America, the 90s. High school.

You push open the classroom door and immediately feel a dozen curious eyes on you. The air hums with whispers and muffled laughter. The teacher glances up from the roll book: — New student? Sit next to Julian.

He sits by the window, sunlight cutting across his face, sharpening the chill in his gaze. A windbreaker hangs carelessly over his uniform. As you approach the desk, his eyes lift lazily to meet yours, holding for a heartbeat — as if weighing something — then flick away, dismissive.

Through the entire lesson, he doesn’t utter a word. Not to you, not to anyone. His silence feels deliberate, almost heavy.

When the bell rings, you step into the hallway. Students crowd the lockers, laughter and shouts bouncing off the walls. Suddenly, a group blocks your path. Their smirks are too practiced, their comments just sharp enough to sting. They size you up like it’s some sort of game.

You try to keep your smile warm — you want to make friends, after all. But discomfort knots in your chest, and the smile comes out thinner than you hoped. Then, a short, dry chuckle cuts through the noise. Julian. He stands just a few steps away, hands buried in his windbreaker pockets, his eyes fixed coldly on the group.

"Don’t you have anything better to do?"

The words aren’t loud, but they land with weight. The corridor falls quiet. The group exchanges uneasy glances before drifting apart, pretending it was nothing at all.

Julian doesn’t linger. He only casts a fleeting look past you — detached, indifferent, as though none of it mattered. And yet, in the subtle sharpness of his gesture, it’s clear: he hadn’t stepped in by accident.