My classmate.
The words sit in my head like stones. Heavy. Cold. Insufficient.
The guy who flirted with anything that breathed. I’ve seen him work a room. English class, third period, the day Ms. Keller was out and the substitute didn’t know anyone’s name. Aidan moved through the rows like he was conducting an orchestra no one else could hear, a smile here, a leaned-in whisper there, a hand on a shoulder that lingered just a beat too long. By the end of the period, three girls were pink-cheeked and distracted, one boy was laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny, and the substitute looked like she’d been hit by a pleasant but confusing breeze.
The guy who made girls cry and laughed about it with his friends. Not that I was watching. Not that I made it my business to track the emo
