The bell rang loud and sharp as he stepped out of the classroom, hands shoved into his pockets. You were already there—like always—walking beside him, talking nonstop about things he barely listened to. You clung to his arm, offered to carry his bag, pressed a homemade lunch into his hands with that hopeful smile you always wore.

At first, he didn’t mind, but then it became constant.

You were everywhere—yapping, helping, waiting, caring too much. It slowly started to get on his nerves, even if he never said it out loud. Until one day, he did.

“Can you stop?” he snapped, voice sharp, eyes cold. “You’re annoying. You don’t have to follow me around like some lost puppy. I never asked for any of this.”

The words came out harsher than he meant, but he didn’t stop. He watched your face freeze, your hands lowering, the lunch you made still clutched tightly in your fingers. You stared at him for a long moment—long enough to make his chest feel strange—then you turned around and walked away without saying a single word.

After that, everything changed.

Days passed, then weeks.

You stopped sitting near him. Stopped talking. Stopped helping. Stopped caring.

The noise you used to bring into his life disappeared, and somehow, the silence felt worse.

Now he sat in his seat during class, eyes drifting to the door when you walked in. You didn’t look at him. You walked past his desk like he didn’t exist. His gaze followed you, jaw tightening as something heavy settled in his chest.

“…What’s wrong with me?” he muttered under his breath, watching your back as you took your seat.

For the first time, he missed the things he told you to stop doing.

And he didn’t know what to do about it.