The last bell doesn’t even feel like a release, just a shift in pressure. The kind that settles behind Noah’s ribs and stays there, heavy and unmoving, like something waiting to crack. The classroom empties faster than usual after the announcement, chairs scraping, voices overlapping, people already halfway into their plans for the afternoon. He lingers just long enough to not look like he’s rushing, shoving his notebook and loose papers into his bag with hands that don’t quite cooperate, fingers catching on the zipper twice before he forces it closed.

He’s been avoiding you all day.

Not subtly either. He skipped the cafeteria entirely, ate sitting on the closed lid of a bathroom stall with his back against the cold metal divider, staring at the tiled floor while picking apart a granola bar he barely tasted. Every hallway turn had been calculated, every glance over his shoulder quick and paranoid, like he was dodging something inevitable instead of just delaying it.

Because seeing you... it’s not simple anymore. It hasn’t been for a while.

And he’s tired.

Tired of the way his chest tightens every time you’re near. Tired of pretending that night didn’t happen when it replays in his head at the worst possible times. Tired of wondering if it meant anything to you, or if it’s just... something he ruined by thinking about too much.

The hallway outside fills up as he pushes the classroom door open, noise swelling and then thinning as people filter out toward the exits. His shoulders tense automatically, head dipping slightly, green hair falling into his face like a curtain he doesn’t have to think about holding up. He moves through it quietly, unnoticed in the way he’s learned to be.

Until he passes your classroom.

His steps slow.

Just a fraction. Barely noticeable. But enough.

The door is open, voices inside, movement, normalcy. For a second, he almost keeps walking. His grip tightens around the strap of his backpack, knuckles going pale, and there’s that familiar voice in his head telling him to just leave it alone, to go home, to log onto AIM later and pretend everything’s fine like he always does.

But something in him doesn’t let him.

Not this time.

He keeps walking, but not far. Just enough to put distance between himself and the cluster of people still in the hall. When it finally empties out, the silence feels louder than the noise did. He glances around, quick and sharp, like he’s expecting someone to call him out, to catch him doing something he shouldn’t be.

No one does.

His hand slips into his bag, pulling out his notebook. The cover is bent at the corners, edges worn from being shoved in and out too many times. He flips it open, fingers hesitating for half a second before he tears out a page. The sound is louder than it should be. It makes him flinch anyway.

He fumbles for a pen, clicking it once, twice, then pressing it to the paper.

For a moment, nothing comes out.

His mind goes blank in that way it does when something matters too much.

Then, slowly, unevenly, he writes.

please meet me at the roof of the school at 4:00 PM.

He stares at it like it might rearrange itself into something less terrifying. His handwriting isn’t great, slightly slanted, pressed too hard in some places. He considers rewriting it, making it look... better, less desperate, but his hands are already starting to shake a little and he knows if he waits any longer, he won’t do it at all.

So he doesn’t.

He folds the paper once, then again, smaller this time, like that somehow makes it less real. Another quick glance around. Empty.

Good.

He moves fast after that, steps quieter than they need to be as he approaches your locker. His heart is beating too hard now, loud enough he’s half-convinced it’s echoing down the hallway. He crouches slightly, fingers slipping the folded note through the narrow vents, pushing it just far enough that it disappears inside.

Then he freezes.

Just for a second.

Like the moment has caught up to him all at once.

“What the hell am I doing...” he mutters under his breath, voice barely audible, more breath than sound.

His stomach twists. There’s still time to take it back. To open the locker somehow, grab the note, pretend none of this happened.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he steps back too quickly, heel catching slightly on the tile. His balance falters, shoulders jerking as he catches himself against the lockers with a dull metallic thud. He winces, eyes squeezing shut for a second before he pushes himself upright again, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Smooth... yeah, real smooth,” he mumbles, a quiet, self-deprecating huff leaving him.

And then he turns.

Because if he stays any longer, he might actually lose whatever nerve he has left.

The walk to the stairwell feels longer than it should. Every sound behind him makes him tense, every distant voice making his thoughts spiral into worst-case scenarios. What if someone else finds it? What if you don’t even see it? What if you do, and just... don’t come?

What if you do come?

That one sticks.

The stairwell door creaks when he pushes it open, the sound sharp in the quiet. He slips inside, letting it close behind him with a dull clang that echoes up the concrete walls. The air is cooler here, quieter, like the rest of the school doesn’t quite reach this space.

Step by step, he climbs.

Each one feels heavier than the last.

By the time he reaches the roof access door, his chest feels tight again, like there’s not enough space for everything building up inside him. His hand lingers on the handle for a second, fingers flexing, hesitating.

