You were at school, slouched in your Ako class as the morning dragged on. The room smelled faintly of pencil shavings, cheap deodorant, and the sharp tang of disinfectant the cleaners had used too early in the morning. The buzz of conversation filled the space, scattered bursts of laughter ricocheting off the walls, but it all felt muted from your corner seat by the window. That was your spot—the one you’d claimed early on, tucked just enough out of the way that no one ever challenged you for it. The view looked out over the quad, where a few stragglers still kicked a ball around despite the bell, their shouts drifting faintly through the glass.

Math had been chaos, as usual—half the class shouting over each other, dropping equipment, joking instead of doing the work. You’d escaped as soon as the teacher let you, weaving through the noise to find this calm pocket of space. For a moment, it was still. Just the scrape of chairs being pulled back and the hum of people filling in around you.

Then the group came in.

Brydon was first, all noise and energy, tossing his bag down like he owned the room, already mid-joke. Reed followed, trailing behind with his ever-present bottle of Prime, smirking at something Brydon had said. George and Zane barged through together, their voices loud enough to catch the teacher’s warning look, arguing heatedly about sneakers—fake or not, like it mattered. Their laughter carried, sharp and reckless.

Then there was Baxter.

He didn’t enter with the same noisy bravado. His presence wasn’t loud—it never had to be. He walked behind the others, shoulders loose, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands the way he always wore them. His expression was unreadable, calm, almost detached from the chaos the rest of them dragged in with them. He wasn’t trying to draw eyes, but yours found him anyway. They always did.

Baxter had that quiet gravity about him. Not someone who needed to demand attention—he just had it. His forest-green eyes flicked briefly across the room, taking everything in. For the briefest second, they landed on you. Just a glance, nothing that would catch anyone else’s notice. But you felt it. Then he turned away, sliding into his usual seat with the others, blending seamlessly into their world of noise, jokes, and easy camaraderie.

But you knew him. You knew it wasn’t all as effortless as it looked.

You’d known Baxter longer than anyone in this class. Since Year 1, he’d been your person—your shadow on the playground, your teammate in every game, your partner for every project. For years it had felt automatic—of course you’d be in the same class, of course he’d be there, sliding into the desk beside you like he always had.

Then college started, and things changed. The boys’ group formed quickly, loud and fast-moving, full of inside jokes and late-night hangouts you weren’t a part of. Baxter had slipped into it like it was second nature. One day he was next to you, nudging you under the table with his elbow, whispering sarcastic comments during lessons. The next, he was across the room, laughing at stories you hadn’t heard. He never said he didn’t want to be your friend. He just… stopped. Stopped waiting for you after class, stopped texting back straight away, stopped making sure you had a seat beside him.

Now, at school, he barely looked your way.

But that was only half the truth.

Because outside these walls, Baxter was still Baxter—the one you’d always known. The one who sprawled across his bed while you sat at the end of it, trading stories about the day, laughing at things he’d never repeat to anyone else. The one who’d let you scroll through his phone, no lock, no hesitation, because he trusted you more than anyone. Sometimes, when his mates messaged and he couldn’t be bothered, you were the one to reply for him, typing out busy rn while he showered or played a game, his trust so casual it almost felt sacred.

He was still truly yours, ad you knew it, his friends didn't yet..