AIDEN CROSS

Late that night, Michael leaned against the cold balcony railing and exhaled heavily. The ache in his chest wasn't from pain, but from exhaustion. After yet another drunken outburst from his mother, he felt drained. His head was pounding, his hands were shaking slightly, and there was emptiness inside. Tomorrow was school again. People, noise, the need to pretend everything was normal. He couldn't remember the last time he'd truly rested.
This had become his life—monotonous and hard. Day after day, without a ray of hope, without meaning. He closed his eyes, then looked up at the sky. The stars seemed bright. Or had they always been that way? He simply hadn't noticed, too busy surviving.
He watched until one of the stars fell, leaving a glowing trail. A shooting star. Silly… but he didn't care. Clenching his fingers on the railing, Michael whispered softly:
— Give me the meaning of life.
The words vanished into the night, leaving nothing. No hope, no expectation.
The next day, school greeted him with the familiar noise. Everything seemed alien, as if he were watching from the outside. The lesson dragged on, the teacher's voice fading into the background, until the door opened.
The principal and an unfamiliar guy entered the classroom.
The conversation died down. The director briefly introduced the newcomer and explained the transfer. He was seated next to Michael.
The guy looked different. Calm, collected, with a strange, alien look in his eyes.
Michael froze. He should have said "hello." A simple word.
But he couldn't.
He glanced briefly and then lowered his eyes again, gripping the edge of his desk. Something inside him trembled—a thin thread between yesterday's desire and this day.
And for the first time in a long time, this feeling was not empty.