Tuesday morning, Delorah had barely stepped into the hallway before the noise hit her like a wave—shouts, lockers slamming, sneakers skimming slick tile. Everything was too bright, too loud, and somehow still too normal.
Except for Kit.
She spotted him leaning against the lockers near their second-period class, hoodie up, hands buried deep in his pockets. At first, it was just a flicker of something off. But then he looked up—and she knew.
His pupils were too wide. His expression, glassy and taut. Beneath the shadow of his hood, the bruise-colored exhaustion under his eyes stood out stark against pale skin. He hadn't slept. Or he'd done something worse than stay up all night.
Her stomach turned.
He looked away first.
She approached slowly, careful to keep her voice steady.
"Hey."
Kit gave a barely-there nod. "Hey."
A thin sheen of sweat clung to his hairline. His jaw worked—clenching and unclenching like he was chewing through ghosts.
"I was going to check on you," she said. "But I figured you needed space."
His laugh was quiet. Humorless. "You figured right."
Something was missing from his voice. No dry bite. No sharp glint in his gaze. He sounded worn down. Blunted. Like the fire inside him last night had burned through everything and left him hollow.
Delorah reached into her bag and pulled out a water bottle. Held it out to him.
He blinked.
"You look like hell," she said gently. "Drink something."
He took it but didn't say thank you. Just unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers and drank like it hurt to remember what water tasted like.
She leaned against the locker beside him, trying to ignore the students brushing past.
"Did you use again?"
He didn't answer.
"Kit."
Still nothing. But his silence was louder than any confession.
Delorah exhaled, spine pressed hard to the cold metal. "I'm not mad," she said finally. "But I'm scared for you."
He flinched—barely, but she saw it.
"I don't need you perfect," she added. "But I do need you here."
Kit turned his head slightly. And for a moment—just a flicker—he looked like he might say something real.
But the bell rang, loud and shrill, and the moment passed like smoke through her fingers.
"You going in?" she asked.
Kit's eyes flicked toward the classroom door. For a second, he looked like he might bolt. His fingers twitched around the bottle cap like he didn't know whether to crush it or throw it.
Then he nodded. Just once.
"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I'll go in."
Delorah didn't move. Just watched as he straightened his back a little, pulled his hood down, and took a steadying breath. There was still something unsteady in his movements—like his body hadn't caught up to his decision yet—but he pushed off the locker and stepped toward the door.
She followed beside him, close enough that their arms nearly brushed.
Inside, the class was already half-full. Their usual seats were open—back row, near the windows. Kit slid into his, dropping his bag to the floor with a thud. Delorah took the seat beside him, watching as he blinked slowly, trying to ground himself.
The teacher hadn't arrived yet.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked under her breath.
"No," Kit said—honest, quiet. "But I'm here."
Her heart ached. Pride and worry tangled in her chest.
"Okay," she whispered. "That's enough for today."
Kit didn't look at her, but his hand brushed hers under the table. Not quite holding it—just there. Warm. Trembling.
A silent thank-you.
---
They sat in silence as the rest of the students filtered in, laughter and scraping chairs filling the room.
Kit didn't speak again. His eyes stayed locked on the scratched-up desk, jaw tight, hands trembling in small aftershocks. Delorah kept sneaking glances at him. The circles under his eyes looked worse under the fluorescent lights—deep purple bruises etched into too-pale skin. His pupils were still blown, and he blinked too often, like it physically hurt to focus. His knee bounced beneath the table in a restless, mechanical rhythm.
Mr. Grayson walked in a few minutes later with his usual slow stride, tossing a clipboard onto his desk and scanning the room through square-rimmed glasses.
"Morning, all. Let's settle."
His gaze moved across the classroom—and paused.
Kit didn't lift his head, but Delorah felt the weight of that stare. It lingered.
Still, Mr. Grayson started the lesson anyway, launching into a discussion about symbolism and double meanings in their latest novel. Delorah tried to follow along. She underlined a passage and answered a question when called on, but her attention kept drifting sideways.
Kit hadn't moved. No notes. No book open. Just sat there, jaw clenched, a faint sheen of sweat collecting at his hairline.
About ten minutes before the bell, Mr. Grayson paused mid-sentence.
"Mr. Honey," he said, not unkindly. "You with us today?"
Kit blinked hard. "Yeah."
Grayson gave a slow nod. Not convinced.
"Good. I'd like you to stay a minute after class, if you don't mind."
A few students glanced over, but Grayson moved on before whispers could start.
Delorah's stomach twisted. She looked at Kit—
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
Just stared forward like he hadn't heard.
But his fingers were white-knuckled around the edge of his desk.
---
When the bell rang, students filed out fast.
Kit didn't move.
Delorah lingered near the door, hesitating. Waiting—until Kit gave her the smallest shake of his head. A silent I've got it.
