Chapter 3: You Don't Talk?

The bell rang, but no one got up this time. It was homeroom again—the last ten minutes before the end of school.

I stayed in my seat, dragging the sleeve of my hoodie down further over my wrist. Most people were barely paying attention. Phones were already slipping out of bags, gum getting passed under desks, sneakers tapping impatiently on the floor.

Our teacher stood at the front, holding a clipboard like she was preparing for war.

"Before we end the day," she said, cutting through the buzz of chatter, "I have a few people who haven't signed up for Sports Day. You know who you are."

A few groans echoed across the room. I didn't react.

She glanced at her list and then up at us. "Since we need to fill some events, I'll be assigning you randomly to the open ones."

My stomach dropped.

"Jay Sato," she said. "You're in… 100-meter dash."

A few people turned their heads. I didn't.

I barely passed gym class. I wasn't built for dashes or races. I was the kind of guy who tried to disappear behind taller kids during team selection.

I looked down, tapping the side of my shoe against the desk leg.

"Xavier Reyes," she continued. "Long jump."

Someone near the window made a surprised sound—half laugh, half nervous awe. Xavier didn't say anything. I glanced at him just once.

He looked… unfazed.

Of course he did.

Once she finished calling names, the teacher dismissed us. Everyone grabbed their bags and leaved for the day—some walking out grumbling about unfair assignments, some talking about sports day, some already talking strategy. I didn't move. Not yet.

I watched the edges of a loose paper I'd been sketching on flutter under the small draft of air that came through the hallway.

Then it slipped right off my desk.

Before I could grab it, Xavier picked it up.

I froze.

He looked at the page, eyes flicking over the rough pencil lines—a half-finished sketch of something animal-like. I didn't even know what I was drawing. I wasn't sure why I cared so much that he saw it.

He met my eyes. "Yours?"

I nodded.

"You draw?"

"Not seriously," I said, half-hoping that would end the conversation.

But instead of teasing me or tossing the paper, he handed it back gently.

"It's good."

I looked at him, really looked, but his expression didn't give anything away. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just... sincerity. Like it really was good.

"Thanks," I murmured, folding the paper in half and sliding it into my notebook.

He leaned a little against his desk, opening a protein bar with one hand. "Used to draw stuff too. Dumb stuff—superheroes and race cars. I stopped when I got into other crap."

Other crap. Trouble, probably. Fights. The kind of life people whispered about behind lockers.

I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything at all.

He didn't seem to mind the silence. He just looked around the room lazily like he was waiting for something.

After a minute, he asked, "Are you fast?"

The question caught me off guard. "What?"

"For the 100-meter," he said, raising an eyebrow. "You look like you'd blow away in a breeze."

I rolled my eyes faintly but not in a mean way. "Not really. I wasn't planning to run at all."

"You gonna skip?"

"No," I muttered. "They'll make me do it anyway."

He hummed a sound of agreement, chewing slowly. "Same. Long jump, huh? Haven't done that since, like… ever."

There was something strange about the way he said it—so casually, like we were just two normal friends assigned to normal school activities. Like we weren't strangers. Like I wasn't the weird, sad kid with baggy eyes and he wasn't the guy everyone stared at like a walking warning sign.

My eyes dropped to the page again. The sketch was crumpled at the edge now, a little smudge where my thumb had pressed too hard. I don't know why I cared. I just didn't want him to look at it anymore.

Then he said something else, low but clear.

"People talk about you."

I didn't look up. "I know."

"They say stuff like… you stopped talking last year. After something happened."

My fingers stiffened on the paper.

"They say it was a girl that made you like this."

I finally looked at him.

His face wasn't smug or curious. It was careful. Like he wasn't trying to dig. Just trying to… understand me.

"I don't care what they say," he added. "But you don't look like someone who forgot how to talk. Just someone who didn't feel like it anymore."

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Xavier didn't push for a reaction. He just stood up, brushed the crumbs from his hand onto the edge of the desk, and slung his bag over one shoulder.

"You don't have to tell me," he said. "when you're ready, I'll listen."

And just like that, he walked out of the classroom.

Leaving me with nothing but the sketch, the silence—and the tiniest ache in my chest that didn't feel so lonely anymore.