Leave Me Alone Chapter 1: The Back Row Is Mine

The hallway clock ticks loudly, each second stretching out like an eternity as Christian “Chris” Santos stands in front of his locker, fingers wrapped tight around the combination dial. It’s 6:47 AM – thirty-three minutes before first period, and save for the janitor mopping the floor at the far end of the hall, the school is empty. Just how he likes it.

He twists the dial three times to the right, once to the left, pauses, then finishes the sequence. The lock clicks open with a satisfying sound, and he shoves his worn canvas backpack inside to grab his math textbook and a crumpled notebook. When he slams the locker door shut, the metal bang echoes off the tiled walls and linoleum floors, making him wince – even the noise feels too loud for this quiet space.

Chris heads toward Room 3-B, his sneakers making almost no sound against the polished floor. He knows every step by heart: turn left at the water fountain that drips even when it’s supposed to be off, pass the bulletin board covered in faded posters for last semester’s dance, take three more steps to the door with the chipped blue paint. He pushes it open slowly, letting it swing inward without a creak.

The classroom is exactly as he left it yesterday afternoon – desks in neat rows, sunlight streaming through the large window at the front, dust motes dancing in the golden beams. His eyes immediately find the back corner: the second-to-last desk on the right, tucked against the wall where he can see everyone who comes in, but no one sits close enough to bother him. It’s been his spot since the start of the school year, and he’s guarded it fiercely.

He slides into the chair, dropping his bag on the floor with a soft thud before slumping forward, burying his face in his folded arms. The cool wood of the desk feels good against his forehead, and he lets out a slow breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Leave me alone,” he mutters into his sleeves, the words muffled but sharp – a mantra he’s repeated so many times it’s etched into his brain.

He stays like that for a while, listening to the quiet hum of the building waking up: the distant sound of the heating system kicking on, the janitor’s mop sloshing in its bucket down the hall, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights warming up overhead. It’s peaceful. Predictable. Safe.

Then the classroom door creaks open.

Chris doesn’t move, keeping his face hidden. He can hear footsteps – heavier than his, but not too loud – moving down the aisle between the desks. He hopes whoever it is will take a seat up front, leave him be in his corner. But the steps keep coming, closer and closer, until they stop right beside his desk.

“Is this seat taken?”

The voice is calm, not overly cheerful or pushy, but it still makes Chris’s shoulders tense up. He lifts his head slowly, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes as he glares up at the person standing there.

The guy is tall – maybe a few inches taller than Chris’s five-foot-eight – with thick, wavy black hair that falls just above his eyebrows, and deep green eyes that look almost too bright in the morning light. He’s wearing dark jeans, a plain gray hoodie, and worn-out sneakers, and he’s holding a leather-bound notebook and a stack of books tucked under one arm. A small silver chain peeks out from under his hoodie collar, and there’s a faint smudge of ink on his left knuckle.

“Yes,” Chris snaps, reaching for his notebook and shoving it across the empty desk next to him. “Taken by my stuff.”

The guy blinks, but his expression doesn’t change – no annoyance, no frustration, just a slight tilt of his head. Instead of walking away like Chris expects, he shifts the books in his arms and pulls out the chair anyway, sitting down with a quiet scrape against the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, setting his things down carefully. “I’m Michael. Michael Reyes. Transferred here yesterday.” He pauses, glancing toward the front of the room where every other desk is empty. “I checked the front rows first. They’re all… open. But they feel too exposed. Too many eyes.” He says the words like they’re something heavy he’s carrying, and when he looks back at Chris, his gaze is steady and clear. “The back feels better. Quieter.”

Chris stares at him, his jaw tight. He’d spent months making sure everyone knew this corner was his – coming in early, leaving late, giving anyone who even looked at the seat next to him a look sharp enough to cut glass. But this Michael guy just… sat down. Like he didn’t even notice the walls Chris had built around himself.

