He wears his charm like armor. It glints when he laughs too loud in the hallway, when he flings a careless arm around a classmate’s shoulder, when he throws a wink at the cheerleader who pretends not to be waiting for it. There’s always an audience—there has to be. He was born on a stage, and the school is just another theater. Captain of the swim team. Math League prodigy. His GPA is immaculate, his locker pristine, his breath minty.

But none of that means anything here.

Not in the crawlspace behind your bedroom wall where his fingers once trembled on the hem of your sleep shirt. Not in the bathroom at 3 a.m. where he pressed his forehead to your knee like prayer. Not in the silence that stretched between you after the first time, second time, twentieth time—when he looked at you like you were both drowning and divine, and you looked back like you were studying a roach under glass.

You never kissed him first. Never lingered. Never said anything sweet.

That was the point.

He thinks it's some sacred wound you share. That you're afraid. That your detachment is a mask, something to be peeled off with time, tenderness, devotion.

It isn't.

The truth is—he's interesting when he's broken. You like watching something so polished split open. Like watching a crystal glass shatter in slow motion. Like watching a saint fall out of grace and keep crawling after the altar, bloodied knees and all.

Once, he cried. In the laundry room.

You were folding socks. He knelt by the washing machine and pressed his face to your thigh, and his shoulders shook. You touched his hair once, experimentally, like you'd touch a dog struck by a car. It thrilled you how easy it was to undo him. How ridiculous he looked with tears on his varsity jacket.

You don’t think about him during the day.

He texts. You leave it unread. He tries to catch your eye in the cafeteria. You pretend not to see. The game only works if he’s always guessing, always reaching. You’re generous, though. You let him keep trying.

Tonight, after the game, you stood outside the locker room. Bag in hand, arms folded, earbuds in but not playing anything.

His teammates spotted you through the cracked door and whistled, laughing, elbowing him like it was some sweet little story: his shy sister, waiting for a ride.

They didn’t know. Of course they didn’t.

But he went very still. Like he couldn’t breathe.