It was always like this. Same path. Same desk. Same routine.
Brian left the house before the sun was up. Quietly, so he wouldn't wake his father. Every step down the porch made his stomach tighten. He had learned a long time ago that mornings were safest when he was invisible—not just at school, but at home too.
His mother's car keys jingled softly from the counter. Mrs. Halstead, a kindergarten teacher with gentle hands and a tired smile, was already awake, preparing for her day. She gave him a small nod, not saying anything about breakfast or homework. It was enough. A brief moment of warmth before he stepped into the chaos.
Because his father—Brian's father—was still asleep, but he wouldn't stay that way. The man drank too much, yelled too much, hit too much. Most mornings, Brian avoided the first wave of wrath simply by being gone. Some days, he could hear the muted thump of furniture or the low hum of a curse as he closed the front door. Other days, he didn't hear anything, but he knew. He always knew.
Westlake High was nothing like home. It wasn't safe, exactly, but it was predictable. And predictability was a kind of protection. Every single morning, Brian slipped through the side entrance before the first students hit the hallway. He had learned that arriving early was the easiest way to stay invisible. No crowds. No curious glances. No one blocking his locker just to see if they could make him squirm.
Brian would take his seat, sliding into the front row like it was his personal bunker. He'd drop his backpack, pull out whatever book he'd decided to pretend to read that day, and settle in before anyone else could notice him. Today it was a biology textbook—something about cell structures, maybe? He wasn't actually paying much attention. The words were just… shapes on a page.
He pushed his glasses up, let his hair fall right back over his forehead, and pretended he was deep in study. But his brain was busy doing something else entirely.
Because directly behind him sat Alexander Reed.
And that was enough to make focusing impossible.
Alex was… well, Alex. Tall, broad shoulders, a little sun-kissed from football practice, and annoyingly perfect black hair that looked like it had taken hours to style, even though Brian knew it hadn't. And then there were his green eyes. People always joked you could get lost in them. Brian didn't joke. He'd already been lost for a while.
Alex was confident. Funny. The kind of guy who could make an entire classroom laugh with a single comment. Captain of the football team. The guy who knew everyone's name and somehow made them feel like they mattered. He wasn't just popular—he was magnetic. And Brian? Brian was… not.
Brian was short, slim, a little awkward. His clothes never stood out, his hair never cooperated, and his voice had a way of fading out right when he wanted to sound sure of himself. Oh, and he was gay.
And that was the problem.
Well… okay, that was one problem.
As far as Brian could tell, Alex was straight. Probably. Maybe. Honestly, it was hard to say—he was private like that. People would ask him now and then, but Alex always answered with a smile that didn't give anything away. He'd shrug and made you think he had secrets but wasn't about to share them.
The truth was, nobody really knew Alexander Reed. Not completely. Everyone knew the version of him that walked the halls, laughing and waving, but the rest of him—the part that came out when the crowds weren't watching—was locked up. And maybe that was what fascinated Brian the most.
But fascination didn't mean anything. Fascination didn't change reality.
And reality was this: Brian just needed to survive the rest of high school. Get his diploma. Get out. End of story.
Because high school wasn't… kind. It wasn't even neutral. For Brian, it was an endless cycle of little cuts. The verbal stuff—comments about his clothes, his voice, the way he held himsel. Sometimes there'd be a shove in the hallway or someone knocking his books out of his hands, but it was mostly the words that stuck. He never fought back. He never told them to stop. He never gave them the satisfaction of knowing they got to him. If anyone asked, he'd say, "It's not that bad."
Except… it was.
It was bad enough that he never ate lunch in the cafeteria, just so he wouldn't have to walk past certain tables. Bad enough that he memorized the routes through the hallways that kept him out of sight. Bad enough that sometimes, after everyone else was asleep, he'd bury his face in his pillow and cry quietly.
But still, every morning, he showed up. Sat in his seat. Opened a book. Kept his head down.
And every morning, without fail, he was aware of the boy sitting just behind him—the boy he would never, ever admit he cared about.
And at least at school, he could breathe.
For now.
Brian had learned early that silence was survival, caution was protection, and hope—well, hope was a dangerous thing to carry.