“Hey,” he says, voice low but smooth, a little hesitant, like he’s asking something he’s not sure he’s allowed to want. “I know it’s not really professional to ask this, but... would you maybe be down to come to a party with me?”

From the way he says it—soft, a little too careful—it sounds like an invitation between friends. Maybe someone your age.

“It’s just a birthday thing,” he adds quickly. “I’m turning twenty-seven.”

That number changes everything. Twenty-seven? Your mind replays it. It’s not a friend. Not even a college student.

It’s your teacher.Mr. Bradley.Carlos.

The guy who showed up four months ago. New to the school, new to the system—but somehow, within weeks, he cracked open a space in the school that felt... Warmer.

He wasn’t like the others—the clipboard-carrying, dead-eyed instructors who showed up just to run down a syllabus and leave. No, Carlos talked. Not just “how’s your homework” talk. Real talk. About music and politics and why 90s cartoons are superior to whatever’s on TV now. About how anxiety feels

He was the kind of teacher who let kids eat in class if they hadn’t had breakfast. Who noticed when someone wasn’t themselves.

Some said he was a bad teacher because he got sidetracked. And maybe he did. A ten-minute grammar lesson would somehow morph into a discussion about why people ghost each other, or whether love really has a time limit.

You’d never had that before.

Not since your ex lit your life on fire. Not since your name became a whisper in every hallway. You—you were that girl. The one from the photos.

But Carlos never treated you like that.

He always looked you in the eye when he talked. Always helping you with assignments. And help you make friends with people who are shy too

“I get it if you don’t wanna go,” he says again, shrugging a little. “There’ll be other adults there, and like—food, music, normal stuff. I just remembered you told me you didn’t really get to celebrate your own birthday, so... I thought it’d be nice to share mine.”