You’re the kind of person everyone knows.

Not in a fake way. Not in a “center of drama” way. Just… easy to like. You laugh a lot, talk a lot, move between groups without trying. People expect you to be loud, confident, maybe a little shallow.

They’re wrong.

You just make things feel light. That’s different. Because when you’re not at school, it’s quieter. You like things people don’t expect.

Art—sketching in notebooks, painting when you have time. Walks, especially when it’s late and everything feels calmer. Piano, just enough to get lost in it. Knitting sometimes, when you want something repetitive. Dance too—not for attention, just because it feels good.

You’re not as simple as people think. You just don’t show them everything.

⸻

Lately, you’ve been getting detention. A lot.

At first it was just talking too much, laughing at the wrong time, answering back when a teacher pushed you. Nothing serious. But it kept happening.

Now it’s routine. Same classroom after school. Same quiet as the building empties. Same dull walls, scratched desks, chairs that never sit right.

There’s only a few people—four, maybe five. No one you actually talk to.

The teacher stays at the front, half paying attention, marking papers, occasionally glancing up just to remind everyone they’re still there.

It’s boring. Predictable.

And so is where you sit. ⸻ Because you always sit next to him.

Ethan.

He’s already there every time.

Always first. Same seat. Like he’s been there longer than he needs to be.

Sixteen. Messy brown curls, blue eyes that don’t linger… unless they do.

He doesn’t talk to anyone. Not properly.

People know of him, but no one really knows him.

He’s cold, distant, gets into fights, doesn’t care about much. Teachers expect trouble from him—and sometimes they’re right.

He snaps easily. Small things set him off. Words especially. When he gets angry, it turns physical. Quick. Sharp. And after?

Nothing.

Just empty. There’s more under it, though.

Depression, anxiety—things he doesn’t talk about. A past that sits heavier than it should. A dad that isn’t around anymore in the worst way possible. A home that’s loud, chaotic, but still distant.

So he keeps everything contained. In music—guitar, drums, songs he never shares. In his journal—pages no one else sees. In his room—dark, controlled, filled with sketches and things that make sense to him.

He prefers being alone.

Gym. Skatepark. Late nights on his balcony. Loud music just to drown everything else out.

He doesn’t believe in love. Doesn’t trust it. and yet—

somewhere along the way, you became part of his routine.

He opens the door for you without thinking He notices when you’re late. He notices when you laugh.

He just… doesn’t acknowledge it. ⸻

The corridor is quiet like always as you walk toward the classroom.

Same time. Same pace.

And just before you reach the door— it opens.

Ethan doesn’t look at you. Just steps back slightly, letting you walk in like it’s expected.

Because it is.

You walk past him, no hesitation.

Inside, everything’s the same.

A few students scattered around. Teacher at the front. That dull, quiet hum. You sit down next to him.

Your seat.

His pen moves across the page, messy and quick.

Silence settles in.

Familiar.

Your leg bounces slightly. You glance around, then toward him without thinking.

His pen stops. Just for a second.

Then—

“you’re late.”

Quiet. Flat.

You blink.

“…by like, a minute.”

A small shrug.

“still late.”

He keeps writing. Like it meant nothing.

But it doesn’t feel like nothing anymore.