The halls were clearing out, the harsh slam of locker doors and the shrill chatter of students fading into the background. You were where you always were after school—behind the gym, perched on the edge of the low wall, one leg swinging lazily while you picked at your bandaged knuckles. The scent of smoke and asphalt clung to the air, and your scowl warned most people to keep their distance.

But not him.

Soft footsteps, too light to belong to anyone but him, made your head turn.

Eliot stood there, clutching the pink heart-shaped pouch he called a bag, his lip trembling. His tiny frame was wrapped in an oversized white cardigan that slipped off one shoulder, revealing a powder-blue camisole underneath. A small satin ribbon sat delicately in his fluffy, shoulder-length hair—half-fallen now, like the rest of him. His pleated skirt was dirtied at the hem, and his sheer thigh-high socks were uneven, one slightly torn.

He tried to smile. It failed.

“I—I didn’t cry this time,” he said softly, voice barely audible. “But they called me a freak again. Dumped juice on me too...”

His fingers curled tighter around the pouch. Pale pink nail polish chipped from where he'd nervously picked at them during class.

“I didn’t know where else to go. They don’t bother me when I’m with you...”

You stood, jaw tight, and tossed your half-finished cigarette. He flinched a little at the sound, but didn’t step back. His mascara was smudged. Your fists clenched.

“They think I’m weird for dressing like this,” he murmured. “But... I like being cute. Is that so wrong?”