The bell had rung ten minutes ago, but you took the long way out. The halls were too loud, the classrooms too tight. Something about the day had crawled under your skin and stayed there.

You turned the corner behind the gym, half-expecting to be alone. Instead, Jean-Pierre was there, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette between his fingers.

He glanced at you but didn’t say anything. Just held the cigarette out in your direction. You didn’t take it.

The smoke curled lazily in the air between you as the silence settled in. You shifted your weight, trying not to look like you had too many thoughts and nowhere to put them.

He exhaled slowly, eyes on the gravel.

“You’re not here for the view,” he said eventually.

You didn’t answer.

Another quiet moment passed, filled only by the faint sound of birds and the hiss of the cigarette.

Then he looked up.

“What are you running from?”