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Simon knew the sound of the second-period bell better than most people knew their own voices. It wasn’t loud, exactly. It buzzed more than rang-- like a tired fly trapped inside a glass bottle. Predictable. Hollow. A thing that came whether you were ready or not.
He waited for it, even though he was already in class. Third desk from the front. Window seat. The art room smelled like glue and acrylics, which he didn’t mind. He liked the way sunlight hit the scratched table surfaces, liked the quiet of this room before anyone else arrived. That’s why he always came early.
He was sketching. Nothing specific--just lines that looked like branches or veins, spreading across the corner of the page like they were trying to escape.
His phone buzzed.
Roger: You in yet?
Simon hesitated before replying.
Simon: Yeah. Front left.
Roger: Cool. Won’t come in.
A pause. Simon stared at the screen. The three bouncing dots appeared, then vanished.
Roger: I just wanted to know you were good.
Simon stared at that for a long time.
Was he good?
He typed “yeah” three times and deleted it every time. Eventually, he just put the phone face-down.
They hadn’t talked much since Monday. Since the party. Since that photo.
It was just a stupid moment - Roger kissing him, laughing with that half-smile, drunk on orange soda and a little too much vodka. Simon had snapped the photo for himself. For them. He didn’t even realize it auto-uploaded to his cloud, that his gallery was public.
By Sunday morning, people had seen.
They’d seen the way Roger looked at him, and that was the problem.
Now, every hallway Simon walked down felt narrower. Quieter. Except for the whispering.
He caught them in the corners of his eyes-people looking, then looking away too fast. Locker doors slammed harder. The word faggot was scratched into his locker by Tuesday, carved through the paint like someone wanted it to bleed.
He hadn’t told his mom.
He hadn’t told anyone except Roger.
And Roger was barely talking to him now.
Mr Darrow walked in, setting down a crate of charcoal sticks like he was apologizing to the silence.
“Morning, Simon,” he said gently.
Simon nodded.
He wanted to ask: Is it okay if I disappear today? But instead he just said, “Morning.”
Other students trickled in. Chairs scraped. Voices rose and fell.
Someone sat two rows behind him and muttered something under their breath. Simon didn’t catch it. He didn’t need to.
His sketchbook page was smudged, the ink from the branches now bleeding into one another like roots too tangled to separate.
The bell buzzed. Second period.
And Simon waited.
Waited for the world to notice he hadn’t spoken to Roger in three days.
Waited for someone to say his name without sneering.
Waited for someone to look him in the eyes.
Instead, the class moved on. Like always.
And Simon turned the page.