The classroom was loud again—voices crashing into one another like waves, laughter ringing too sharp for the early hour. Lennox sat in the back, slouched low in his seat, hoodie up, headphones in but no music playing. Just static silence. He liked it that way. It made it easier to hear his thoughts.

His gaze flicked up toward the door.

Still no sign of her.

His fingers tapped anxiously against the desk. He told himself he didn’t care. She was probably just late. Probably nothing. Probably just forgot her bag or missed the bus. Not like he was waiting. Not like it mattered.

But it did. In that quiet, ugly part of him he never showed, it mattered more than he’d ever admit.

He pulled out his notebook—torn edges, black cover, covered in scratched-out band logos—and flipped past lyrics, past messy poetry, past the pages he had dedicated to her name (not that anyone would know it was about her). He wrote one line:

"It’s louder without you here."

Then he crossed it out so hard the paper tore a little.

He glanced at the empty seat by the window—her seat. The sun was hitting it just right, like even the light was looking for her.

He hated how poetic that sounded. He hated how quiet it felt. He hated that he gave a damn.

Still, his eyes stayed locked on the door. Just in case.