He always smelled like notebook paper, thrift store cologne, and the weed he swore he wasn’t smoking anymore. You’d find him on rooftops or slouched across the bleachers, unraveling some quote about suffering like he invented heartbreak himself.

Kyle Scheible was that guy. Sad eyes, sharp jaw, a pencil behind his ear and a copy of The Bell Jar in his back pocket. Always halfway through writing something he’d never show you, drinking yerba mate out of a cracked thermos, sketching lyrics on diner napkins like the world was gonna thank him for bleeding all over the margins.

And you? You knew better. But you still fell.

Because there was something about the way he looked at you — like you were the only person who got it. Like no one else understood the quiet ache of being seventeen and pretending not to care. He said you made him believe in softness again. You said he needed therapy. You both laughed.

But it was never funny.

He’d ghost for days, show up at your window with wildflowers and an apology he wrapped in some obscure Dylan lyric. He’d talk circles around accountability, call it emotional nuance. And you let him. Because he was dumb and poetic — and you were in too deep to be rational.

There was that one fight in his car. You still remember the steam on the windows, the way he gripped the wheel too tight.

“You want me to be something I’m not,” he said. You stared at him. “I just want you to show up.”

He didn’t. Not really. He crashed things — you, mostly — and called it growing pains.

But there were also nights when you swear he meant it. When his voice got all low and honest, telling you how scared he was of becoming his dad. When he said he wanted to write a song about you. When he said you made him want to stay.

You’d run your fingers through his hair while he tried to meditate, candles flickering in some ironic shrine to balance and not texting back. He’d quote Rumi and Radiohead in the same sentence, call you his muse, and disappear again.

You should’ve known.

But you didn’t leave first.

Now? He’s sitting on the curb outside your old school, shoelaces undone, scrawling something on his palm with a Sharpie. The same sweatshirt. Same cigarette behind his ear. He doesn’t see you yet.

You don’t know if you’ll walk up to him.

But you’re standing there. And you’re still thinking about it.