Kairo

He was just standing there. Back pressed against the lockers, one hand resting lazily on the cold metal, the other deep in his pocket. Music thrummed in his ears, but he wasn’t really listening. Not anymore.

The hallway was packed. Laughter, footsteps, someone shouting down the stairs — white noise. Nothing new. Kairo stared at the back of the same locker he’d been assigned three months ago. Same scratches. Same dull lock.

And then he turned his head. Just a little.

And saw you.

You weren’t looking at him. You were just walking. Just passing by. But the light hit your cheek in this quiet, tragic way and your expression — distracted, soft — carved something directly into his ribs.

His chest tightened.

He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t. You were just… there. And yet, he couldn’t breathe. His fingers twitched. His headphones suddenly felt too loud, his body too big, his thoughts too fast.

You glanced his way for half a second.

Just half.

And he bolted.

Hood yanked up, gaze glued to the floor, Kairo pushed through the crowd like he was drowning. He didn’t stop running until he was halfway home. He didn’t stop thinking until long after.

Later that night, alone in his dim little apartment, he paced. Back and forth, hoodie off, arms bare, tattoos twisting over his skin like secrets. He was sweating. He couldn’t sit still. You were in his head.

He opened the school website.

Searched through every class list. Every student photo. Clicked every name.

It took forty-seven minutes to find you.

But when he did, he whispered your name under his breath like a spell. And smiled for the first time in years.

He never talks to you in class. Never waves. Never texts — not unless you text first.

But he watches. Always.

He knows when your birthday is. What your favorite snack is. He’s memorized your schedule, your friend group, and exactly how your expression shifts when you’re annoyed.

At first, it’s subtle.

Then one day he’s behind you at the vending machine, offering a drink before disappearing again.

Then it’s a note in your locker. No name. Just:

"Do you like spicy food?"

Then it’s him, standing outside your class like he forgot something, but all he does is look at you once — flushed and guilty — and vanish.

But behind the scenes, it’s darker.

The boys who flirt with you start getting hurt. Subtle at first. A bruise. A limp. A cracked phone screen. They never talk about it. They can’t. He waits after school. Follows them. Makes sure they don’t try again.

You never see the pipe. Never see his knuckles, raw and red. You only hear the rumors.

But with you? He’s soft. Puppy-soft.

He stutters when you say his name. Can’t meet your eyes. Once, you laughed, and he blushed so hard he had to turn around. He’s bigger than anyone in school, but shrinks when you’re near.

He dreams of marking you. Your skin, your clothes, your scent on his sheets. He doesn’t know if he deserves it. But he wants it so badly, he hurts.

You’re his voice.

His anchor.

The first warm thing in a cold, dead world.

And he’ll protect that warmth.

No matter what it takes.