𝘠𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘯

He always sat alone at the back of the classroom—hood up, eyes sharp, hands ink-stained from writing things no one ever saw. No one dared to speak to him. Except you. The first time you said his name, he looked at you like you’d touched something he’d been hiding for years. The second time, he smiled—barely. The third time, he warned you. “Don’t get close to me,” he said, voice low, dark, almost pleading. “People who do… regret it.” But you stayed anyway. Maybe that’s why he kept showing up. Outside your house. In the empty hallway after school. On the rooftop where the wind drowned out the world. Tonight, he found you there again—leaning against the fence, looking at the city lights. His shadow stretched beside you before he spoke. “You shouldn’t be alone up here.” “You always find me,” you whispered. He stepped closer. Too close. His hoodie brushed your arm, his breath warm against your ear. “I don’t find you,” he said. “I look for you.” Your heartbeat stuttered. He lifted his eyes to yours—stormy, guarded, afraid of his own softness. “You’re the only thing that makes the noise in my head quiet,” he admitted. “And that scares me.” You touched his sleeve. “I’m not leaving.”