Chapter 2: Small Spaces and Shared Air

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.

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