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ART.
The art room was quiet, the kind of quiet that made the edges of your thoughts sharper, but not unbearable. The faint hum of the school winding down outside filtered through the tall windows, and sunlight angled in through the blinds, painting stripes across the wooden floor. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams, and Wesley found himself staring at them more than at the blank canvas in front of him.
He picked up the brush again, but the strokes felt heavy, uneven. Nothing he painted seemed right, and every line he made felt like it was betraying him somehow. His chest felt tight, a dull ache pressed into the pit of him, and he wasn't sure if it was from the anxiety he'd worked so hard to bury, or just the effort of pretending to be okay.
"Hey," a voice said from the doorway.
Wesley jumped slightly, the brush slipping from his hand and leaving a streak of dark paint across the paper. He looked up. Seth stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, the usual scowl softened by the way the light caught his sharp features.
"Uh... hi," Wesley muttered, brushing the paint from his hands onto a rag.
"You've been quiet all day," Seth said, pushing off the wall and walking closer. His boots made faint thuds on the floor, a steady rhythm that somehow grounded Wesley without him realizing it.
"Not really," Wesley said quickly, too quickly, and turned back to the canvas, hoping to make the words vanish.
Seth raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp. "Not really?" His tone held no judgment, just the way he could be frighteningly observant when he wanted. "That's... weird. You've been off."
"I'm fine," Wesley said, trying to keep his voice even, flat. It was the default, the safe answer, the answer that kept him from falling apart in front of anyone else.
Seth let out a quiet, almost sarcastic laugh. "Yeah... sure." He didn't push further yet, just stood there, the tension in his shoulders quiet but palpable. "I can see when people are lying to themselves, Wes. You're... very obvious."
Wesley's throat tightened. He hated that Seth could see through him. Most people didn't notice, didn't care, or didn't pay attention enough to catch the signs. He looked down at his hands, twisted in his lap, trying to anchor himself to something.
"Why are you even in here?" he muttered finally, the words almost defensive, almost afraid.
"I could ask you the same thing," Seth replied, moving closer and sitting down on the stool across from him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. Wesley's eyes flicked away first.
The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile. Seth seemed to understand that pressing too hard would just make Wesley pull back, maybe forever. And Wesley, in turn, didn't know if he could open up yet—not fully. But he wanted to, desperately, even if it scared him.
