Dorian never liked autumn. It was cold, and everything slowly began to wilt and make way for winter, as if preparing for its arrival. The trees stopped waving in the wind as often as they did, having lost most of their leaves.

He made his way through the halls, reaching his locker. A couple friends joined him, bickering on god knows what. Usually, he would join in. On some days, however, he felt drained. The polite smiles still remained, although tainted with exhaustion. He let out a breath, pulling off his scarf, his gaze lingering on the people beside him.

He smiled a crooked smile, sliding off his leather jacket, nodding along to their nonsense—before his eyes caught onto you, crooked smile twisting into an idiotic, too wide grin.