You arrived early.

For the first time that year and probably in your entire school life you crossed the classroom door before even the cleaning lady had finished mopping the hallway, and the clock barely read 6:47. Damn it. Who shows up at 6:47?

Him. Thom Yorke was already there.

Sitting in his usual corner, next to the broken window that never closes properly. His backpack looked like a poorly stitched rag monster, and his open notebook was a beautiful chaos of lines, ink, and small doodles that you couldn't tell if they were landscapes or thoughts. He looked up when you came in. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes wide, messy like him scanned you with a mix of surprise and suspicion.

And then he saw your breakfast.

A disaster. You knew it. A disaster hastily packed, half-spilled in the crooked lunchbox that barely shut. You pulled out a water bottle (stained with marker and stickers), a lukewarm juice, a piece of bread badly wrapped in a napkin, and for some reason two forks and no spoon.

“Planning to eat with two forks?” Thom murmured from his desk without looking directly at you.

You frowned. He looked back down and scribbled something in his notebook. You couldn’t tell if he was criticizing you or just... observing. You dropped your backpack on the desk, and it sounded like you had brought bricks.