Friday dragged itself in like every other weekday, heavy and indifferent.The first bell rang, sharp and brief, announcing nothing more than routine. Silvestor didn't look up. His pen kept moving.
This time, he wasn't writing in a notebook.Loose papers lay spread across the desk–trimmed margins, compact handwriting, symbols compressed until meaning barely fit inside them.
Ten minutes passed.Below, from the lower floors, noise began to climb–footsteps, laughter, chairs scraping. But on the fifth floor, in XII C, silence remained.
Silvestor was still alone.
The prayer bell–the second–hadn't rung yet when Amaya arrived.
She wasn't from XII C.She had no reason to be there.Except one.
The jersey.
She stood at the doorway for a moment, clutching the folded cloth to her chest. It was clean. Too clean. Washed carefully, pressed neatly, carrying a faint, unfamiliar fragrance–something mild, deliberate.
It looked less like returned clothing and more like something bought fresh from a shop.
Silvestor didn't notice her.
He didn't lift his head.Didn't pause his writing.Didn't register her presence at all.
Amaya swallowed.
She stepped in quietly, heart racing, and placed the jersey on the edge of his desk. Her fingers trembled as she slid a small folded paper into the fabric. A note. Just a few lines.
She didn't speak.
She turned and left immediately, cheeks burning, almost running down the corridor.
Only after the door closed did Silvestor finally reach for the jersey.
He picked it up without care.
The neat folds were undone in seconds, crushed into an untidy bundle. As the fabric collapsed, the paper slipped free and landed on the desk.
Silvestor didn't open it.
Didn't even glance at it.
He crushed the note in one motion and tossed it into the waste bin beside his desk, the sound dull and final. Then he shoved the jersey into his bag like any other object.
Outside the classroom window, Amaya saw everything.
Her breath caught.Her vision blurred.
She turned away before the tears could fall and ran back toward her own classroom, shoulders shaking, the corridor swallowing her whole.
Students began to arrive.
One by one. Then in groups.
Voices filled the room. Benches scraped. Bags dropped. XII C woke up like a restless animal.
Jazz entered with Jackson a few minutes later.
They didn't look at Silvestor.
Silvestor didn't look at them.
Jazz moved straight to the back bench, swung his legs onto the desk, and let his body drop sideways. The hangover from the previous night clung to him like residue. He pulled the English textbook over his face and slept.
Because Jazz was asleep, the class behaved.
No loud jokes. No open mocking. Only quiet slingshots of paper and muffled whispers that avoided his direction instinctively.
The class teacher arrived.
She paused at the door, took one look at Jazz sleeping, and decided against waking him. Letting him sleep was easier than dealing with him awake.
The first period passed.
So did the second.
The interval bell rang.
Silvestor stood.
He walked toward the door. As he passed the classroom door, a faint smile crossed his face–brief, almost nonexistent.
He already knew.
Jazz and Jackson would follow.
Silvestor entered the bathroom and stepped up to the urinal, unhurried. The sound echoed softly in the tiled space.
Moments later, footsteps.
Jazz.Jackson.Gilbert.James.
They entered together.
The other boys inside didn't wait. One by one, they left quickly, eyes down, the bathroom clearing itself without a word.
With a gap of one urinal between them, the four took their places beside Silvestor.
James glanced sideways and smirked.
"Yo… Silvestor," he said casually, breaking the silence."You piss a lot, don't you?"
Silvestor didn't respond.
James waited for something–anger, fear, a glance. Nothing came. The silence unsettled him more than words ever could.
"James, don't cry, okay," Jackson said lightly, leaning closer."Even dogs have a day," James replied. "You know that, Jackson."
Silvestor ignored them.
He stepped toward the wash basin, turned on the tap, and slid his hands under the running water. The cold bit into his skin. He scrubbed slowly, deliberately, as if time itself belonged to him.
Behind him, Jazz and the others closed in.
Not touching.Not blocking.Just standing close enough to erase space.
Silvestor finished washing.
He didn't reach for a towel.
Instead, he lifted his wet hands and extended them backward–straight toward Jazz's chest.
Jazz didn't move.
No flinch. No recoil. He stood firm, expression unreadable, like he had already decided he wouldn't be the one to step aside.
"Tch."
Silvestor clicked his tongue softly.
He wiped his hands on James's shoulder first. Water darkened the fabric instantly. Then Jackson's. Slow. Intentional.
His hand moved toward James's other shoulder.
James reacted too late. He twisted sideways to avoid it.
That was enough.
Silvestor slipped through the gap cleanly, body turning just enough to pass between them. No shove. No force.
As he passed, he tapped James lightly on the shoulder.
"Thank you," Silvestor said.
Then he walked toward the bathroom door.
His hand reached the handle.
Before he could open it–
Bang.
Jazz slammed his palm against the tiled wall. The sound cracked through the bathroom, sharp and final.
Silvestor stopped.
He turned back.
Jazz stood there, jaw tight, eyes fixed on him. The others stayed silent now. Whatever game this was, it had crossed into something else.
"Jazz," Silvestor said calmly,"your proposal isn't impossible."
A pause.
"It's considerable."
Jazz's eyes narrowed slightly.
"But," Silvestor continued,"on two conditions."
He didn't explain.
He didn't wait.
Silvestor turned back, opened the door, and walked out–leaving the words behind like an unpaid debt.
The bathroom stayed quiet long after he was gone.
Silvestor returned to his seat.
The classroom had already dissolved into its usual chaos–laughter spilling between benches, whispered romances, small acts of bullying masked as jokes, boys leaning into doorways to flirt with girls passing by, pencils carving names into desks. Life moved around him without noticing.
No one spoke to him.No one sat near him.
Jazz came back alone.
He stopped at Silvestor's desk and leaned forward, planting both palms on the two tables in front of him. The movement cut through the noise. Silvestor looked up. Jazz looked down. Their eyes locked without hesitation.
The classroom quieted.
Students turned. Chairs shifted. A loose crowd formed instinctively, curiosity pulling them closer. Whispers spread fast and careless.
"Are they going to kiss?" someone snorted."Shut up. Don't block the view," another whispered back.
Neither of them moved.
Silvestor's lips curved slightly to the left, a restrained, crooked smile. Jazz's mouth answered with one of his own–wider, sharper, amused.
"Tell me," Jazz said softly,"what's the deal?"
He leaned a fraction closer, eyes narrowing, voice low enough to feel intentional.
"Or I'll kiss you," he added. "Right here."
A ripple of excitement ran through the class.
"Oh really…" Silvestor replied calmly.
He didn't look away. He didn't rise to the threat. Instead, he tilted his head just enough to make it look like interest.
"But you won't," he continued."Anyway, you already have your answer."
Jazz frowned.
"Already?" he asked. "Where?"
Silvestor nodded once. Nothing more.
Jazz straightened slowly, confusion replacing amusement. He turned, crouched, and began checking beneath the desks. Then the bench. Then his bag. His movements were sharp now, focused.
The class joined in.
Students searched under tables, inside bags, along the floor. Someone laughed, convinced it was a love letter. Someone else expected a message. A few hoped for drama worth remembering.
Nothing surfaced.
The bell rang.
Disappointment rolled through the room like a sigh. Students returned to their seats, irritated that the moment had slipped through their fingers.
Jazz sat back down.
He kept checking his bag anyway–methodical, restless, as if the answer hadn't disappeared.
As if it was waiting.
Somewhere he hadn't thought to look yet.