She nodded once and slipped out, even though every instinct screamed at her to stay.
The door clicked shut behind her.
The classroom felt colder with the door shut. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed too loud, too sharp. Kit stayed in his seat, spine stiff, legs locked beneath the desk like he'd fused with the chair. His eyes didn't follow Grayson. They stayed on a chipped spot in the woodgrain.
Mr. Grayson crossed the room and leaned back against his desk instead of sitting, arms folded loosely like he wasn't trying to be a threat. Just steady.
Kit didn't move. Barely breathed.
Like if he stayed still enough, this moment might skip over him. Like he could disappear inside his own skin.
"You've always been quiet," Grayson said, voice even. "But this isn't just quiet."
Kit lifted his eyes slowly, like it hurt. "I'm fine."
Grayson tilted his head. "That's not the word I'd use."
Kit's jaw clenched. His fingers twitched—just once—on the desk edge.
Not defiant. Not angry. Just… cracked. Like the tremor of a match before it snaps in half.
"Is this where you ask if I've been drinking or getting high?"
"I don't need to ask," Grayson replied gently. "I've been doing this a long time. I've seen that look before."
Kit gave a breath of a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "What look?"
"The one that says you didn't sleep. Haven't eaten. And you're running from something you're not ready to say out loud."
The ringing in Kit's ears grew sharper—pressure behind his eyes building fast. His throat tightened, jaw locking as he fought the rise of something he didn't dare name.
Grayson didn't push. He let the silence settle like dust between them. Then:
"Look. I'm not here to lecture you. But I need to say this: whatever you're dealing with—whatever weight you're carrying—it's not something you have to carry alone. And if you keep trying to, it's going to break you."
Kit stared at the desk again, vision swimming slightly at the edges. His pulse thudded behind his eyes. He hated this. Hated how easily the words slipped past his armor, hated how the concern didn't sound fake.
Hated how a part of him wanted to believe it.
Grayson took a step forward, calm, careful—like he was approaching a wounded animal. Maybe he was.
"You've got talent. Real talent. And whether you believe it or not, people care what happens to you. I care."
Kit blinked hard. His throat burned.
"So I'm going to ask you to do something harder than acting like nothing's wrong."
Kit finally looked up—barely.
"Ask for help," Grayson said.
The silence that followed wasn't cold. Wasn't hostile. It was just… heavy. Too full of things Kit couldn't say without unraveling completely.
He stood slowly, slinging his bag over his shoulder like it weighed double. His fingers trembled on the strap, and he curled them tighter to hide it.
"I've got to go," he muttered.
Grayson didn't stop him.
But just as Kit reached the door, hand grazing the handle, the teacher's voice followed him—quiet but firm.
"Adrian."
Kit froze.
The name cut like a wire through his spine. He didn't turn.
Grayson's voice stayed steady. "Whatever it is… it's not too late."
Kit stood there a beat longer, unmoving. Then he opened the door and walked out—head down, shoulders tight. Like if he moved fast enough, the words might not catch up to him.
But they did.
They always did.
---
Delorah's next class felt like a punishment.
She slid into her seat just as the bell rang, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound far too final. Her heart was still somewhere back in the hallway, stuck in the space between Kit's trembling hands and the hollow look in his eyes. Their second-period teacher barely glanced up. No reprimand. No notice. It didn't matter. The static in her brain was louder than anything else in the room.
She kept seeing his face. Not just tired—haunted. His skin had that too-pale look like he hadn't eaten. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Bloodshot eyes rimmed with shadows, like sleep had forgotten him days ago. His hoodie had hung too loose on him this morning. His smile—if you could even call it that—was a thin, cracked thing barely clinging to his mouth.
And he'd lied. Told her he was fine with lips that looked like they'd forgotten how to form truth.
Now he was somewhere else. Maybe still in that classroom with Grayson. Maybe walking the halls. Or maybe—
She didn't let herself finish that thought.
The idea of Kit spiraling again, alone, made her stomach twist tight enough to ache.
"Ms. LaRoche," the teacher's voice cut in sharply. "Are you with us today?"
She blinked hard and nodded. "Yes. Sorry."
A few students turned to look at her—some curious, others quietly amused. She didn't care. Her hand moved to the textbook in front of her, flipping it open without looking at the page numbers. Her eyes scanned the text, but none of it registered.
Kit had said things were getting worse. Now she could see what he meant. The panic wasn't loud—it was low and quiet, like a rumble beneath the floorboards. She tapped her pen against the margin of her notebook, counting the seconds between each tick of the clock.
They hadn't even had time to talk about next steps. About what came after. About how long they could keep pretending everything wasn't caving in.
Her fingers slipped under the desk, curling around her phone.
Are you okay?
Too vague.
