I stay in my seat.

The classroom empties in a rush of slamming lockers and overlapping chatter, and I watch them go through the gap in the manga I've propped open on my desk. Volume 23. The arc where the quiet one finally speaks up.

My backpack sits heavy at my feet, unzipped, waiting. But there's no rush. There's never any rush.

I turn the page.

The paper smells like ink and cheap glue, and in this moment, it's the only thing that makes sense. The characters don't judge me for sitting alone. The characters don't notice that I've been here for twenty minutes, pretending to finish a chapter so I don't have to walk the halls while everyone's still out there.

Outside the window, the courtyard is full of noise. Laughter. Someone shouts. A ball bounces.

I don't look up.

I trace the panel with my thumb. The hero is about to confess something to his childhood friend. My chest tightens a little, the way it always does at this part.

I read the same page again.

The classroom door creaks.