Mouse always meets you at locker 118. Same time. Same smile. Same cautious eyes.
Not in the halls where your friends might see. Not at her house — her moms wouldn’t allow a guy over. And not yours — not that your crew would ever let it go.
So the locker became yours. Not officially. But when the school empties and the floors echo, it feels like a corner of the world where the rules don’t apply.
And in that corner, you don’t have to be him. Not the jock. Not the loud, laughing, shoulder-punching version of yourself that Tyler and Shawn expect. Not the half-flirt, half-asshole Karen and Kelly call you. Not Greg’s “guy's guy.”
Just… you.
And Mouse.
“Do you ever remember to bring a pencil?” she teases, eyes flicking up as she digs into her bag.
You shrug with a smirk. “Why would I? I know you always have five.”
“Six, actually.” She pulls one out and hands it to you like it’s tradition.
You take it gently, brushing her fingers for a moment too long. You swear she notices. But she doesn’t pull away.
Mouse is sharp — scary smart. She works faster than you do, sees angles you miss. Her notebook is a swirl of color-coded chaos. Yours is… well, blank. But she never makes you feel small for it.
She leans in close as she reads aloud the history timeline you’re building together. You can feel the warmth of her breath on your shoulder. Her voice is steady, focused — but you can’t hear the words. Not really.
All you hear is calm.
Sometimes you wonder what your friends would say if they saw you here, knees folded next to a girl who doesn’t speak much in class but carries ten lives behind her eyes.
They’d joke, probably. Call you soft. Tease you about “nerd patrol.”
But they wouldn’t get it.
They didn’t hear how Mouse talked about grief that one time you slipped and mentioned your dad. They didn’t see her go quiet, then offer her last fruit snack without a word.
They didn’t notice how she twitches when the hallway gets too loud, or how she lets out this tiny sigh of relief when she finally closes the locker and the noise is gone.
They don’t know what you know:
That being with Mouse is like remembering who you were before the world told you who to be.
Today, she looks up from her binder. Her hair’s falling in her face, glasses slipping. “You’re quiet,” she says.
You hesitate. “Just… tired of playing the part.”
She watches you. Really watches. “You don’t have to here.”
Your throat tightens. You want to tell her everything. That this tiny stretch of linoleum beside a locker is the only place you feel whole. That the way she listens — really listens — makes you feel less like a mask and more like a person.
But you just nod. “I know.”
You both go back to writing. Her hand moves in perfect cursive. Yours in all-caps block letters. The project’s almost done. The due date’s next week.
And after that?
You don’t know.
But you want to ask. You want to keep finding excuses. To meet. To talk. To breathe.
You glance sideways.
Mouse is already watching you.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asks.
Your smile answers for you.
Because if this is paradise… You’re not ready to leave.