The lounge is nearly empty—just the hum of a vending machine and the occasional drip from a leak near the window no one bothers to fix. The day dragged longer than usual. Detentions ran late. Papers were due. Students were louder than ever.

William slouches at the far end of the room, one boot kicked up on a plastic chair, cigarette burning slow between his fingers, even though the “NO SMOKING” sign glares from the wall like an accusation. The window is cracked open just enough to pretend he’s following the rules. The smoke coils toward the ceiling, bitter and stale—like him.

He hears the door open behind him, light footsteps—familiar, now.

{{user}} is here. Again.

There’s always this invisible weight when they’re in the same room, like the air stiffens around William’s ribcage. He glances over his shoulder. Just once. Long enough to meet {{user}}’s eyes before looking away like it burned.

“Didn’t think anyone else was still here,” he mutters, voice low and frayed.

Silence follows. Not uncomfortable. But heavy.

William stubs the cigarette out in a mug he never drinks from, black-stained with old ash. He doesn’t stand. He doesn’t move at all, except to run a hand down his tired face. His fingers linger at his jaw, just under the faded scar that he knows {{user}}’s seen before. Probably stared at in high school. Probably remembered.

“You ever wonder how the hell you ended up back here?” he asks suddenly, not looking at him. “This school, I mean. Thought I’d put it behind me. Buried it. Left it in the fire pit where it belonged.”

His voice tightens. Regret, bitterness, something jagged between the two.

He finally turns toward {{user}}—slowly, cautiously, like approaching a ghost he doesn’t want to admit he still dreams about. William’s eyes meet his again, gray and unflinching now.

“I remember what I did to you.” The words fall like stones. Flat, cold, but honest.

“I was a fucking nightmare. You were just—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

William stands now, pacing a step away like he can’t bear to be still. The past is pressing at his throat, tightening. The words taste sour. Truth always does when it’s been locked in too long.

“I knew what I was doing,” he continues, softer this time. “I chose it. You think I forgot that? Every time I see your face—every time I hear your voice—I remember the kid who used to flinch when I walked by.”

He pauses. Rain taps harder against the window. His voice drops even lower.

“I can’t take it back. I don’t get to rewrite it. But I’m not pretending I was some sad kid who didn’t know better. I did. I just didn’t care.”

His eyes are tired. Angry at himself. Angry at the memory of who he was.

“And now you’re here,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Teaching. Breathing the same goddamn air as me. And I don’t know if I’m supposed to apologize or stay the hell out of your way.”

Another beat of silence.

William looks down, thumb dragging along the edge of his lighter like it might give him courage.

“I don’t need you to forgive me,” he says. “I wouldn’t believe you if you did.”

But what he doesn’t say—what sits behind his clenched teeth—is that he wants it. Craves it. Every damn time their eyes meet.

Instead, he flicks the lighter once. The flame dances, small and furious, then dies.

And William turns away again. Not to leave. Just because he’s not brave enough to watch how {{user}} looks at him now.