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The air is thick with silence in the class, and while the teacher up at the front fools himself into thinking he’s the reason, he’s not. There are mumbles and whispers that slice through as usual, but quieter, and Jules has yet to even murmur a syllable.

This beautiful hush is murdered though, as the minutes waste away and the suspense begins to fade, it doesn’t take long for the class to return to usual. Jules follows with the trend and soon he’s talking again too. Mr. Obo sighs as he, once again, feebly tries to shush the students in front of him. Everything’s been forgotten.

The words have been wiped clean from the black board, now replaced with useless scrawl that Wyatt couldn’t care less about, but they’ve burned into his mind. And as the class slowly drones on at a deathly pace, it’s all he can think about, along with the many curses floating behind his teeth.

Someone knows, someone is this class, someone right in front of him fucking knows.

All he really wants is to get out of that class. His senses are screaming at him to form some sort of escape. How could someone know?

Jules still remains talking about… something Wyatt can’t be bothered about. Judging by how his eyebrows are pulled together and the irritation written across his face, he’s probably going off about something that only he cares about again. Sometimes, Wyatt feels like he’s dealing with a ten year old who’s just learning how to asses their emotions.

But more importantly, is it self-centered of him to assume that those words are directed to him? Maybe, and that little part of his mind is persistently trying to convince him of this, but it’s useless. It could all be a joke, simply trying to get a rise out of the class, and yet this paranoia has completely consumed him.

“She broke into my house!”

It has to be towards him, just the way that it glared at him from the board. Why else would someone write that? Someone in this class, too. Who could it be, maybe Victor? He seems like that type, Jules complains about him enough. But what exactly are they implying?

“And she was in my room!”

It couldn’t be… no, no one knows about that. Not a soul could even guess about that, of course that isn’t it.

“And she was on my bed!”

Wyatt’s sure now, he knows what the anonymous person knows about him, it has to be it. The face that haunts him, the blood that will forever stain his hands, the name always itching in the back of his throat, they know. The night so dark and the knot in his throat, heart beat pounding in his ears, September twenty-third.

Only his breathing though, alone, and the musky scent of damp concrete. He remembers so well, the entire thing so vividly, and someone else does too, apparently.

“And she fucking kissed me!”

Tearing from his thoughts, he grants Jules a glance. The blond’s completely unfazed by the foreboding message that had been written so boldly in chalk, and continues to ramble about something that happened involving a kiss. As if that’s the only seemingly important matter at hand, no other thing in the entire world could surpass it in magnitude, apparently like everything else that runs through Jules’ mind.

“Olimpia?” Wyatt clarifies.

Jules rolls his eyes. “Yes Olimpia, where the hell are you?

“Sorry, continue with your fascinating tale.” The sarcasm drips from his words, and a slight smirk curls on his lips as Jules glares his way.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it your time of the month again, like it is every other day?” Jules is smug.

Wyatt punches him in the arm, not as hard as he’d like but the boy still rubs his arm and complains anyway, rambling on about PMS.

For a moment, Wyatt wonders to himself, could it be him? Could Jules be the one that knows? He could have followed him that night, he could have found out somehow. Maybe it is him, maybe the entire innocent façade is just that, a fake.

Another look and he chuckles to himself, of course it’s not Jules. That would force him to be concerned with something other than himself.

And he’s left wondering who could be the one that wrote it, and why would someone all of a sudden become so threatening. Why wouldn’t that person bring it up before, months ago when everything had happened?

Wyatt decides that he’s simply working himself up over nothing, that he’s just being paranoid. Everything’s over with, no one even gives it another thought, all has been forgotten. It’s just a prank, or if anything it’s towards someone else. No one can possibly know.

Yet, throughout the entire day, he’s still trying to convince himself. Even after the bell signalling the end of the day has rung and everyone is busying themselves with plans and homework and all the other things that people worry about on a Monday, it's in the back of his mind.

He sits on the bench outside the front of the school, for reasons unbeknownst to him. He knows that he has to get home soon, and walk too, but he doesn’t want to move from his spot. Actually, Wyatt doesn’t want to move ever as he watches a sparrow fly across the sky.

It’s all in his mind, no one even remembers the kid.

“Hey Wyatt, what’s up?” Olimpia materializes beside him, catching him off guard as she slides down beside him on the bench, causing him to jump slightly. She bumps into his side and her face is pulled into a smile, why he doesn’t know.

A moment passes by and nothing is said. He doesn’t know what to say. He wonders what she could possible have to say, considering never had she even acknowledged him before. He raises a brow.

“Um, nothing?” he guesses.

For some reason he hopes that it's the right answer.

She laughs, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Sounds fun,” she says, but then her voice falters and her fingers fall. Sweeping between them is an unmistakable awkward tension.

Neither knows what to say, or if anything needs to be said, and so no one says anything for a while. Olimpia fidgets in her spot, picking at her nails covered in pink polish and Wyatt takes another swing from his water bottle.

“Whatcha drinking there?” she asks, as if she’s interested, but is clearly trying to force words from her mouth.

Wyatt glances at her, confused. “Um… water?” As if the clear bottle and the label wrapped around wasn’t a dead giveaway.

“So I guess you like water, me too.”

He's started to question her entire intelligence at this point. Really, the conversation between them is like a dead horse she keeps kicking, relentlessly. He doesn’t even attempt to understand her reasoning on why she's so insistent on talking to him. Usually people give up after his dead company is realized.

“I’m pretty sure everyone likes water.”

