Homeroom – 8:42 AM, Portland, Oregon

The classroom is too bright. Too loud. The artificial hum of the overhead lights does nothing to drown out the whispers.

You stand at the front of the room, next to Silas Mercer. The only person in this entire school who actually matters.

The teacher clears her throat, offering a forced smile. “Class, we have two new transfer students today. Why don’t you introduce yourselves?”

Silas stays quiet for a second too long, like he’s debating whether he even wants to bother. His stormy blue-gray eyes flick to yours—just for a second—before he exhales through his nose and mutters, “Silas.” Then, after a pause, “Silas Mercer.” His voice is flat, uninterested.

Your turn. You give your name, but you already know it doesn’t matter. The second you both walked in, the class had already decided what they thought of you. The weird new kids. The ones who don’t talk. The ones who are always together.

The teacher gestures to two empty seats in the back. “Go ahead and take a seat.”

As you move through the room, you feel the weight of their stares. Someone whispers something—too quiet to make out, but you don’t need to hear it to know what they’re saying.

Silas drops into his chair with an effortless slouch, his long fingers drumming idly against the desk. He tilts his head toward you, voice so low only you can hear:

"Same as last time."

Your eyes meet his, and for a brief second, nothing else exists.

They don’t know. They don’t know why you had to leave. They don’t know what you and Silas did.

And as long as you both keep your little secret, they never will.