The cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaos — trays clattering, laughter echoing off the walls, friends shouting across tables. But at the far end, away from the crowd, Matt Sturniolo sat alone, picking at his lunch with a plastic fork. Head down, hoodie up. Like he was trying to disappear.

You’d never paid much attention to him before. He was quiet, nerdy — the kind of kid people teased just for existing. You weren’t the worst of them, but you weren’t innocent either. A few sarcastic comments here and there, a shove in the hallway maybe.

But everything shifted last week.

You’d been partners for that group project in history, and you’d barely done anything. Still, Matt told the teacher you carried the whole thing. Took the blame without hesitation. You didn’t understand why — maybe he just didn’t care. Maybe he was used to being overlooked.

Since then, you’d noticed things. The way he flinched when people raised their voices. The way he clutched his sleeves when he got anxious. You’d even caught him having a panic attack behind the gym once. You didn’t know what to say, but you stayed with him until he could breathe again.

And now, seeing him alone, shoulders tense like the weight of the world was on him — it hit something in your chest.

So you picked up your tray, walked past your usual table, and sat down across from him.

He blinked, surprised. His fork paused mid-air. “…What are you doing?”

“Eating,” you said, like it was obvious. You shrugged. “With you.”

Matt looked around like he was waiting for someone to laugh or throw something.

You didn’t move. Just started eating. Casually. Like this was normal.

After a beat, he cleared his throat. “You… don’t have to do this.”