Then he pushes it open.

The late afternoon air hits him first, cooler, softer than the stale indoor air. The sky is starting to shift colors, pale blue bleeding into warmer tones as the sun dips lower. It’s quiet up here. Empty.

Good.

He lets the door fall shut behind him, the sound final in a way that makes his stomach flip again. For a moment, he just stands there, like he’s not sure what to do with himself now that he’s actually here.

Then he moves.

Toward the edge, toward the low concrete curb that lines the rooftop. He drops his bag beside him before sitting down, pulling his knees up slightly, forearms resting against them. His fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeves, tugging them over his hands absentmindedly.

And then... he waits.

Time stretches weirdly when you’re expecting something. Every minute feels longer, heavier, like it’s dragging itself out just to make it worse. He glances at the door more than once, then looks away just as quickly, like he doesn’t want to get caught staring.

His thoughts don’t stop.

They never do, but now they’re louder.

She’s not gonna come.

Why would she?

It was a stupid idea. You should’ve just—

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he can physically knock the thoughts loose.

“Just... shut up,” he mutters to himself, quieter this time.

His hand drifts up to his lip, thumb brushing absently against one of the metal studs there, a nervous habit he doesn’t even realize he’s doing. His other hand grips the strap of his backpack like it’s anchoring him in place.

Because leaving isn’t an option now.

Not after this.

Not after everything.

His gaze lifts again, settling on the door as the seconds tick by, something tense and fragile sitting just beneath the surface of his expression.

And despite everything—the fear, the guilt, the way his chest feels like it might cave in on itself—there’s still that small, stubborn piece of hope sitting there too.

Waiting.

For you.

The last bell doesn’t feel like freedom. It never does for Noah. It just means the hallways flood, voices stack on top of each other, lockers slam like cheap percussion, and there’s nowhere left to hide without making it obvious you’re trying to.

He lingers a second longer than everyone else when class ends, dragging it out like maybe the crowd will thin if he waits. It doesn’t. It never does. So he exhales quietly through his nose, shoulders already tense, and forces himself up from his seat, grabbing his bag and slipping out with everyone else.

Just don’t run into her. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just get your stuff and go.

He’s been doing it all day. Avoiding certain hallways, skipping lunch entirely and eating in a bathroom stall like some kind of ghost that only exists between periods. It’s pathetic, he knows that. But it’s easier than dealing with... everything else.

And it almost works.

Until he turns the corner and sees his locker.

Right next to hers.

Of course it is.

His grip tightens around the strap of his bag as his chest gives this sharp, unpleasant jolt. For a second, he considers just walking past it. Leaving everything inside. Going home without it. But he can’t. So instead, he moves faster, weaving through people, head down, hair falling into his face like a curtain he doesn’t bother fixing.

Quick. Just quick.

He reaches his locker, fingers already moving, pressing the latch and yanking it open—

—and something bursts against his face.

It’s instant. A soft pop followed by a weightless explosion, like confetti but finer, lighter—

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Everything goes strangely quiet for half a second.

Then the hallway erupts.

Laughter crashes over him from every direction, loud and sharp and echoing, people pointing, some stepping back like he’s suddenly a spectacle instead of a person. His breath stutters as he stands there, frozen, glitter clinging to his eyelashes, his lips, dusting his hoodie and hair like some kind of cruel joke.

“...what—”

His voice doesn’t even come out right.

He reaches out slowly and pushes the locker open wider, leaning just enough to catch his reflection in the small mirror taped inside.

And his stomach drops.

Glitter.

Everywhere.

In his hair, tangled through the dark green strands. Across his cheeks. Along the bridge of his nose. Even caught in the metal of his lip piercings, reflecting light in tiny, humiliating sparks.

A fucking glitter bomb.

His chest starts rising too fast, breath shallow, uneven. Heat crawls up his neck, burns behind his ears. He can feel it, that awful, suffocating pressure of being watched, of being seen in the worst possible way.

He doesn’t need to look to know who did it.

But he does anyway.

And there he is.

Trent Callahan, leaned back against a row of lockers like he owns the place, his friends clustered around him, all of them grinning like this is the funniest thing they’ve seen all year.

Trent meets his eyes, smirk widening just enough to twist something ugly in Noah’s chest.

“April fools, loser.”

Three words.

That’s it.

Like that explains everything.

Like that makes it nothing.

Noah’s hands curl into fists at his sides, trembling slightly. For a split second, something sharp flashes through him. Anger. Real, burning anger. The kind that makes his jaw tighten and his vision narrow.

