Chapter 1: The Back Row Is Mine

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.

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