He leaves school early

The morning dragged. Maths was a blur of numbers he didn't care about. English was a discussion he couldn't follow. Psychology was usually his favorite — the one class where he actually paid attention — but today he just stared at the whiteboard while Mr. Ellison talked about cognitive dissonance, the discomfort of holding two conflicting beliefs at once. Lorenzo almost laughed. Almost.

By the time the lunch bell rang, he'd made up his mind.

He didn't go to the cafeteria. He didn't meet his friends. He walked straight out the front gates, past the groups of students milling around, and kept walking until the school was behind him. His phone buzzed twice — messages from friends asking where he was — and he ignored both. He didn't know what he would say. He didn't know how to explain that he needed to be alone.

He walked home.

The house was empty. Of course it was — both his parents were at work. He let himself in with his keys and closed the door behind him, and the silence was immediate. No hum of the fridge, no ticking clock, no distant traffic. Just quiet.

He went upstairs and dropped his rucksack by his bedroom door. He didn't change out of his uniform. He didn't sit down. He just stood in the middle of his room for a moment, listening to the emptiness, and then he reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out the pack of Marlboro Golds.

He took one out.

He held it between his fingers the way he'd seen his mother hold it a thousand times. The way he'd held it in the alley. Index and middle finger, a small, deliberate gesture. Then he reached into the other pocket and pulled out the lighter — the one the homeless man had given him. The token of gratitude. He clicked it once, twice, and on the third try the flame caught.

He lit the cigarette.

He walked to the window and opened it, letting the cool air in. He leaned against the frame and took a drag, and this time his body didn't fight him. The smoke went down smooth and warm, filling his lungs. He held it there for a moment, then let it out, watching it curl into the grey afternoon.

He smoked the whole thing slowly, staring at the street below. The world went on — people walking, cars passing, a dog barking somewhere in the distance — and none of them knew he was standing there, an eighteen-year-old boy in his school uniform, smoking alone in his bedroom.

When the cigarette was done, he dropped it into an old mug on his windowsill and closed the window. He could smell it on his fingers. On his breath. It would linger for hours.

He sat down on his bed and looked at the pack in his hand. Four cigarettes gone now. He had three left.

He put them back in his blazer pocket.

Then he pulled the boy shorts out from under his pillow and held them in his lap. Soft. Light. His.

He sat there for a long time, holding them, staring at the wall.

At some point, he realized he was going to be late getting back to school. And he didn't care.