Did Grayson say anything?
Too obvious.
She hesitated—then typed:
Still with you. Just let me know when you're ready.
She stared at the message a beat longer before hitting send. It was all she could give him for now.
But maybe—just maybe—it would be enough to hold him in place until lunch.
She just hoped he didn't drift too far before then.
---
The lunch bell rang—loud, jarring, and too bright against the low hum of Delorah's anxiety.
She moved quickly, slipping through the crowded halls like it was instinct. She didn't stop at her locker. Didn't wait for friends. Didn't head for her usual table. Her steps were already aimed toward Kit's last known location—third-period History, the classroom he had just before lunch.
He hadn't texted back. He hadn't met her after second period. Her stomach had been in knots ever since.
The classroom door was half-closed, the overhead lights dimmed like the room had been left in a hurry. Delorah hesitated, then pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.
There he was.
Kit sat slumped over a desk near the window, long limbs folded in on themselves, head resting on his crossed arms. His body looked too big for the seat, like it was made of angles instead of bone. Alone. Still. His hoodie had ridden up slightly at the waist, exposing a sliver of pale skin. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven rhythm—the kind of breathing that came with dreams that didn't rest easy.
She didn't move at first. Just watched. The hush in the room made it feel like a snapshot, something fragile she might shatter just by stepping closer.
His hair had fallen forward over his face, a curtain of messy dark strands hiding most of his expression. But his mouth was visible—slack, dry. Vulnerable in a way Kit almost never was.
It made her ache.
She stepped in softly.
"Kit," she whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. Lunch started."
He stirred at her touch, flinching slightly. But he didn't lift his head right away.
"Didn't mean to—just… closed my eyes for a second," he mumbled, voice gravel-rough from disuse and something darker.
Delorah crouched beside him so they were eye-level. "Are you okay?"
Kit finally looked at her. Slowly. Like it cost him something.
His pupils were still too wide. His skin looked clammy. She caught a whiff of something faint—chemical, earthy, off. Not quite weed. Not quite anything you could name cleanly.
"I didn't sleep last night," he said flatly. "Wasn't even gonna come in today."
"But you did," she said, soft but steady. "You're here."
Kit huffed a breath that might've been a laugh, but it came out hollow. "Yeah. Gold star for me."
Delorah reached for his hand. He didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.
His fingers were cold. Still trembling faintly.
"You scared me," she said.
"I scare myself."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was weighted. Like both of them knew they were standing on a cliff edge but refusing to look down.
Then she gave his hand the gentlest tug. "Come on," she said. "Eat something. Sit with me."
He hesitated—shoulders sagging like the invitation hurt more than it helped. But then, slowly, he nodded.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Okay."
She helped him up. He swayed slightly before finding his balance. They didn't say anything else as they left the room—just walked side by side, two shadows moving through a school that suddenly felt far too loud.
Together, but fraying.
---
The cafeteria was a wall of noise—voices bouncing off tile, the smell of grease thick in the air. Delorah kept close to Kit, angling them toward the lunch line instead of an open table.
"C'mon," she said softly. "We'll grab something small. Just enough to keep your hands busy."
He didn't argue. Just moved with her, slow and dragging like his limbs were made of soaked wool. They each grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water, moving on autopilot, and made their way toward the quieter end of the room near the windows.
They had just passed the corner of the room when a voice cut through the noise.
"Kit?"
They both turned.
A girl stood a few feet away, tray balanced on one hand, her uniform perfectly pressed despite the chaos around her. Honey-blonde hair in a neat braid, eyes sharp with surprise—familiar, if only from glances across the hallways.
Delorah didn't know her name.
But Kit did.
"…Celeste?"
Her face lit up. "I thought that was you. God, I haven't seen you since the alumni dinner last spring."
Kit's expression shifted—something tight behind his eyes. "Yeah. It's been a while."
Delorah stepped back half a pace, suddenly unsure where she was supposed to be standing.
Celeste glanced between them. "Sorry—am I interrupting?"
Kit opened his mouth, but Delorah beat him to it. "No, you're good."
Celeste smiled. "You're Delorah LaRoche, right? We had French together last year."
"Yeah," Delorah said cautiously. "I remember."
Celeste turned back to Kit, a hint of teasing in her voice. "I didn't know you two were close."
"We're not," he said, a little too quickly. Then, softer, "We're just talking."
Delorah didn't react. She just folded her arms and watched him.
"Well," Celeste said brightly, "maybe I'll see you later, Kit. My parents said your family's been trying to get in touch."
Kit's face blanked. "Right."
Celeste smiled again, flawless and bright. "Nice seeing you both."
She walked off, braid swaying behind her.
Delorah turned back to him slowly. "Friend of the family?"
Kit didn't answer for a moment.
"No," he said. "Not yet."