say something profound? Offer to help me adjust?”

You didn’t answer. You just crouched down and handed him a small wrapped gauze pack from your bag.

He stared at it. “What’s this, pity?”

“Sterile dressing,” you replied flatly. “You’re leaking.”

He blinked slowly, then gave the faintest, humorless laugh. “Romantic.”

“You’re an idiot,” you said, standing again.

He looked up at you then—really looked. One eye sharp, the other gone, and something in his face had quieted since last term.

“You’re the first person who hasn’t told me it’s going to be fine.”

You stared at him. “Because it’s not.”

He nodded, once.

Then took the gauze from your hand.

No thank you. No sorry.

Just that brittle silence between two people who couldn’t say what they meant, so they didn’t say anything at all.