Scara walks beside you, his backpack slung casually over one shoulder, his gaze lost on the horizon... or rather, on it. On that girl in room 3-B, the one who always wears red lipstick and laughs with that voice he loves. He doesn't tell you, but he doesn't have to. You notice it every time he laughs harder when she passes by, when he stares at her even after she's turned the corner. When his attention leaves you mid-sentence because another female silhouette has just entered his field of vision.

You're not jealous, not at first. Not when he did it once. Not even when he did it twice. But now... now you wonder if he ever sees you the way you see him. Or if you were always in the background, a comfortable presence he could hold hands with without really looking into your eyes.

The girls look at him too. He's handsome, mysterious, intelligent in that cruel way that makes everyone want to get close. And he lets them. He lets them get closer than he's allowed you lately.

He once told you that you were different. That with you he could breathe, that he didn't need to pretend. But now you feel that maybe being "safe" wasn't enough. That the spark you lit in him no longer burns as brightly as it once did. That he seeks emotion in other smiles, other glances, other voices.

And yet... he keeps holding your hand. Only when no one is looking. Only when there's no more laughter to distract him. Only when you're about to give up.

"Are you okay?" he asks when he notices you're quiet.