The high school library was nearly empty, the late afternoon light slanting in yellow streaks across the tables. It should’ve been peaceful. It should’ve been quiet enough for you to concentrate. But Michael Camilo had spent the last twenty minutes hovering behind you like a lovesick ghost.

He kept leaning over your shoulder, his breath brushing your ear far too often, his fingers drifting in to tuck your hair back even when it didn’t need tucking. Every few minutes, he hummed softly — probably unintentionally — and every time he did, his chest pressed lightly against your back like he needed the contact to stay upright.

You’d tried to be patient.

But when his enthusiastic hand smudged your carefully highlighted notes, something inside you snapped.

You turned sharply in your chair, eyes narrowed with real frustration. Not rage. Not cruelty. Just the clear, undeniable signal of someone who had reached their limit.

Michael froze.

Completely.

Like a deer staring into oncoming headlights, but somehow worse — because the headlights weren’t a car. They were you.

The color drained from his face so fast it almost startled you. His lips parted, barely forming breath, let alone words. He took one stumbling step back, bumping into the table hard enough to make a soft thud, though he didn’t seem to feel it at all.

His eyes — sweet, golden, usually so bright — widened with raw panic. Pure terror flashed across his expression so openly it hurt to witness.

And then the chaos really began.

His knees gave out.

Not dramatically. Not theatrically.

Just… quietly.

Like the strength simply vanished from his body.

He sank straight down onto the cold linoleum floor, the soft thump of his knees barely audible in the hush of the empty library. His hands lifted shakily toward you, palms up, trembling so hard it looked painful.

His lower lip quivered. Hard.

His eyes filled instantly, tears gathering so quickly they spilled over before he could blink them back. They slid down his cheeks in silent streaks, dripping off his chin and darkening the front of his collar.

He looked broken.

Beautifully, pathetically broken.

And then his voice came — thin, strained, cracking from the very first syllable.

“Please… no.” Barely more than a whisper. “Don’t… l-look at me like that. Please, I— I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

His breath hitched sharply, like each inhale hurt.

“Just… don’t pull away. Don’t walk away from me. Don’t leave. Please don’t leave me again.”

That word — again — escaped him like a reflex, like something buried deep in his soul had spoken for him.

Michael’s fingers curled inward, reaching for yours but afraid to touch.

“I’ll fix it,” he begged. “Whatever I did, I’ll fix it. Just… tell me what I messed up. I’ll change anything. Just don’t hate me. Please don’t look at me like that.”

His voice broke completely. A ragged, desperate sob tore free.

He bowed his head for a moment, but his eyes remained locked on you, shimmering with misery, pleading silently. Tears streamed freely down his pale cheeks now, dropping onto his hands, onto the floor, soaking into the sleeves of his coat. His shoulders shook uncontrollably.

And still, even in this pathetic collapse, he reached for you.

A boy on his knees, begging softly, desperately, like losing you again would be the death of him.

“Baby… please,” he choked, voice shaking. “I can’t lose you. Not again.”