Another day of perfection.
Another endless loop.
Anthony Pickins sat at the back of the classroom, letting the drone of the teacher's voice wash over him. His eyes barely moved as he stared out the window, watching the trees sway in the wind like they had yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.
Everything was the same. Everything was always the same. He'd perfected the art of blending in, of never standing out, never doing anything wrong. He excelled at everything they threw at him, like a machine designed to do exactly what it was told.
A+ in Calculus.
A+ in History.
A+ in Life.
But there was no satisfaction in it. Not anymore.
It should have felt good, shouldn't it? The accolades. The praise. His parents' proud smiles whenever they spoke about him to anyone who would listen.
"Anthony is such a natural! Look at how well he's doing! He's going places!"
They had no idea who he was. None.
He was supposed to care, right? About school, about the future, about what everyone thought of him. But all he felt was nothing. No excitement, no fear, no anger, no joy. Just a dull hum in his head, like static on an old radio.
Why did he even bother?
He had the kind of life most people would kill for. Perfect grades, perfect family, perfect future. He could be a doctor, a lawyer, anything he wanted. So why did it feel like he was suffocating? Like every breath was just a mechanical act to keep his body alive, but his mind was already long gone?
He wasn't suicidal—not yet. But it wasn't because he wanted to live. No, his body refused to let go, and that pissed him off more than anything.
He had tried.
Not directly. He wasn't that stupid. But he'd toyed with the idea, entertained the fantasy. How easy it would be to slip away, disappear. One moment of calm, and he could end it. But the problem was, his body still craved life. It was like his skin, his bones, his blood had no intention of listening to the darkness in his mind.
It felt almost... like a betrayal.
He stared at his hands. They were clean. Too clean.
Strong hands. Hands that could build something—create something. Or destroy it. But all he ever built was the same monotonous, hollow existence. Everything he touched fell apart in the same way: predictable, inevitable. Even death. The very idea of it bored him. What good was death if it wasn't a challenge? What was the point of escaping if the escape itself was as predictable as the life you were leaving behind?
The bell rang, signaling the end of class, but the room was far from empty. Most students had already rushed out, eager to make their way to the next lesson or get on with their afternoon. But Anderson Rivera was still standing at the front, tense and pleading with the teacher.
Anthony Pickins watched from his seat at the back, the hum of the classroom fading as the argument played out before him.
Anderson was late—again.
He had entered the classroom just as the bell had rung, his usual bag slung over one broad shoulder, his dark hair messy as though he hadn't had time to fix it. His eyes were tired, carrying the weight of someone who had seen far more hardship than his age should warrant.
"Mr. Rivera, I can't accept this," the teacher, Ms. Foster, said, her voice firm but tired. She shook her head as she held up his assignment in front of her, the red pen marks staining the paper like blood. "It's one day late. One day. And I'm sorry, but I have to be consistent with my rules."
Anderson's face tightened. "Please, Ms. Foster. I—I know it's late, but I had a lot going on. You know what's been happening at home. I couldn't get it to you yesterday. It's... it's here now."
Ms. Foster sighed, lowering the paper slowly, looking at him with the kind of understanding that felt almost condescending. "Anderson, I know fully well about your situation. You've told me about your sister, about the things you have to deal with. But I can't bend the rules just because your life is difficult. You know that."
Anthony's gaze shifted from the scene in front of him to the expression on Anderson's face. He could see it—the frustration and exhaustion pressing against his skull, his clenched fists hanging at his sides. Anderson was trying to remain calm, but the weight of everything pressing down on him was clear. The words he wanted to say were tangled in his throat, but he couldn't make them come out.
"You're saying that because I'm behind in school, I should just accept that I'm not good enough to even turn this in?" Anderson's voice cracked just a little, betraying the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin. "I'm trying. You know I'm trying."
Ms. Foster shook her head again, her tone softer this time, though still resolute. "I know you're trying, Anderson. But life doesn't wait for you. There are consequences. Rules are rules, and they apply to everyone equally."
The words stung, but Anderson didn't have the energy to argue anymore. He just stood there, his face clouded with resignation. The fight seemed to drain out of him as quickly as it had flared up.
Anthony's eyes never left Anderson. There was something about the way the younger student stood—like a man carrying a weight too heavy for him to bear. Like the pressure of the world was pressing him down, but he couldn't break. Anthony couldn't help but feel a flicker of curiosity.
Who was this guy?
He hadn't noticed Anderson before, not really. But now, in this quiet moment of failure, he saw something raw in him.
The teacher walked past Anderson and sat back at her desk, her back turned as she began collecting papers from the other students. The tension in the room hung thick, but no one else seemed to notice. It was just another fight. Another student who didn't quite measure up to the expectations of the system.
Anderson stood there, staring at the desk, his shoulders slumped like someone who had just fought a battle—and lost. He didn't look at Ms. Foster, didn't bother to argue anymore. The fight seemed to drain out of him as quickly as it had flared up. The words he wanted to say were already sinking into a well of exhaustion, swallowed by the same weight that kept him silent, kept him in this endless cycle of struggle.
He turned to leave. His footsteps were heavy, his body a fortress of weariness.
But just as he passed Anthony's desk, their eyes met.
It was only a glance. A fleeting moment. But it felt like something more—a spark in the air between them. Anderson didn't look away, his gaze steady, almost defiant. It wasn't the kind of look one gave a stranger, not one that said, I don't care about you. No, it was the kind of look that said, I know you're watching. I see you.
For a split second, Anthony felt a rush of something unexpected, something unfamiliar. It was subtle at first, like a shift in the atmosphere. A crack in the sterile perfection of his world.
There was a fire in Anderson. It wasn't the kind of fire that blazed in triumph—it was the kind that burned quietly, smoldering just beneath the surface. Resigned, yet unbroken. It was the kind of fire that wasn't about to go out, no matter how many times life tried to snuff it out.
And that's what hooked Anthony.
Because that fire… it wasn't predictable. It wasn't something he could easily control, like the perfect grades, the perfect answers, the perfect life. Anderson wasn't playing by the rules, and that… that was interesting.
But just as quickly as the feeling had surfaced, it was gone. Anderson turned away and walked out the door, leaving only the faint scent of sweat and frustration in the air, as if he'd never been there at all.
Anthony leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the desk in an absent rhythm. He didn't know why he cared. Or maybe he didn't care at all. Maybe it was just another distraction in the blur of his monotonous life.
But that look. The weight of it. The way it felt as if Anderson had somehow peeled back a layer of his indifference and seen right through him. That didn't happen often. No, scratch that. It never happened. And it left Anthony unsettled in a way he couldn't quite place.
He stared at the door Anderson had just walked through, as if waiting for him to come back, to say something, anything. But the door remained closed.
The room was silent again.
Anthony's fingers paused mid-tap. He didn't know what to make of it.
Maybe Anderson wasn't just another cog in the machine of high school. Maybe there was something more to him. Something deeper. Something that could be… interesting.
Maybe this one's worth watching.