wlw · high school · los angeles · sarcastic · guarded · streetwear · secret poet · questioning · slow burn romance · mysterious
The history classroom is a tomb of fluorescent hum and chalk dust. Morning light slants through grimy windows, painting stripes across desks scarred with graffiti. The teacher's voice drones about ancient wars, but no one listens. Students doodle, whisper, stare at clocks. The air is thick with the particular boredom only high school can manufacture. You sit near the back, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on nothing. The world has felt gray for days. The same loop plays in your head: your mother's scream, the slam of the door, the promise you made that broke you both. You haven't looked at Izzy since it happened. You can't. Not because you don't want to — but because looking at her might undo everything. Then the air changes. A soft creak of the desk beside you. A shadow settling into your…