“I don’t talk to people in class,” Chris says flatly, turning his attention back to his math book even though he can’t focus on the numbers. “I don’t do group projects. I don’t share notes. So just… do whatever you want, but leave me out of it.”

Michael nods slowly, opening his leather notebook and pulling out a pen. “Fair enough,” he says quietly, and starts doodling on the first blank page. “I don’t talk much either.”

Chris glances over out of the corner of his eye and sees swirls of ink taking shape – a tree with branches that twist into stars, a cat with wings, a small guitar with flowers growing out of its sound hole. He feels something in his chest twinge, but he pushes it down hard.

Leave me alone, he thinks again, but this time the words don’t feel as solid as they usually do.

Leave Me Alone Chapter 2: Small Spaces and Shared Air

The next morning, Chris gets to class at 6:45 – two minutes earlier than usual – fully expecting to have his corner to himself again. But Michael is already there, sitting in the same chair, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed and a pair of earbuds in one ear. A worn copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower lies open on his desk, face down.

Chris freezes in the doorway, his hand tightening on the doorknob. For a split second, he considers turning around and waiting in the hall, but pride keeps him moving forward. He slides into his seat without a word, dropping his bag with a little more force than necessary.

Michael’s eyes flutter open, and he pulls out his earbud with a small smile. “Morning,” he says quietly.

Chris grunts in response, pulling out his history textbook and slamming it down. He flips through the pages until he finds the chapter they’re supposed to be covering, but the words blur together on the page. All he can focus on is the space between their desks – barely a foot wide – and the way Michael’s shoulder keeps brushing against his when he shifts in his chair.

Too close, Chris thinks, hunching his shoulders and pulling his notebook closer to his chest.

The rest of the class files in soon after, filling the room with chatter and the rustle of paper. Chris keeps his head down, doodling tiny stars in the margins of his notes – the same kind he’d seen Michael drawing the day before. He doesn’t notice when Michael leans over slightly, or when his eyes flick down to Chris’s notebook.

“Those look good,” Michael whispers, so softly only Chris can hear him.

Chris’s hand jerks, drawing a crooked line through one of the stars. He glares at Michael, but the other boy is already looking forward, pretending to pay attention to the teacher writing on the board.

By third period, the classroom is stuffy – the AC unit broke over the weekend, and the repair crew won’t be there until next week. Sweat beads on Chris’s forehead as he tries to work through his algebra problems, his pencil slipping against the paper. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, feeling like the walls are closing in.

“Here,” Michael says, pushing a small bottle of cold water across the desk between them. “I always bring extra.”

Chris stares at the bottle – it’s his favorite brand, the one with the blue label that’s hard to find at the corner store. “I don’t want your water,” he says, but his voice comes out weaker than he intends.

“Didn’t say you had to want it,” Michael replies, not looking up from his own work. “Just said it’s there.”

Chris waits until Michael is focused on solving an equation before he grabs the bottle, twisting off the cap and taking a long drink. The cold water slides down his throat, and he feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease. He sets the bottle back on the desk, just a little closer to Michael’s side than before.

Lunch rolls around, and Chris packs his things slowly, planning to head to the empty music room like he always does – the one with the old acoustic guitar in the corner that no one uses anymore. But when he stands up, he sees Michael shoving his books into his bag, looking just as ready to avoid the cafeteria crowd.

“Where are you going?” Chris asks before he can stop himself.

Michael pauses, surprised. “There’s a bench behind the gym – no one goes there unless it’s for practice. Quiet.” He shrugs. “Figured I’d eat there.”

Chris hesitates, his hand hovering over his lunch bag. The music room is safe, but the thought of sitting alone with only the dusty guitar for company doesn’t feel as appealing as it usually does. “The bench is better than the music room when it’s hot,” he says, his voice barely audible. “No windows in there.”

Michael’s lips curve into a small smile – the kind that reaches his eyes. “Want me to save you a spot?”

