Donny Huisman lived in the quiet part of town - the kind with peeling paint, generous gardens, and windows that looked more like invitations than barriers.
His bedroom overlooked the old oak on Whisper Lane, which had a tire swing that no one used anymore. Every night, when the shadows stretched like syrup down the walls, Donny pulled up the curtain and watched for stars. He liked thinking they might watch back.
He was sixteen. Awkward in his own skin, brilliant in others' - he always knew what someone needed before they said it, but never knew what to do with the ache in his own chest.
It started with a notebook. Not his. A glittery, blue thing that belonged to someone else - he'd found it in the school courtyard, half-tucked beneath a bench. Inside were poems. Sweet ones. Gay ones. Hopeful, yearning, terrified ones. And a single name etched on the back cover in shaky ink: Christopher Rankin.
Donny didn't know Christopher well. They shared Chemistry class, and he'd seen him mouth the lyrics to Florence + The Machine in the hallway. That was enough.
Something stirred.
That night, he wrote a note: You dropped something beautiful. I hope you find it again. He folded it twice, slipped it in the notebook, and gave it to the receptionist at the front desk the next morning.
He never expected a reply.
But two days later, tucked in his locker, was a card. Just one sentence: Was it beautiful because you read it, or because you understood it?
Donny sat down in the hallway, breath caught like silk between ribs. His fingers trembled.
Something had changed. A window cracked open. He could smell rain in the distance.