I walked with Stiles inside the classroom, my heart heavy with the tension that lay between him and Scott. It had been two days since the incident, the one that had turned our small world upside down. The classroom buzzed around us, a stark contrast to the tumult swirling in my mind. Above the din, I could feel Scott’s eyes on us, searching for a connection that had gone cold. Stiles caught the look but couldn’t hold it; he quickly glanced away, as if Scott's gaze burned.
“You still not talking to me?” Scott's voice was a mixture of hope and frustration, stretching the silence into an uncomfortable thinness.
Stiles ignored him, sliding into the seat behind Scott. I followed and took my usual spot beside him. I could feel the invisible line drawn between them, palpable and thick. It made my chest ache.
“Can you at least tell me if your dad is okay? It was just a bruise, right? Soft tissue damage?” Scott pressed, his voice rising above the settling noise of the classroom.
Stiles gave no answer, his focus on the chorus of shuffling papers and murmurs around us. I glanced sideways at him, concern pooling in my stomach. Did he really believe silence was the solution?
“You know I feel really bad about it?” I tried again, my voice lower, softer.
Still, Stiles remained locked in his silence. I tapped my pen nervously against my notebook, feeling increasingly helpless.
“Okay, what if I told you that I’m trying to figure this out? And that I went to Derek for help?” Scott pushed again.
Stiles finally turned slightly, frustration flickering across his face. “If I was talking to Scott, Nyx, I’d tell him that he is an idiot for trusting him. But obviously, I’m not talking to him. Please tell him that.”
“I'm not going to say it again; you heard him,” I replied, anxiety threading its way through my words.
The teacher entered, grounding us as the room settled for the beginning of class. Stiles opened his notebook, his pen poised but not moving, a silent protest in the face of a world that demanded his participation. I couldn't stand the air thick with unspoken words and hurt. As the lecture droned on, I caught Stiles staring out the window, his thoughts a million miles away.
Then, unable to bear it any longer, he whipped his head around to face me. “What did he say?”
His eyes were desperate, searching for a lifeline. I knew the hurt between them was deep, but I also knew that Stiles needed to break this cycle of silence, even if it was only to direct that anger at Scott.
“I’m going to tell you all after class in the library,” Scott whispered, trying to keep the conversation between us.
Stiles nodded, a flicker of understanding passing between us. I wanted to reach out, to reassure him that I was there, but the weight of Scott’s unresolved guilt loomed large, a ghost anchored to the past.
As the class wore on, I found myself lost in thought, pondering how to mend the rift between these two stubborn boys. The library, a sanctuary of knowledge and solitude, could also be a safe space for healing if they were willing to take the first step.
....
We sat inside the library during lunch, a dimly lit refuge from the social chaos of the cafeteria. The air smelled of old books and stale sandwiches, a scent I had grown to love. Scott leaned forward, intensity radiating from him. “Derek wants me to tap into my animal side. Get angry. But correct me if I’m wrong, every time I do that, I try to kill someone. That someone usually being you,” he said, shooting a pointed glance at Stiles.
