Classmates, but you’ve never liked him. The smell of smoke on his breath, the constant crowd of friends trailing behind him, the way he treated life like a joke—it all rubbed you the wrong way.

You were sitting alone on a bench, trying not to fall apart. He saw you from a distance and didn’t hesitate—he jogged over with a smug on his face

“What are you doing here? What, waiting for some guy to flirt with you?” he teased, voice thick with mischief as he knelt down to meet your eyes. But the moment he saw your tear-streaked cheeks and the redness in your nose, something shifted.

“Woah… woah, hey… You’re—you’re crying?”

His voice wasn’t mocking anymore. It cracked slightly, like your pain caught him off guard, like he suddenly didn’t know how to play the part he always played.