On Friday morning, Dylan settled into his seat, glancing down at the desk in front of him. There sat Flynn—head tilted slightly, elbows resting on the desk, a mischievous smirk playing at the corner of his lips. His uniform was, as usual, a mess: collar crooked, shirt half-tucked, tie loosened like he couldn't be bothered. The faint scent of something earthy lingered around him—like he had just rolled out of bed, which Dylan suspected was close to the truth.
Dylan's lips curled into a sly grin. He leaned back in his chair and called out loud enough for Flynn to hear, "Still can't fix that uniform of yours? You look like you just rolled out of a hurricane."
Flynn's sharp eyes flicked up, narrowing into slits as if weighing whether Dylan's words were worth the energy to respond. Finally, he muttered under his breath, "Since when did you become the fashion police?"
Nathan, sitting two rows away, caught the exchange and smiled faintly to himself. Compared to Flynn's disheveled look, Nathan was the picture of perfection—his uniform crisp and pristine, tie straight and shoes polished until they almost gleamed under the fluorescent lights. His dark hair was styled flawlessly, every strand in place as if he'd spent an hour in front of the mirror before school.
Nathan was popular in Regular Classes. Not just the usual kind, but the kind where people would go out of their way to hand him gifts, messages, and even little notes asking about his likes and dislikes. When Flynn was outside, he'd constantly be approached by students wanting to hand over gifts meant for Nathan. Handmade bracelets, carefully folded notes, flowers plucked from who-knows-where. Sometimes they'd ask Flynn what Nathan liked or wanted.
Flynn never showed much patience for it. He'd roll his eyes or mutter under his breath, clearly irritated by being turned into a messenger for Nathan's admirers.
Dylan watched this with a smirk and leaned toward Nathan during a brief lull. "I bet half the school uses Flynn as a messenger just to get to you."
Dylan caught the irritation flickering across Flynn's face and leaned forward slightly. "Bet half the school uses you as their personal delivery guy just to get to Nathan, huh?"
Flynn's jaw twitched, but his smirk deepened. "Yeah, something like that. I get all the work, none of the credit."
Dylan grinned wider. "Royal messenger, then. Someone's got to keep the king's schedule in check."
Flynn shot Dylan a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
Amanda approached Flynn with a stack of index cards in her hands. She handed them over with a quick smile and a nod. "Flynn, can you please distribute these to your classmates? They need to write their names down and return the cards to me afterward."
Flynn took the cards with a slight shrug, the faint scent of morning still lingering on his shirt. Despite his perpetually tired eyes and casual, almost careless demeanor, there was an unmistakable sharpness in his gaze. If Nathan was the school's popular figure, Flynn was its quiet enigma—well-known among the teachers as the smart kid who never wasted time in class, even if he often appeared half-asleep.
After school, Flynn didn't hang out or chase after trends. He was the kind of student who went straight home, buried himself in his assignments, and devoured books with a hunger that defied his sleepy exterior.
With the index cards in hand, Flynn moved through the classroom, collecting the returned cards one by one. Most students handed theirs over quickly, some scribbled names still fresh and neat, others less so. The familiar rhythm of the task grounded him.
Only one card remained missing—Dylan's.
Flynn scanned the room and spotted Dylan, seated with that familiar smirk, his paper resting on the desk, ready but deliberately left untouched for longer than necessary. It was almost as if Dylan was waiting for Flynn to come over and make the first move.
With a subtle sigh, Flynn stepped over. "Mind if I take that?" he asked, reaching for the card.
Dylan didn't even look up. Instead, he gave a lazy shrug, and Flynn took the paper from the desk.
As he unfolded the card and squinted at the messy scrawl, Flynn's brow furrowed deeply. His lips pressed into a thin line as he tried to decipher the chaotic jumble of letters and curves. The confusion in his eyes was unmistakable, and for a moment, the classroom noise seemed to fade.
He glanced up, locking eyes with Dylan, a half-amused, half-exasperated look on his face. "Did a human write this, or was it an alien?" Flynn muttered under his breath, loud enough for Dylan to hear.
Dylan finally raised his gaze, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "If you have a problem with my handwriting, you can write my name for me."
Flynn's irritation flickered, and without a word, he spun on his heel and returned to his desk. Pulling out a fresh card, he carefully rewrote Dylan's name in clear, precise letters—each stroke deliberate and neat.
