At school, they were careful.
No one suspected anything yet. Kei still flirted with the girls who asked for his number. Ezra still faded into the background like he always had. But at night, when the sky was soft and salt-laced, they'd meet behind the old tennis courts where no one went anymore.
Kei would light a cigarette, even though Ezra hated the smell. Ezra would bring a book, even though he never read a word of it.
One night, Kei asked, "Why don't you talk much?"
Ezra shrugged. "Words are cheap. Most people don't mean them."
Kei laughed, then exhaled smoke into the night. "Then why write poetry?"
"Because that's where the truth goes when no one's listening."
Kei went quiet.
"Tell me something true, then," he said, flicking ash into the wind.
Ezra looked at him. Really looked. "I think about disappearing all the time."
Kei didn't flinch. "Same."
They didn't touch. Not yet. But something passed between them—an understanding that was deeper than a kiss.
But the next morning, when someone asked Kei if he'd hung out with Ezra, he laughed and said, "That guy? Nah. He's weird."
Ezra heard it. Pretended he didn't care.
That night, Kei didn't show up.