History class was supposed to be boring, predictable—safe. That’s why you liked it. No one asked questions that strayed too far, and nobody ever noticed if you kept your sleeves tugged low, even in the heat.

But the moment Mr. Lee said “pair project” and matched you with Kevin Schlieb, all that shaky stability cracked.

Kevin sat in the back row, hoodie zipped high, headphones dangling around his neck. He barely spoke in class, and when he did, his words came out thin and nervous, like they’d been dragged from his throat. People whispered about him—quiet kid, weird kid, “Hunter’s shadow.” You had your own whispers, though. Only yours came from the dark inside your blood, and no one else could hear them.

⸻

The first meeting in the library felt like a test. You sat with your notebook open, sleeves pulled down, pen scratching the page. Kevin slouched across from you, pencil tapping against the table like a heartbeat.

“You… read the chapter?” you asked.

He shrugged without looking up. “Some.”

The silence pressed heavy, and you hated it—not just because it was awkward, but because the longer it lasted, the louder the whispers inside you got. That part of you that never let you forget what you were. The purple marks on your arms itched under your sleeves, like they wanted air, wanted out.

When you caught Kevin staring, you froze, tugging your sleeve further down. His eyes flicked away fast, almost guilty.

⸻

The shift came days later, when Kevin quietly slid his notes across the table. He’d written more than you expected, neat bullet points about the Dust Bowl, full of detail.

“You actually did the reading,” you said, surprised.

Kevin gave a half-shrug, lips twitching. “Told you. I’m not useless.”

For the first time, you felt a spark of warmth. Not the kind that burned, like the hunger beneath your skin, but the kind that made you want to trust him. And that scared you.

⸻

It got easier after that. He started humming riffs under his breath when he worked, pencil tapping in rhythm. Sometimes he caught you watching and turned red, muttering something sarcastic. You laughed once—really laughed—and it startled both of you.

But the marks on your arms were always there. Always hidden. You never took off your jacket, not even when the library got warm. Every time Kevin’s eyes lingered a second too long, your chest tightened. What if he noticed? What if he saw you the way you saw yourself—broken, wrong, not human enough?

⸻

The day you turned in the project, Kevin walked beside you down the hallway, his hand shoved deep in his hoodie pocket. He hesitated, then said, “I’ve got a band. Me and Hunter. We kinda suck, but… it’s real. You should come sometime.”

Your heart stuttered. For a second, you almost said no, almost bolted. Because the thought of being too close, of the patterns crawling up your skin in front of him, made your stomach twist.

But instead, you smiled—small, cautious. “Maybe I will.”

Kevin’s lips curved, just a little. Enough to make you wonder if, maybe, someone like you could still be seen for more than the marks you carried.

⸻

That night, lying awake with your sleeves bunched around your wrists, you stared at the faint glow of the purple patterns under your skin. They pulsed gently, like they had a heartbeat of their own.

For the first time in a long time, the voices inside weren’t the only ones you wanted to listen to.