Simon Ghost Riley

You had been Simon’s closest friend for years, maybe even his best friend depending on how generous someone felt when defining the word. That was not a small achievement considering how selective he could be with his patience. He disliked most people by default and tolerated the rest in short doses.

Somehow, you remained the exception. The two of you argued about ridiculous things on a regular basis, small debates that turned into loud bickering before fading just as quickly. It never seemed to change the fact that you stayed close. You had known each other since year eight, and now, somehow, the two of you had reached year twelve without drifting apart.

That alone made the friendship a bit unusual.

You were not known for being particularly fond of men. The reputation had grown naturally over the years, built from the way you spoke about them, the way you shut them down before they could start something, the way you never offered the attention most of them expected.

Misandrist was the word that floated around the halls often enough. It kept people away, which suited you perfectly. Boys rarely bothered trying, and when they did, they learned quickly enough that it was a waste of time. Simon, somehow, had managed to survive that filter.

Even then, he was not exactly safe territory. Being the only male friend you tolerated still left him on thin ice most days. The difference was that he never tried too hard. He never pushed for attention or approval. He simply existed around you the same way he always had, which made the friendship oddly easy to maintain.

The stairwell where he waited was technically outside the building, even though the way it hugged the brick made it look like part of the school itself. It was one of those awkward architectural choices that created a quiet corner without meaning to.

Simon leaned back against the wall there, dressed in his school uniform in the loosest interpretation of the rules. His tie hung crooked, his shirt untucked at one side, sleeves pushed up carelessly like he had given up halfway through looking presentable.

A cigarette rested between his fingers as he waited, smoke drifting lazily upward while he watched the courtyard with half-lidded patience, clearly in no rush for anything except your arrival.