---
During their study period, Flynn had long since surrendered to sleep. His head rested heavily on the desk, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Dylan, on the other hand, couldn't seem to focus on anything except Flynn. He watched quietly, the soft rise and fall of Flynn's chest almost hypnotic in the stillness of the room.
Without meaning to, Dylan whispered under his breath, "As usual... asleep again."
A few moments later, a female classmate approached, her steps hesitant but purposeful. She leaned slightly toward Dylan, a sly smile playing on her lips, clearly trying to charm him. She had heard Dylan was a transfer student—new to their school—and that made him intriguing.
From what Dylan could tell, she was confident and pretty, but he wasn't interested. His eyes remained fixed on Flynn's unmoving form, barely registering the girl's presence.
Leaning closer, the girl lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "You know, I tried to get close to him once." She glanced meaningfully at Flynn before looking back at Dylan. "But he never really seemed interested. I think he just doesn't like me. So, I gave up after a while."
Dylan didn't respond. He wasn't interested in the girl's attempts—his mind was elsewhere, not in this conversation.
Then, almost as if eager to stir the pot, she leaned in again, dropping her voice to an even softer tone, "Oh, and here's some gossip for you—did you know he doesn't have a mom?"
The words hit Dylan like a cold gust, sudden and sharp. A strange ache stirred somewhere deep in his chest, confusing and unfamiliar. He blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected pang.
The girl didn't leave. She stayed by his side, continuing to speak while gently fanning Dylan with a small piece of paper, her voice like white noise around him.
But Dylan's mind had shut off from her words. They no longer reached him. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on Flynn—the boy in front of him, head bowed low, completely unaware of the world as he slept on his desk.
When the classes ended, students hurriedly packed up and spilled out of the school building. Dylan waited for the crowd to thin before slipping quietly through the gates.
Outside, Wilson was already waiting, eyes fixed on the students as they streamed past. The moment he saw Dylan, Wilson moved quickly toward him. But Dylan was faster—he spotted a taxi pulling up nearby and, without hesitation, stepped forward and flagged it down himself, climbing inside before Wilson could reach him.
Wilson stood by the curb, exhaling deeply, watching the taxi pull away.
Through the taxi's window, Dylan's gaze caught sight of a lone figure walking steadily down the sidewalk—Flynn, his silhouette unmistakable even from a distance.
Something in Dylan stirred. "Slow down," he said quietly to the driver, "Let's follow him."
The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "If I follow him, you might as well get out and walk. He's moving fast, and traffic's terrible."
Before the driver could finish, Dylan reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash. Without hesitation, he tossed it onto the front seat. The driver's eyes widened, but he said nothing more. The taxi eased forward, carefully tailing Flynn from a distance.
Flynn moved with purpose, his pace unhurried yet confident as he turned onto a narrow street. At the corner where the street met his neighborhood, Dylan signaled the driver to stop. He slipped out of the taxi and began to follow Flynn on foot, keeping a careful distance so as not to be noticed.
The houses here were older, smaller—nothing like the gleaming buildings near Dylan's own neighborhood. And then, there it was—the modest home that Flynn called his own. Dylan paused, hidden in the shadows, watching as Flynn approached the gate.
From the porch, an elderly woman stepped out—Grandma Mina—with arms open wide, her face lighting up as Flynn greeted her. Nearby, a man—Flynn's father—stood leaning against the wall, muttering softly but with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The family spoke quietly, their gestures animated as they exchanged stories and laughter.
Despite the house's weathered paint and worn steps, the warmth of the moment was undeniable. In that small space, filled with simple comforts, there was a palpable sense of belonging and love—something Dylan felt deeply but had rarely seen in his own life.
Dylan's breath caught in his throat, his eyes tracing the familiar yet foreign scene before him. Here was a family united not by wealth or grandeur, but by something far more precious.
He swallowed hard, the contrast striking sharply in his mind. Both he and Flynn shared a missing piece—the absence of a mother—but how differently their lives had unfolded. Dylan, with all his money and privileges, often felt hollow inside. Meanwhile, Flynn had little in terms of material things, but his world was filled with laughter and connection.
For a long moment, Dylan stood there, the evening breeze brushing gently against his face. A small smile appeared on his lips—quiet, but real. Somehow, it felt nice to know that he and Flynn had a few things in common after all.
With that thought, Dylan turned and walked away, ready to go home.