The first time I heard it, it sounded like a joke. "He likes boys, I think." The words drifted across the classroom in a careless whisper, followed by a few muffled laughs. I didn't even bother looking up from my notebook. High school was full of rumors. By lunchtime, someone was secretly dating a celebrity. By dinner, they had moved to another country. But this rumor was about Noah. The quiet boy who always sat by the window. The one who wore oversized hoodies no matter how hot it was outside. The one who answered every teacher's question without trying to sound smart. The one who smiled so rarely that when he did, people couldn't help but stare. I had never seen him interested in anyone. No girls. No flirting. Nothing. So when Maya slid into the seat beside me with the excitement of someone carrying breaking news, I already knew what she was about to say

Across the room, Noah was reading a novel as if the entire class didn't exist. He wasn't the type to notice whispers—or maybe he noticed all of them and had simply learned not to react. There was something lonely about him. Something that made you wonder what was going on inside his head. The bell rang. Everyone stood. Noah quietly packed his bag and walked out before anyone else. Without realizing it, I watched him leave. Maya noticed.

I had no idea that question would completely change my life.

Monday mornings always felt like a punishment. Mr. Lawson believed changing the seating chart every month would "encourage collaboration." Most of us believed it encouraged suffering. He stood at the front of the room with a printed list.

Groans echoed through the classroom.

When he called mine, I glanced at the chart.

I smiled. Then I read the name beside mine.

Maya's jaw dropped from across the room. She mouthed, Good luck. I rolled my eyes and walked over. Noah was already there, quietly unpacking his books. He didn't look up until I pulled out the chair beside him.

Mr. Lawson began the lesson, but I couldn't focus. Every few minutes I caught Noah scribbling something in the corner of his notebook. Not notes. Drawings. Tiny sketches of people. Trees. Birds. Faces.

At lunch, Maya practically dragged me to our table.

Maybe that was the problem. People expected someone to look or act a certain way, as though a rumor could tell you everything about a person.

The final bell rang, and rain poured from the sky. Students crowded the entrance, waiting for it to sto

The walk home was quiet at first. The rain drummed against the fabric above us.