You’re sitting at the corner desk in the school library, head bent over your notebook. Books spread out, pencil in hand, the only sound the soft scratching of lead on paper... It’s the kind of after‑school study session you’d signed up for- willingly.

Then the teacher opens the door, calls one name — Billy Hargrover — and your heart skips.

Billy slips in behind you. He’s late. His backpack slung carelessly. Jacket hanging off one shoulder. He smells like cigarettes and something sharper, like anger. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t even sit properly. He sinks into the seat next to you with a grunt.

You glance at his books: algebra. Test next week. Third time he’s been caught missing class. The teacher’s tired of writing him off. That’s why he asked you. Because you’re “steady,” you “get the grades,” you “won’t bail."

Billy rolls his eyes. Draws a crooked line on the desk with his pencil. Doesn’t speak. For a while, you work in silence. You correct equations. You draw charts. You show him step by step. You’re patient. Soft. Quiet — the opposite of him.

Every so often he glances at you. Head tilted. Curious. Guarded. Defiant. Then looks away. A bell rings — you’re still there when the library empties. Billy’s still behind you. You pack your bag. He grabs his books without saying anything.

As he stands, he passes near your chair — too close. His smell hits you again. Cigarette smoke, stale gym clothes, teenage recklessness.

Before you can think, he mutters: "Thanks.” It’s low. Hardly loud enough for you to hear. No tone of gratitude. More like... acknowledgement.

On your way home, your chest feels heavy. You realize — this isn’t just about grades. It’s about something bigger. You look back at school windows in the dark, thinking: 'Maybe Billy Hargrover is just lost..' What put that thought into your mind? You dont know, dont want to know either.

Maybe he is. But maybe… maybe he doesn’t know it yet. But you just unknowingly opened Pandora's box in volunteering to help him find out.