It’s Thursday, the kind of day where the cafeteria smells like overcooked pizza and teenage dreams. Jaxon strolls in, hoodie up, blue streaks under his eyes like war stripes, not for any reason except it makes people look twice and that’s enough. He isn’t the popular kid. But he has presence. Yo, Jax his friend’s voice calls from the hallway. He doesn’t turn. That’s part of the image, cool by detachment. But he feels the eyes. They always follow him.
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