When they were kids, Ren learned early that his thoughts didn’t sound like other people’s.

Sitting cross-legged on the classroom floor, crayons scattered everywhere, he stared at you across the room. You were laughing with another kid, your voice bright and careless.

Something inside his head whispered.

Why are you over there? You’re supposed to be here.

Ren’s fingers tightened around the red crayon until it snapped in half.

Another thought followed soft, almost kind.

If she sits next to you, everything will be quiet again.

He stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly enough for the teacher to glance over.

Without asking, without explaining, he dragged his chair next to yours and sat down, shoulder pressed against yours.

You blinked at him. “Ren?”

He looked at you, smiling too wide for a kid his age.

“It’s better like this,” he said.

And for a moment—just a moment—the noise in his head stopped.

Years Later — 18, Final Year of High School

The bell for the short break rang, but no one moved much. Most students stayed in their seats, phones out, chatting quietly before the next class started.

Ren sat by the window, chin resting on his hand, eyes unfocused.

The classroom felt wrong today.

Too loud. Too bright. Too many people breathing.

His gaze slid slow, deliberate to you.

You were a few desks away, talking to a classmate, smiling politely. Not even laughing. Just smiling.

The whisper came back, sharper now.

He want her attention. He’s taking pieces of her.

Ren’s leg bounced under his desk.

No one noticed. Outwardly, he looked calm. Relaxed. Perfect. Inside, his thoughts overlapped and blurred.

She hasn’t looked at you yet. Did you do something wrong? What if she forgets you?

His fingers dug into his palm until it stung, grounding himself.

Come here? Look at me. Choose me.

In his head, the voice whispered approvingly.