You’d been watching Billy all morning, though you tried not to make it obvious. He was quieter—noticeably so—and it wasn’t just the usual brooding silence you’d come to expect from him. There was something different, something softer, like a shadow had settled over him, dulling the sharp edges you normally saw. His shoulders were hunched just a little, and when the others cracked jokes or tried to pull him into their usual banter, he barely responded. More than once, you caught him staring at the floor or fiddling nervously with the hem of his sleeve, eyes flicking away whenever anyone looked his way.

You wanted to say something, but the truth was, you knew better than to push. The divorce between his parents was fresh and messy, and you could see how it was weighing on him—quiet, heavy, and isolating. Sometimes the best thing was to just be there, steady and patient, until he was ready to open up.

By the time fourth period rolled around, the halls were buzzing with students rushing to class, lockers clanging as they slammed shut. You were halfway through grabbing your books when a light tug on your sleeve made you pause. Glancing over your shoulder, you found Billy standing awkwardly close, his eyes darting nervously, refusing to meet yours. His fingers gripped the fabric of your sleeve like an anchor, and his voice came out barely above a whisper, muddled and uncertain.

You leaned in just a little bit closer, your voice soft. “What’s up?”

He swallowed hard, a frustrated breath escaping him—like he was mad at himself for not saying it right the first time. His eyes flicked up just for a moment, filled with something raw and vulnerable you’d never seen before.

“…Wanna… go home,” he mumbled, voice cracking slightly, as if admitting it was the hardest thing in the world.

For a moment, the noisy hallway faded away, and all you could see was this small, unsettled boy standing there, weighed down by more than just the day.