The corridors had begun to shift.
Jason noticed it not in the architecture, but in the atmosphere — how people turned to look when he walked past, how whispers followed him like a second shadow. He hadn't meant to cause it. But wherever he went, attention bloomed.
He arrived with no great story. A transfer. That was all anyone really knew. But stories grew in the quiet — and Jason was nothing if not a question mark wrapped in charm.
He stood apart that first day, leaning against a courtyard pillar, eyes shaded by the low brim of his cap. Around him, students moved like birds unsettled by the change in wind. He lit a cigarette he wouldn't finish, not for the sake of rebellion, but because it gave his hands something to do.
He liked the silence. He liked watching.
He saw her that morning.
Emma.
She was walking beside someone — a boy with dark hair and a worn coat, holding two coffees and a kind of quiet presence. Jason didn't know his name yet. He didn't care to. His eyes were on Emma.
She moved like she didn't know she was being watched — the kind of grace that wasn't performed. Her laugh carried across the stones like a forgotten song.
Jason stayed still. Didn't call out. Didn't even let his gaze linger long enough to be obvious.
But something shifted.
A day passed.
Then another.
He saw her again beneath the bell tower. Her notes had spilled from her hands. He stepped forward and picked one up before the wind could carry it too far.
"Your notes tried to escape," he said.
She looked up, startled, then smiled. "They do that."
Jason smiled back, a little sideways. "Maybe they're tired of being read."
She laughed — just once, just enough. A sound he would remember.
The boy was there again. Quiet. Still. Watching. Jason didn't mind. He wasn't here for a fight. He was just curious.
That night, he heard whispers of Andrew.
The boy's name. The quiet one. The friend.
He played piano, someone said. He walked her to class. Held her coffee when her hands were full. That kind.
Jason didn't think much of him.
Not because he disliked him — but because he recognized him. The steady ones. The kind ones. The ones who waited.
Jason never waited.
He began to find himself near Emma without meaning to. The third pew in the chapel. The east window in the library. The iron bench beneath the maple tree. Places she liked.
She noticed.
"You again," she said one afternoon.
"Me," he replied, as if it made perfect sense.
They spoke about everything and nothing. Music, mostly. He told her he liked songs that felt unfinished — ones that left you uneasy.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because they're honest," he said. "Life doesn't resolve. Why should music?"
She liked that answer.
They sat sometimes in silence. He liked how she didn't rush to fill it. He liked the way she looked at things — the sky, the stones, the flicker of candlelight — as if they might speak if she just listened hard enough.
She never said much about Andrew.
Jason didn't ask.
But one evening, he found himself in the chapel. Drawn by the sound of music. A piece played slow — elegant, restrained. It broke gently. A sadness that didn't demand pity.
He watched from the shadows.
Andrew sat at the piano, head bowed, fingers moving like breath.
When it ended, Jason stepped forward.
"You play well," he said.
Andrew looked up, just slightly. "I try."
Jason moved closer. "That piece — it doesn't resolve."
"It's not meant to."
Jason studied him. "You're the one she's always with."
Andrew didn't answer.
Jason offered a smile — not mocking, not cruel. Just honest. "You know...." he said. "...Gentle people get hurt the deepest."
Then he turned and left, leaving the last note hanging in the air.