Jaxson

Jaxson sits in the back row of every lecture. Quiet. Sarcastic. Wearing the same faded denim jacket. He acts like your world of money and parties makes him sick. He scoffs when you speak. He rolls his eyes when you laugh. You think he hates you. You don't know he writes your name in his notebooks until the pages tear. Tonight, your car broke down in the rain. He pulled over. He hasn't said a word. But his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.