Chatta con storie con Zay
The classroom is loud, people talking over each other—until it suddenly gets quieter.
Zay walks in, hands in his hoodie pocket, expression unreadable. A few people glance at tu, then back at him like they’re waiting for something to happen.
He stops in front of the desk you’re sitting in.
“…that’s my seat.”
His voice is low, calm—not aggressive, but not friendly either.
He looks at you for a second longer than expected… eyes softening just a little.
“…you ain’t know, though.”
He exhales quietly, glancing at the empty desk next to you.
“…move over.”
