The harsh, sterile glow of the fluorescent lights painted the classroom in an unnatural yellow, battling with the faint orange bleed from the streetlights filtering through the windows from the quad. Most students had long since departed, the teacher a distant memory of nearly fifteen minutes prior, but I lingered, a quiet urgency compelling me to ask Bastien to stay. My Marxism essay lay between us, a battleground for ideas, and Bastien, with his uncanny knack for editing and dissecting arguments, was my chosen ally. Unconsciously, a new desire had taken root within me, a yearning to reach higher than mediocrity, to do more than simply coast.

Bastien, a study in focused intensity, leaned over the white pages, his pen making precise, neat notes in the margins. Each strikethrough was a tiny wound that made me grimace. It felt like a public autopsy of my thoughts.

“You’ve got some great ideas,” Bastien said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room, “just need to put them in the right order.”

My gaze remained fixed on his hands, still marking the pages. I could feel my body tightening, with a silent resistance in my posture. “Do I?” The question was soft, almost a whisper, laced with an insecurity I hadn't realized was so close to the surface.

He paused, then looked up, his brow furrowed in thought. “Yeah. It’s like… if you're thinking musically, it’s half a melody. Feels like it wants to say something, but can’t quite complete the notes, you know?”

I considered his analogy, a pang of recognition stirring within me. I shrugged, my eyes still on the marked-up pages. “Most of what I write is like that.” The admission hung in the air. It was a quiet confession of my struggles to articulate the disjointed thoughts swirling in my mind.

A beat of silence stretched between us, soft and heavy, the only sound the light scratching of Bastien’s pen against the paper. The muted bustle of the building seemed to amplify the unspoken things.

“You know,” Bastien said, breaking the silence, his voice a little different now, softer, more reflective, “you’re not the only one who thought they didn’t belong here.”

I finally looked up, meeting his eyes. There was something in them; a depth, a quiet understanding, that struck me with its familiarity. So much like Dean, I thought, a ghost of a memory flickering in the back of my mind.

Bastien offered a small smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. A look of bittersweet nostalgia painted his face, offering a fleeting glimpse into his past. “I didn’t know anybody when I started. I was just the quiet kid who spent too much time tweaking plugins on GarageBand. Thought nobody’d care what I had to say.” He chuckled softly, a self-deprecating sound that seemed at odds with the quiet confidence he exuded.

A small laugh escaped me, a genuine one, surprising even myself. “That’s still you.”

Bastien grinned, a flash of his usual playful self, and nudged me gently with his foot under the table. “Fair. But I care what you have to say.”

His words, simple and direct, pulled me up short. They resonated deep within me, a gentle assault on the carefully constructed walls of my self-doubt.

I looked over at him properly then. Bastien was watching me, really watching me, his gaze unwavering, and the moment held there, suspended like breath in the cool air of the classroom. My heart knocked once, then again, a rapid flutter against my ribs. It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation, this feeling of being truly seen.

I was the first to look away, the intensity of his gaze a little too much to bear.

“I don’t even know what I’m trying to say half the time,” I mumbled, the words barely audible. I wasn't sure if I meant in my essays, or in the larger, more confusing landscape of my life.

“Well,” Bastien said, his voice a little softer now, infused with a quiet conviction, “when you figure it out… I’ll still be listening. I see you.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. A warmth, unfamiliar yet comforting, climbed up my neck, spreading through my cheeks. It was a sensation I didn't know what to do with, a complex mix of vulnerability and connection. It was familiar, somehow, in its raw honesty, and utterly new in its directness.

So instead, I looked back down onto the pages. The red ink, once a source of grimace, now seemed different. The strikethroughs and notes were no longer accusations, but guides, whispers of potential, pointing the way forward. The weight on my chest that became a constant companion had lessened, replaced by the warmth that I didn't understand, but didn't want to go away.