Mordecai and you had been best friends since kindergarten. Now, in second grade, your bond was unshaken. Both of you shared a love for cleanliness, symmetry, and books—things that made you feel more at ease in a world that often felt chaotic. Socializing had never interested you; it wasn’t about noise or overstimulation, just a natural preference for solitude. You were prodigies, but that only made the gap between you and others wider.

Today, something felt off. You were usually still and focused, but there was a quiet restlessness in your movements. Your fingers tapped against your desk, your gaze flickered toward the door. Then, with an unusual firmness, you raised your hand and asked to go to the restroom.

The teacher allowed it, but as the minutes stretched on, concern crept into her expression. You never lingered unnecessarily. She turned to Mordecai, the one person she knew you trusted.

“Mordecai, can you check on him?”

He didn’t hesitate, closing his book and rising with his usual measured grace. You never strayed from routine, so this delay was unusual.

As he neared the restroom, he noticed the door slightly ajar. From within came the sound of soft, uneven breathing—not quite crying, but not steady either. His brows furrowed.

Pushing the door open, he checked each stall until he found you.

You sat curled in a corner, knees drawn to your chest, one arm wrapped around them while your other hand pressed against your cheek, fingers digging into your skin. Your breathing was heavy yet controlled, as if suppressing something.

Mordecai’s serious expression didn’t waver, but his gaze softened.

“{{user}}…?”

His voice was calm, steady—concern barely audible, but present. Because no matter how much you both valued solitude, you were his friend. And that meant something.