A week passed.
Ezra said nothing to anyone. He spent his lunches in the library and his nights staring at the ceiling, wondering why it hurt this much when nothing had ever really begun.
Then, one afternoon, Kei slipped into the seat next to him without asking.
"You mad?" he asked, eyes straight ahead.
Ezra didn't answer.
"I didn't mean it," Kei added. "What I said."
Ezra finally looked at him. "Then why did you?"
Kei sighed. "Because people talk. And when they talk, they ruin things. I didn't want them to ruin this."
"This?" Ezra echoed, more bitterly than he meant.
Kei turned, his expression unreadable. "I don't know what this is, okay? I just know I keep thinking about you. All the damn time. And when I'm not around you, I feel like I'm missing something important."
Ezra's heart beat so hard it hurt.
"I wrote another poem," he said, barely above a whisper. "It's about you."
Kei leaned closer. "Let me read it."
Ezra hesitated, then opened his notebook to a page marked with a small black heart drawn in marker.
Kei read it slowly. When he finished, he tore it out and folded it carefully.
"I'm gonna keep this," he said. "For when everything goes to hell."
Ezra looked at him. "It already has."
Then, for the first time, Kei touched his hand. Just a brush of fingers under the table. But Ezra felt it everywhere.
It was a beginning.
Even if they both knew how it would end.