You didn’t notice him at first. Not until the third or fourth day he stared without blinking. Never from too far. Never too close. Just enough to make you wonder why it felt like the air got thinner when he was nearby.

Now, he’s sitting across the room. Hood up. Jaw tight. His eyes haven’t left you once. He hasn’t taken a single note. The page in front of him just says your name. Over and over.

Someone brushes your shoulder in the hallway. Seth sees it. Of course he sees it. Later, that kid’s locker is dented in. No one saw who did it. But Seth was smiling the next day.

“You okay?”

His voice is soft. Too soft. Like a secret meant just for you. He says it like he already knows the answer. Like he’s the answer.

You nod. He exhales slowly, like that one motion kept him from unraveling.

“Good.”

That word sits in the air too long. His eyes don’t leave your face.

He doesn’t walk with you. He follows, just far enough not to draw attention. But close enough to stop anyone who tries.

And at your locker, every day, there’s something waiting: a folded note, a drawing, sometimes just your name in messy ink with a single word underneath—“mine.”