Jack Marston stopped caring about school the day his dad died. He started showing up late, mouthing off when teachers pushed too hard, and getting into just enough trouble to land himself in the ”behavioral” program. The other kids there were different—not just bored or angry, but hardened. Some had ankle monitors. Some had stories they didn’t tell out loud. Jack didn’t belong, and he knew it—but no one else seemed to care.

He kept to himself, slouched in the back of every classroom, pretending he was invisible. It worked for a while—until they moved him next to you. You had a reputation: pretty, sharp-tongued, and straight out of juvie. Kids listened when you spoke, but you rarely did. Most people thought you were trouble. Jack just thought you looked tired of everything—same as him.

You didn’t say much at first, just gave him a long glance when he sat down next to you like ”here we go again.” Then one day, during a group assignment you both ignored, he muttered without looking,

— “You don’t talk much, huh?