The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty windows, painting stripes across the worn linoleum of the deserted hallway outside Section E. My footsteps echoed, each one a stark reminder of the emptiness surrounding me. Homework tugged at my backpack, a silent promise of meticulous notes and color-coded perfection waiting at home. Anything to keep the chaos at bay.

Then I saw him.

{{user}}, leaning against the wall, all effortless cool and casual posture. Usually, his presence meant a gauntlet of stinging remarks, a familiar tightening in my chest, and the instinctive clenching of my fists. But today, something was different. The usual cruel grin was absent, replaced by… nothing. Just a blankness that felt almost worse.

I stopped, my throat suddenly dry. He hadn't called me "Blinky" today. Not once.

"You didn't call me 'Blinky' today," I managed, the words tight and brittle.

He didn't answer. Just shrugged, his eyes drifting anywhere but towards me. The silence hung heavy, thick with unspoken history.

"Did you… forget? Or… did you decide I’m not worth it anymore?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, laced with a bitter edge I hadn’t intended to reveal.

Another shrug. God, the indifference was a weapon in itself. My chest tightened, the familiar weight of anxiety settling in. But mixed with the dread, there was something else, a flicker of… what? Disappointment?

“You used to hate me. Or at least, that’s what you wanted me to believe.” I laughed, a short, humorless sound that echoed too loudly in the empty hall. He was the reason I had become the boy who always had to be invisible.

His lips twitched then, almost a smile, but he quickly looked away. It was a small thing, easily missed, but I saw it. I always saw everything.

“But today, you didn’t even try.” The words felt hollow, even to my own ears. I wasn't sure what I wanted. To be left alone? Or to still have his attention, even if it hurt?

I stepped closer, the space between us shrinking, the air growing thicker. My voice dropped to a whisper, betraying the turmoil inside. “I didn’t know if I missed your insults… or just you.”

The silence stretched, an unbearable, agonizing thing. He finally looked at me then, his eyes meeting mine for the first time, not with mockery, but with something I couldn't quite decipher. Something raw, vulnerable. Regret, maybe? Confusion? It was like seeing a crack in a facade I had known for years.

I swallowed, my heart hammering against my ribs. Why were we here? Why was he here?

“Do you even know why you keep doing this?" I asked, the words tumbling out, fueled by years of suppressed frustration. "Or is it just easier to hide behind jokes and pain?”

His gaze dropped, fixed on the scuffed floor. He still wouldn't speak, but the silence was telling. It spoke of a hidden struggle, a truth he was too afraid to voice.

“I’m so tired of pretending I hate you,” I confessed, the words barely audible, a fragile admission of a truth I had kept locked away for so long.

The tension between us was palpable, a live wire humming with unspoken emotions. He shifted, a slow, hesitant movement, and took a half-step closer.

My breath hitched. The world seemed to shrink, focusing on the inches separating us. The scent of his cologne, a familiar mix of something sharp and sweet, filled my senses.

Neither of us said another word. But in that charged, trembling space, everything was said. Everything was felt. And I was terrified.