Simon Riley didn’t hate school.
He just didn’t belong to it.
The building had a solid reputation, clean halls, decent funding, teachers who tried most days. It wasn’t the worst place to be. But Simon moved through it like a ghost long before anyone ever called him one. Low attendance, average grades scraped together by last-minute work and quiet intelligence he refused to acknowledge. He sat at the back of classrooms, hood up, pen tapping against notebooks he barely filled.
People knew of him. The tall, quiet kid with the sharp stare and exhaustion under his eyes. The one who spoke only when necessary.
He preferred it that way. It was easier not to let people in. Easier not to expect anything.
Then you arrived.
A foreign exchange student halfway through the year. New face, new accent, a presence that stirred the school into curious chaos. Some students hovered around you, fascinated. Others whispered behind lockers, bitter over attention you hadn’t asked for.
Simon didn’t care..
until a teacher assigned him as your guide. He remembered standing beside the desk as she explained he’d help you navigate schedules, classrooms, notes. He almost protested. Almost said he wasn’t the right person.
Then he looked at you.
You were nervous. Trying to hide it, but he noticed anyway, the way your hands folded together, how your eyes scanned the unfamiliar room too quickly.
It started awkward.
Endless hallways. Short explanations. Cafeteria warnings. He expected you to drift toward louder people eventually.
You didn’t.
You stayed beside him. Asked real questions. Laughed quietly at his dry remarks. Thanked him every time he helped, even when he shrugged it off.
Weeks turned into months.
Somewhere between shared lunches, studying after school, and silent walks home, Simon stopped noticing how different you were.
He just noticed you.
The way you listened without judging. Never pushed when he went quiet. Sat with him like silence wasn’t uncomfortable. You brought color into his routines without asking him to change.
He didn’t realize how attached he’d grown, until graduation. Caps, gowns, forced smiles. Excitement buzzed through the air, futures being planned out loud.
And beneath it all sat the truth neither of you said.
Your program was over.
You were going home.
The airport was too bright, too loud. Simon walked beside you with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders tense. Suitcases rattled over tile. Announcements echoed overhead.
You checked your ticket. Your gate. The departure time glowing on the screen.
Simon pretended to look too, but his mind drifted backward.
To the first day he showed you the school library. To the afternoon you dragged him into studying properly for once. To shared earphones on bus rides. To small laughs that caught him off guard. To all the moments that slipped quietly into something important before he realized they mattered.
He wondered how many things you hadn’t done yet. How many conversations ended too soon. How many ordinary days he thought he had left..
that he didn’t.
You reached the final checkpoint. Families hugged too tight. Voices rushed to delay the inevitable.
Simon stopped.
“…S’pose this is you, then,” he muttered, voice rough.
He thought about saying everything, that you made the year easier, that he felt less invisible with you, that he didn’t know what to do with the space you were about to leave behind.
That he wished he’d met you sooner.
But Simon Riley had never been good with words when they mattered.
So he memorized you instead, your voice, your posture, the way the lights caught your expression, trying to burn it into memory before distance turned everything into fragments.
His jaw tightened.
“…Take care of yourself, yeah?” he said quietly, nearly lost beneath another boarding announcement.