He can’t ever recall anyone not liking water, considering it’s tasteless, and no taste at all can’t be a bad taste. Unless Jules’ talking, and he has a problem with Aquafina water for some reason, but really he doesn’t count.

“I’m more of a milk person,” she tells him, finally glancing up from her nails. Only half of her hand is painted, and the rest Wyatt assumes has been chipped off throughout the day. He wonders why she’d even paint them if she’s going to peel them off. But he also wonders why she’s forcing small talk between them, and simply decides that she’s as Jules has been trying to convince him: immensely odd.

He can’t understand people.

“I’m lactose intolerant,” he mumbles, staring into the crowd near another bench not too far off. They’re all girls, and they’re all giggling about something.

He doesn’t understand giggling girls even more.

“I don’t like it either, that milk has such a temper.”

His face is blank.

“What?”

A nervous laugh sounds. It’s almost cringe-worthy the amount of awkward compiled into one chuckle.

“Intolerant, like you can’t tolerate it, because it has a temper?” she tries to explain, the smile spreading across her face anxious.

“Oh,” he says, but it doesn’t really say much at all.

Then without another word, she’s gone. Olimpia collects her bag and brushes off her shorts, he notices only the left leg is rolled up, and beams at him in goodbye before she’s off. He’s left wondering what has just happened, and if he should give it another thought or not.

Weirdly enough, that’s the first conversation Wyatt has ever had with Olimpia. And for some odd, unfathomable reason, he feels like it won’t be the last.

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Wyatt sighs as he forces the key into the lock, desperately trying to ignore the faint smell of curry from his next door neighbours. Their strange foods always leave some sort of stench in the hallway, something for him to look forward to coming home to. He’s almost sure by now that his lungs could rivals those of an Olympian’s, but even just thinking about it caused him to frown.

He hates curry.

A lady opens the door five feet away and peeks outside, smiling slightly to him. He nods back, pushing open the door and taking a deep breath.

As he steps inside to his humble abode- or crappy ass apartment if he’s being honest, all his muscles unwind. A smile inches on his face as he listens in closely, and finds nothing. There isn’t even an echo of noise, only perfect, undisturbed quiet residing inside. This is the only place where peace is always waiting to greet him, the only place he can relax.

Finally, he’s home.

There’s clothing strewn about, dust layers everything in sight and he’s pretty sure that the bagel on the counter has been there since last week, but its home nonetheless. It’s not much, pretty cramped actually, but it’s all that he can afford, and the only place that’ll allow a seventeen year old to live by himself.

This means he doesn’t complain that much when the water shoots cold and the lights flicker to a dead. Or at least, not out loud anyways. It’s a lot better than most other apartments in this part of town.

His bag drops onto the floor and he doesn’t even want to think of the homework stuffed inside. Wyatt knows he’ll have to get down to it soon, after work most likely, or at least try. Being a kid of his status, it’s a necessity to keep his grades up so he could keep going to the school. He sighs at the thought, falling onto the navy blue couch.

Wyatt knows that work is only an hour away, and it takes around fifteen minutes to walk there. Unlike most everyone else that attends Riverview High, Wyatt actually has a job, one that he has to entertain most days of the week, much to Jules’ dismay. If it were up to him, he’d spend all his days lounging on this couch and eating minute rice, but it isn’t.

He’s supposed to be living with his cousin, Mason, and he is, technically. The boy sends him money each month which covers most of the rent, thankfully, and it’s under his name, but he never comes by anymore. He used to, a lot, but then embarked on some self-discovery bullshit journey in Australia or… Europe or some shit like that.

He hasn’t dropped by in months, November if Wyatt can remember, and only a couple postcards here and there plus the monthly check reassure Wyatt that he’s still alive.

Still, it’s never quite enough, and food is actually quite important in daily living. Thus, the need for a job, which time spent in dissolves into cash. It’s also pretty helpful working at Angie’s Diner as a chef, learning how to prepare decent meals and not catch his entire house on fire.

Jules offers, almost weekly, plenty of cash to cover his costs and more, but he always declines, not as politely as the count goes up. It sounds appealing, in fact more than once he’s really considered accepting the money, but he never does.

It could be his pride, but he'll never give into Jules.

There’s always one thing that always perks him up, though, no matter how rough the day. And his gaze slides across the television screen; he picks himself up from the couch and smiles a little. Someone, actually, would be a little more appropriate.

Yes, while he holds a distinct distaste for most all breathing creatures, Zoboomafoo will always have that place in his small, incredibly selective heart.

That being his pet hamster, of course, and not the lemur, who he’s named after being Wyatt’s favourite show as a kid.

He’s not even sure why he bought the thing, seeing it one day when he passed a pet store around the time when he first moved in. Among five other little hamsters, he chose him, and then brought him home almost as if he were on auto pilot. He was just drawn to the little guy, why he has no clue, but he did. And now he rests beside his TV in its small little cage with its small little wheel and small little house-thing.

It’s the only presence he actually enjoys, really.

With careful hands he picks it up, its tiny little paws pressing into his palm as he brings it out from the metal bars. And it stares at him with beady black eyes, but they calm him, in a weird sort of way.

“Hey there little guy,” he murmurs quietly.

But then they don’t at all, because they’re that immense black that belonged to Kyle Sanders.

Kyle Sanders, the boy murdered on September twenty-third, multiple head wounds and severe contusions on the arms and stomach, behind the Dominoes Pizza on Queens.

They know.