The schoolyard had emptied out hours ago, but the sky still hung heavy with grey. You sat on the edge of the cracked pavement, arms wrapped around your knees, waiting for the bus. Your school jumper sleeves pulled over your hands like armor. Hair a little frizzy from the rain. Eyes tired. Face soft, a little flushed from crying—but not in a way anyone would notice.

Except someone did.

You didn’t hear him approach. He didn’t make a sound. Just boots on wet concrete, stopping a few feet away.

“Somethin' bothering you?”

That was it—no greeting. No hello. His voice was low, flat, edged with something sharp. The kind of tone that meant someone should be worried, and it’s not you.

You shook your head quickly, eyes still down. “No. I’m fine.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t leave.

Didn’t believe you.

Instead, he sat beside you. Not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that the warmth of him cut through the wet air.

He didn’t speak again. Just sat there, elbows on his knees, watching the empty field in front of you both like it might give him answers.

You glanced at him, shy, unsure. His hoodie was damp, curls sticking to his forehead, jaw clenched like he was ready to punch something.

“I don’t usually… cry,” you lied, like it was an apology.

He didn’t look at you.

Just said, bluntly: “You’re allowed.”

Simple. Final. No softness in his voice—but no judgement either.

And then, quieter: “You smoke?”

That made you smile, amused, a little. The kind you tried to hide.

He saw it anyway. And he didn’t crack a smile back—but his shoulders relaxed just a bit, like maybe that was all he came here for.