The boy next class

it's something

2 weeks had passed by lazily, and finally, he was back.

The sun had begun to dip behind the clouds, casting long shadows across the empty classroom. The bell had rung nearly twenty minutes ago, but I couldn’t move. My legs felt heavy, like they were chained to the floor, and my fingers trembled as I stared down at the untouched page of my notebook.

Simon didn’t look at me once today.

Not when I passed him in the hall.

Not when I left a carton of milk beside his desk.

Not when I whispered his name softly during lunch, only to be swallowed by the cafeteria noise.

I could see it—he was building walls. Thick ones. Higher than before. And worse, I didn’t know how to climb them.

I buried my face in my hands and let out a slow, shaky breath. What am I even doing?

Why does it hurt so much when he doesn't talk to me?

He’s grieving. Of course, he’s grieving. I shouldn’t be selfish. But it doesn’t stop the ache in my chest. It doesn’t stop the voice that keeps whispering, You’re losing him. And maybe this time, for good.

My chair screeched lightly as I stood up. I grabbed my bag with trembling hands and walked out of the classroom into the quiet hallway.

Simon was always the quiet one. But now his silence... it was different. It was distant. Like he wasn’t just staying quiet—he was disappearing. Slowly. From everyone. From me.

I found myself standing at the library door, not sure how I got there. The lights inside were dim, but I could see his silhouette near the window. He sat at the same spot he used to sit whenever he was reading poetry. His favorite books were still stacked beside him—Yeats, Eliot, Neruda. But he wasn’t reading.

He was staring out the window, unmoving.

My chest tightened.

I took one step forward. Then another. But halfway to him, I stopped. What if he didn’t want me here? What if the very sight of me only made things worse?

I wanted to turn back. To run.

But then he whispered something. I barely caught it.

“Why didn’t he take me too?”

My heart stopped.

I stayed frozen, my lips parted, my throat dry. My feet refused to move forward, but my entire body was screaming at me to hold him, to tell him he’s not alone, to make him understand that he still has something worth staying for.

That he still has me.

But instead, I stood there, watching him from across the library like a stranger.

And that’s when he looked up.

His eyes locked onto mine—red, puffy, hollow. But I saw something flash in them. Recognition. Pain. And something else.

Anger.

“I don’t need your pity, Jimmy,” he said, voice low but cutting. “Go home.”

I wanted to say something—anything—but my voice caught in my throat.

He turned away.

And I stood there, heart shattering, as I whispered under my breath, “It’s not pity.”

“Then what is it?!” He spoke with anger in his voice as his brows knitted together, like he wasn't convinced that it wasn't pity; it seemed to be right. Why else would I be sticking to him and running after him like a madman?

My voice felt like it was disappearing into thin air, I too wasn't sure what I felt about him, I knew it was like but was it of a friend, a person, or something else? Was it ok to like a boy the way I do? “It's.. “

To Be Continued...