By Monday, they were gods on a collapsing temple.
Someone saw them at the beach. Just a glance. Enough.
It started small—snickers in the hallway, the occasional sideways glance. But then someone slipped a drawing into Ezra's locker. Two stick figures holding hands. A knife drawn through both.
He didn't show it to Kei.
They met less often now. Ezra's father had begun watching him more closely. His phone was taken. The window was locked.
In class, Kei acted like nothing had changed. He laughed too loudly, flirted with the same girl who always chewed her gum too slowly. But Ezra saw it—how his hands shook when no one was watching. How he stopped turning in assignments. How he left class early and came back smelling faintly of liquor.
One afternoon, Ms. Nakamura asked Ezra to stay behind.
"You're not writing anymore," she said. "Not even in your margins."
Ezra stared at the floor. "What's the point?"
"Because even if no one listens now, someone might later."
He looked up. Her voice was gentle, but her eyes were sharp. "If you ever need to talk," she said, "my door's always open."
Ezra nodded, though he knew he never would.
Some wounds weren't meant to be shown.