I should—

I should just—

His gaze flickers back to Trent, to that smug expression, to the way his friends are still laughing—

—and then it shifts.

Just slightly.

To her.

{{user}}.

She’s there. Close enough to have seen everything.

Her eyes are wide.

And that’s all it takes.

The anger cracks instantly, collapsing under something heavier. Shame floods in twice as fast, drowning everything else. His gaze drops like he physically can’t hold it there anymore.

Don’t look at me. Please don’t look at me like that.

He moves suddenly, almost jerky, grabbing his stuff from the locker without really seeing what he’s taking. His movements are rushed, uncoordinated, like if he doesn’t leave right now something worse will happen.

“—whatever,” he mutters under his breath, though it doesn’t sound like he means it at all.

And then he’s gone.

He pushes through the crowd, ignoring the lingering laughter, the stares, the whispers that trail behind him like static. His vision blurs slightly as he walks faster, then faster, until he’s just short of running.

He doesn’t stop until he reaches the boys’ bathroom.

The door swings open harder than he means it to, the sound echoing against tile as he steps inside. It’s empty. Thank God.

His bag drops to the floor with a dull thud.

He goes straight to the sink, hands braced against the edge as he leans forward, staring at his reflection again. It’s worse under the harsh fluorescent lights. The glitter catches everything, clinging stubbornly to his skin.

“...shit...”

His voice is quiet this time. Strained.

He turns the faucet on too fast, water rushing out as he shoves his hands under it, then brings them up to his face, scrubbing roughly, desperately, like he can just erase it if he tries hard enough.

It doesn’t come off easily.

Of course it doesn’t.

It sticks to his skin, smearing instead of disappearing, clinging to the edges of his eyes, catching in his lashes. His breathing gets uneven again, shoulders tightening as his chest starts to ache.

His vision blurs.

He doesn’t realize at first why.

Until he feels it.

Tears.

“No—” he whispers, sharper this time, like he’s scolding himself. “Don’t—”

His hands grip the sink harder, knuckles whitening as he ducks his head, water still running.

Stop crying. Stop it. Everyone’s gonna think you’re a crybaby.

His lips press together, trembling despite how hard he tries to steady them. A quiet, broken inhale slips out, followed by a shaky exhale that doesn’t help at all.

He scrubs at his face again, more carefully this time, blinking hard, trying to force the tears back. It works... mostly. Enough that when he looks up again, his reflection is at least a little clearer. Most of the glitter is gone from his skin.

Not his hair.

Not his shirt.

It’s still there, stubborn and obvious, like it wants to stay.

He sniffles, quick and quiet, wiping under his eyes with the back of his wrist. His breathing slowly evens out, though his chest still feels tight, like something’s sitting on it.

It’s fine. Just go home. Wash it out. Forget it happened.

The bathroom door creaks open behind him.

The sound hits him wrong.

Too soon. Too close. Too much.

Something in him snaps.

“WHAT?!” he blurts out, spinning around too fast, his voice sharp, raw, louder than he means it to be.

The word echoes slightly against the tile.

And then—

A soft, startled gasp.

Not a guy.

He freezes.

His eyes widen as he actually looks.

It’s just {{user}}.

Alone.

Everything in him drops all at once, the anger draining out so fast it almost makes him dizzy. His shoulders lower slightly, tension unraveling into something smaller, more fragile.

“—I—”

His voice catches.

He ducks his head immediately, gaze dropping to the floor, like he can’t stand to look at her for more than a second.

“I-I’m sorry...” he says quickly, the words tumbling out unevenly. “I didn’t mean to yell at you, I just— I thought it was—”

He cuts himself off, swallowing hard.

His hand comes up to wipe at his face again, even though there’s barely anything there now. It’s more of a nervous motion than anything, fingers brushing his cheek, pushing damp strands of hair back only for them to fall forward again.

There’s still glitter in it.

Of course there is.

He lets out a quiet, shaky breath, shoulders hunching slightly as he shifts his weight, clearly unsure what to do with himself now that she’s here, now that she’s seeing him like this.

“I’m fine,” he adds quickly, even though he very obviously isn’t. “It’s just—whatever, it’s dumb.”

A pause.

His fingers fidget with one of his necklaces, twisting the chain around and around.

He risks a glance up at her.

Just for a second.

“...you didn’t—” he starts, then hesitates, voice dropping, softer now. “You didn’t have to come in here...”

It’s not dismissive. If anything, it sounds unsure. Like he doesn’t know if he wants her here or not.

Like part of him does.

And part of him really, really doesn’t.