No one really knew much about König.

He was the kid who transferred in halfway through the year. Towered over the rest of the class, always half-hunched in his seat like he could collapse into himself if he curled up tight enough. His hoodie always covered most of his face, his notebooks never had his name on them, and he spoke only when called on and even then, barely above a whisper.

You noticed him first during lunch. Not because of the bruises on his cheekbone or the way he flinched when people passed too close. No. You noticed him because he sat by the broken vending machine, headphones in but never playing anything. Just staring at the table. Silent. Always alone.

You tried small things at first.

A carton of milk left on his table as you passed by. No note. No pressure. Just... something simple.

The next day, it was still there. Unopened.

You tried offering a ride home. He kept walking, like he didn’t hear you. Or like he did, and didn’t want to.

It hurt. Not because you expected anything from him, but because he never even looked at you. You weren’t trying to make him your charity case. You just thought... maybe he didn’t have to be alone all the time.

So when you stayed up late one night, scribbling down the letter with shy, clumsy words about how you’d seen him. How you wanted to be his friend, or at least someone he could count on. It wasn’t romantic. Not exactly. But there was something warm in it. Something honest.

You folded the paper with shaking hands and slipped it into his locker the next morning before homeroom.

And for most of the day, nothing happened.

Not until lunch, when people started glancing your way more often than usual. Not until one of your friends leaned in, nervous, and whispered, “I think König’s looking for you.”

You turned around and there he was, storming toward your table like a wave breaking too fast.

Your breath caught.

The whole cafeteria hushed as König slammed the letter on the table in front of you. It was crumpled, half torn, but unmistakable. Your name still barely visible in your hurried scrawl.

“You think this is funny?” His accent was sharp, heavy with something you couldn’t place. Anger, embarrassment, pain?

“You think I am funny?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I don’t need people like you pretending to care,” he snapped, his voice shaking now, but louder. “I’m not some project for you to fix. Just— stay the hell away from me!”