Chris looks away, shoving his bag over his shoulder. “I don’t need you to save me anything,” he mutters, but he starts walking toward the door ahead of Michael anyway.

They sit on the bench under a large mango tree behind the gym, the leaves providing just enough shade to keep the sun off their faces. Chris pulls out his sandwich – tuna fish, just like every day – while Michael unpacks a container of adobo and rice, the smell making Chris’s stomach growl. He’d skipped breakfast in his rush to get to class early.

“Want some?” Michael asks, noticing Chris’s gaze. “My mom makes too much sometimes. Says I need to eat more.”

This time, Chris doesn’t say no. He takes the spoon Michael offers, scooping up a small bite. It’s warm and savory, with just the right amount of vinegar and garlic – better than anything he could make himself.

They eat in silence for a while, watching a stray cat pad across the grass, chasing after a butterfly. When Chris finishes his sandwich, he pulls out a small notebook – the one he uses for writing song lyrics, though he’s never shown it to anyone. He flips to a blank page and starts jotting down words, his pen moving fast across the paper.

“Are those song lyrics?” Michael asks suddenly.

Chris snaps the notebook shut, his face warm. “None of your business.”

“I write too,” Michael says gently, not taking offense. “Poems mostly. Nothing good.” He pulls out his leather notebook and opens it to a page filled with neat handwriting. “Want to read one?”

Chris stares at the open notebook, then at Michael’s face – open, honest, no sign of judgment. He hesitates for a long moment before nodding.

Michael reads quietly, his voice soft but clear. The poem is about feeling like you’re watching life happen from behind a window, never quite part of it. When he finishes, Chris feels like he’s been punched in the chest – like Michael had crawled inside his head and written down exactly what he’d been feeling for years.

“I write songs about the same thing,” Chris says, his voice barely a whisper. He opens his own notebook and pushes it across the bench. “They’re not finished. Or good.”

Michael reads the lyrics slowly, his green eyes scanning each line carefully. When he looks up, there’s something in his gaze that makes Chris’s heart skip a beat.

“They’re good,” Michael says firmly. “Really good. Have you ever played any of them?”

Chris shakes his head. “I don’t play for people. I told you – I like to be left alone.”

Michael leans back against the tree, looking up at the leaves. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know you did. But… maybe being alone isn’t the same as being left alone.”

Chris looks down at his hands, twisting the pen between his fingers. He wants to argue, to tell Michael he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But the words won’t come. Because for the first time in a long time, sitting next to someone else doesn’t feel like being trapped – it feels like breathing fresh air.

Leave Me Alone Chapter 3: Strings and Secrets

The following Monday, Chris finds Michael in their usual corner seat, but something’s off. His shoulders are slumped, his hair is messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and the leather notebook he always carries is lying closed on his desk – untouched.

Chris pauses before sitting down. “You okay?”

Michael looks up, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Fine. Just… rough morning.”

Chris nods slowly, but he doesn’t buy it. He sets his bag down and pulls out his guitar case – something he’d tucked under his arm on impulse when he left the house. He’d spent all weekend restringing the old instrument from the music room, tuning it until the notes rang clear and true.

“Is that… a guitar?” Michael asks, his voice a little less heavy.

Chris runs his fingers over the dark wood, feeling the familiar grooves. “I fixed up the one from the music room. No one was using it.” He hesitates, then adds, “I was gonna play it there today, but… the door was locked.”

Michael’s eyes soften. “You could play here. No one comes in until five minutes before class starts.”

“I don’t play for people,” Chris says automatically, but he’s already unclasping the case.

“I won’t listen,” Michael promises, turning his chair slightly and opening his history book like he’s about to study. “I’ll just… read.”

Chris takes a deep breath, adjusting the guitar on his lap. His fingers find the strings, and he starts playing a simple melody – one he’d written months ago about rain on windowpanes and empty streets. The notes fill the quiet classroom, warm and clear, cutting through the morning stillness.

