The library smelled like dust and summer rain. Ezra sat at a table tucked between the stacks, flipping through a copy of Selected Poems of John Keats. Across from him, Kei was slouched in his chair, scribbling something in the margins of his notebook.
"I don't get this guy," Kei said, tapping the page. "Why does everyone talk about beauty like it's a cure for something?"
Ezra didn't answer right away. He liked that Kei wasn't pretending to understand. Most people faked it—smiled and nodded at whatever was on the page. Kei questioned everything.
"Because beauty makes pain feel… worth something," Ezra said softly. "It gives it shape."
Kei raised an eyebrow. "You sound like you've been hurt."
Ezra hesitated. "Haven't you?"
There was a pause.
"Every day," Kei replied. His tone was light, but his eyes weren't.
Silence stretched between them like a string pulled taut. Ezra wanted to ask more, but didn't. Instead, he slid a poem across the table—his own.
Kei read it in silence. Then he looked up.
"You wrote this?"
Ezra nodded, his throat dry.
Kei didn't say anything for a long time. Then he folded the poem and slipped it into his pocket. "It's good," he said. "Too good to waste on school."
Ezra felt something stir in his chest—fear, maybe. Or hope.