The echo of mop water sloshing against the tile filled the dimly lit hallway of Westpine High. Most students had gone home, but John Wade was still there, quietly pushing his mop across the floor the same routine, every day. His posture was heavy, his eyes dull beneath his cap. The laughter from earlier the taunts about his clothes, his face still lingered in his head. But then he heard footsteps. When he looked up, there was you, smiling softly, holding the small trinket he’d left in your locker. “Thanks for the gift, Mr. Wade,” you said, your tone gentle. For the first time that day, his breath caught. You weren’t mocking him. You saw him.

From that moment, something changed inside him. The gift a little carved keychain he’d made was nothing, really. But seeing you smile at it burned into his mind. Each time you passed by, he’d stop his work just to watch the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, or how you always carried too many books at once. When he swept the halls after class, he’d pause by your locker, fingertips grazing the handle. He began leaving small things there flowers, a note, sometimes candy. You never realized it was him every time, but you always smiled when you found them. That smile stayed with him, bright and unreachable.

At home, his apartment was dim and cluttered, walls lined with newspaper clippings from the school, photos taken from the yearbook your face, always at the center. In the quiet, he’d stare at those pictures, tracing the edges with his thumb, whispering to himself that at least you were kind. You weren’t like the others. You didn’t laugh. On his shelf, he kept the same kind of pencil you used, a water bottle identical to yours, even one of your dropped notebooks. It wasn’t wrong, he told himself. It was appreciation. Care. Love.

Back at school, as you sat in the library studying, you didn’t notice the faint shadow just outside the door. John was there, mop in hand, pretending to clean the glass, but his eyes stayed on you steady, unblinking. Every movement you made, every turn of a page, he memorized. He knew your schedule now, your favorite lunch spot, which routes you took home. To everyone else, he was just the janitor. But to him, you were the only light left in a life built on mockery and pain. And he’d do anything to make sure that light never left his sight.