He loses himself in the music, his eyes closing as his fingers move across the fretboard. He doesn’t notice when Michael puts his book down, or when he turns to watch, his green eyes wide with wonder. He only stops when he hits a wrong note – a sharp, jarring sound that makes him flinch.

“Sorry,” Chris mumbles, setting the guitar aside. “I haven’t played in front of anyone in… ever.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Michael says quickly. “That was amazing. The way you play – it’s like you’re telling a story without words.”

Chris feels his face heat up. “It’s just noise.”

“It’s not,” Michael insists. He reaches into his bag and pulls out his notebook, flipping to a new page. “I wrote this while you were playing.” He reads aloud, his voice steady and warm:

“Fingers on wood, strings come alive

Sound like sunlight breaking through the sky

You say it’s noise, but I know it’s true

You’re singing things you can’t say to me or you.”

Chris stares at him, his chest tight. No one has ever listened to him – really listened – like this. “How do you do that?” he asks quietly. “How do you see things I can’t even say?”

Michael looks down at his notebook, tracing a line with his finger. “I know what it’s like to carry things you can’t put into words. My dad left when I was fourteen. Said he couldn’t handle… me.” He pauses, and Chris sees the pain flash across his face before he hides it. “I started writing because I didn’t have anyone to talk to. Then we moved here, and I thought I’d be alone all over again.”

Chris reaches out without thinking, his hand resting on Michael’s arm for a split second before he pulls it back. “My mom works three jobs to keep us afloat,” he says, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “I don’t want to be another thing she has to worry about. So I keep quiet. Keep to myself. It’s easier that way.”

“Is it?” Michael asks softly. “Is it really easier?”

Before Chris can answer, the classroom door swings open, and their classmate Jake stumbles in, laughing with his friends. They stop short when they see Chris with his guitar and Michael sitting close beside him – a picture that looks nothing like the quiet, isolated Chris everyone knows.

“Whoa, Santos,” Jake says, grinning. “I didn’t know you played. You gonna join the band or something?”

Chris tenses up, pulling the guitar into his lap like a shield. “No. It’s nothing.”

“Come on, man – play something for us!” Jake pushes forward, and Chris feels the familiar panic rising in his chest. Leave me alone, he wants to scream, but his voice is stuck in his throat.

“Back off, Jake,” Michael says suddenly, standing up so he’s between Chris and the other boys. “He said he doesn’t want to play. Leave him be.”

Jake scoffs, but something in Michael’s gaze makes him step back. “Whatever. Just saying – could make you popular, Santos. Might be nice to not be a ghost for once.”

The words cut deep, and Chris watches as Jake and his friends take their seats up front, whispering and glancing back at him. He clutches the guitar tight, his knuckles white.

“Hey,” Michael says gently, sitting back down and placing a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “You’re not a ghost. Okay? You’re here. And I can see you.”

Chris looks at him, feeling the panic slowly ebb away. For so long, he’d wanted everyone to look right through him – to leave him alone. But now, with Michael looking at him like he matters, he realizes he doesn’t want to be invisible anymore.

“Will you teach me?” Michael asks suddenly. “To play, I mean. Just a little bit.”

Chris blinks, surprised. “You want to learn?”

Michael nods, a real smile spreading across his face. “Yeah. I want to know how to make music that says what I can’t.”

Chris picks up the guitar again, adjusting it so they can both reach the strings. He moves Michael’s hand to the fretboard, his fingers brushing against Michael’s as he shows him where to place his fingers.

“Like this,” Chris says, his voice soft. “Press down gently. Feel the string vibrate.”

Michael follows his lead, and when he strums the strings, a rough but clear chord fills the room. They both laugh – a real, honest sound that makes Chris’s chest feel light.

Maybe being alone wasn’t what he needed after all. Maybe what he needed was someone who’d stay even when he told them to leave.