There's a spot under the main staircase - back behind the science wing, where the cameras don't reach and the smell of floor polish fades. The janitors forget it. The teachers never pass through. It's too small for a crowd, too dim for a meeting spot.
But it's ours.
We started coming here three months ago, after Luca found me skipping lunch behind the art room. I thought he'd rat me out or offer pity. But he just sat next to me, pulled out his sketchbook, and said nothing.
He's been showing up ever since. Always around the same time - after third period, before lunch. Always with that same navy school blazer over his shoulders, tie loosened just enough to annoy the prefects.
Today, I beat him there.
I tuck my legs beneath me, curling into the wall. My skirt bunches at my knees, and I twist one of my curls around my finger while I wait. I didn't bother reapplying lip gloss today. Or brushing my edges. I just... didn't have the energy.
He finds me anyway.
"Hey," Luca says gently, ducking under the stairs with practiced ease. He doesn't tower over me - he just folds his long body down beside mine, like he belongs in small, quiet places.
He doesn't ask why my eyes are red.
He doesn't ask why I haven't spoken yet.
He just sits.
And stays.
---
This morning was a disaster. I woke up early because Bear had nightmares again. He crawled into my bed just after five, clutching his stuffed lion and whispering that the sky fell in his dream.
So I held him. Braided his hair. Packed Auggie's lunch with extra crackers because he always trades his fruit.
By the time I got dressed for school, I was already unraveling.
I wore my least-wrinkled shirt. The one that fits tighter across my chest now. The skirt Mom says is "borderline inappropriate" even though it meets the code. When I walked into the kitchen, she barely looked up.
"You eating today?" she asked, eyes on the newspaper. "Or is air still enough for you?"
I ignored her.
"You know, that boy you're always hiding with - he won't want you once your ribs start showing."
I dropped my spoon. It clattered against the sink like a gunshot. Bear looked up. Auggie frowned.
I didn't reply. I didn't have to. She already knew she got to me.
---
Under the stairs, Luca nudges my knee with his. Barely a touch. Just enough to say I'm here.
I press my cheek against the wall, eyes closed. "I fought with my mom again."
He doesn't move. Doesn't sigh. Doesn't offer a solution like most people do when you say something broken.
He just asks, "Want to talk about it?"
"No."
He nods. "Okay."
That's it. That's the whole exchange. And somehow, it makes the tight feeling in my chest loosen, even just a little.
He pulls out his sketchbook after a while and starts to draw. Not me - I don't think. Maybe a tree. Or bones. Or some impossible structure only his mind understands.
"Why do you keep coming here?" I ask.
"Because it's the only part of my day that doesn't feel fake," he says without looking up.
That makes me go still.
"Everything else is so... curated," he continues. "Family dinners with linen napkins. Mock trial. College reps asking about med school. It's like I'm already someone's ghost. But here..." He looks up at me. "Here, I can breathe."
I don't know what to say to that. So I just nod. And I think, maybe, I can breathe here too.
Luca shifts closer. His shoulder almost brushes mine. We sit in silence for a few minutes until I speak again.
"My mom thinks I'm wasting my time with you."
He pauses mid-sketch. "Because I'm white?"
"Because you're everything I'm not supposed to trust," I say honestly. "Old money. Perfect grades. Clean family name. No baggage."
"That's not true," he says.
"You don't have Bear and Auggie to raise. You don't have to soften your voice for authority figures or translate your existence to people who think you're a 'credit to your kind.' You don't..."
My voice breaks.
He doesn't interrupt. Just lets it hang there.
"Some days I want to open up," I whisper. "But I've learned that people always ask too much. Press too hard. Dig until there's nothing left."
Luca closes his sketchbook slowly and sets it aside. "Then I won't ask."
I blink. "What?"
"I won't ask. I'll just stay. And when you're ready... you talk. Or don't. Either way, I'll still be here under the stairs."
My throat tightens again, but for once it's not from holding back. It's from something else - something slow and warm and terrifying.
Trust.
He hands me something before we leave - a folded piece of paper. I open it later in the girl's bathroom between classes. It's a sketch. Of me.
But not how I looked today. Not puffy-eyed and hunched.
He drew me smiling. Laughing.
Alive.
I don't remember ever looking like that.