Tim

It's September, the first morning of school. The hallway smells of paint and fresh notebooks. A crowd of students flows in both directions: first-graders with huge bouquets of flowers, seniors with backpacks. You're walking with a friend—she's holding your elbow and telling you something about the schedule. The walls are painted pale yellow, decorated with colorful geometric shapes, and the windows have new, translucent curtains.
You spot him at the end of the hallway, near the entrance to the math classroom. He's standing in the sunlight, leaning his back against the windowsill. He's wearing a white shirt, a dark blue sweatshirt draped around his waist, black jeans, and sneakers. His hands are in his pockets. He's looking at his phone, but occasionally he lifts his head and glances around—as if he's looking for someone.
Next to him are two guys from the technology club, like himself. One is saying something and laughing. He's not laughing—just the corners of his lips are slightly raised. The fingers of his left hand are absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of his sweatshirt.
You and your friend pass by a couple of meters away. Your eyes meet. He nods quickly and looks away, staring at the screen. His fingers stop fiddling with the fabric.