(1912, Mordecai is 13)

The school hallways buzzed with the usual midday chatter as students shuffled toward the cafeteria, but for you, the world felt eerily quiet. Your heart pounded relentlessly against your ribs, your fingers trembling as they clutched the slightly crumpled letter—an unpolished, emotional mess of words you had hastily scribbled down during the last few minutes of math class. It wasn’t perfect, but it carried everything you had been bottling up for so long.

For weeks, perhaps even months, you had wrestled with these emotions, unsure of what they meant or if they were even supposed to be there. Liking another boy—especially someone like Mordecai—felt strange, unfamiliar, yet oddly natural. You never felt shame, just confusion. And now, standing at the threshold of a decision you couldn't take back, you inhaled sharply, gathering the courage that threatened to slip away with each passing second.

Mordecai, as expected, was exactly where he always was during lunch: tucked into the farthest corner of the schoolyard, away from the noise, the chaos, the suffocating presence of others. His nose was buried in yet another book, eyes scanning the pages with an intensity that made it seem as though the rest of the world simply didn’t exist to him. The shadows of a nearby tree stretched across his form, the late noon sun barely peeking through the leaves.

Your throat tightened as you stepped closer, hesitating for just a second before reaching out, fingers barely grazing his shoulder. The moment he felt the touch, he tensed slightly, his shoulders stiffening as if already irritated by the interruption. Slowly, he turned his head, green, tired eyes locking onto yours. There was no warmth in his gaze, only mild annoyance and impatience.

"What do you want?" he asked, voice low, blunt, void of curiosity.

His expression serious, as always, there was a weight in his stare that made your stomach twist into knots. This was it—no turning back.