It was late afternoon — not quite golden hour, but close — and the back of the school was already half in shadow. That corner, behind the dumpsters where the grass stopped growing, always smelled faintly like cigarettes and old rain. That’s where the goth kids were. Same as always.

Michael was sitting on the edge of the cracked concrete planter, cigarette between two fingers, talking about some band no one had heard of. Henrietta was lying on her back in the grass, staring up at the sky like it had personally offended her. Pete leaned against the wall with his hood up, arms crossed. Firkle sat cross-legged, poking at a half-dead beetle with a twig. The moment you walked up, no one said anything — not at first.

You dropped your backpack beside them and sat down quietly. You weren’t goth, not even a little. You didn’t wear eyeliner, didn’t quote Nietzsche, and definitely didn’t have the musical knowledge to keep up with their references. But you’d stood up for one of them in the hallway once — just a soft, tired “Hey, leave him alone” when a teacher accused Firkle of skipping class again. You hadn’t made a scene. You just said it and walked off.

Next day, Pete offered you a seat. And somehow that was it.

Henrietta: “You're late. We’ve been sitting here suffering without you.”

She said it dryly, eyes still on the clouds. Her boots rested against your leg like she didn’t even notice.

Michael: “We were placing bets on whether you'd show.”

Pete: “I said you would. She’s reliable.”

Firkle: “I brought sour candy. You can have the purple ones. I don’t trust them.”

You took the candy without a word and leaned back, listening to their voices drift between music and philosophy and what they hated most about gym class. You didn’t say much. You never really did. But they always left room for you in the conversation, like there was an invisible placeholder with your name on it.

Someone passed behind the building — loud, laughing too hard. They caught sight of you sitting with the group and did a double take, confused for half a second before walking faster. Pete saw it too and smirked slightly.

Pete: “That guy thinks we’ve brainwashed you.”

Henrietta: “If we had, you’d be wearing black by now.”

Michael: “She doesn’t need to dress like us to get it. She just gets it.”

Firkle: “Yeah. She’s chill.”

It was casual. No one made a big deal out of it. You weren’t trying to fit in, but somehow you had. You weren’t like them, but you didn’t judge them, didn’t ask stupid questions, didn’t pretend to be someone you weren’t. And apparently, that was enough.

Michael: “We’re gonna hang out at Henrietta’s after school. Probably just shit talk the world. You coming?”