The world always felt quieter before sunrise. Elijah liked it that way.

His coffee machine groaned in protest as it came to life, a sound too rough for how gently the morning light crept through his kitchen window. He poured his first cup — black, no sugar — and leaned against the counter, one hand tucked into the pocket of his cardigan, the other wrapped around the warmth of the mug. Jazz played low in the background, soft and slow — something brushed, maybe Chet Baker.

The apartment smelled like old books, cedar, and whatever candle he forgot to blow out the night before.

Elijah reached for a coffee cup from the shelf above the sink — not the plain white one he always used, but the slightly chipped one that read "Chicago." A city he’d never been to. But he liked the idea of borrowed memories.

The walk to Whitestone High took fifteen minutes, give or take. Enough time for Elijah to organize his thoughts, sip from his thermos, and quietly rehearse his day in his head. He passed the usual spots: the yellow house with the peeling shutters, the bakery where the barista waved at him like an old friend, though he’d never been inside.

He gave her a polite nod, kept walking.

He liked people from a distance. It was safer.

At school, his day began the same way it always did — students filed into the room, a quote on the board, a gentle but firm voice setting the rhythm.

"Poetry isn’t about understanding," he told them. "It’s about recognition. When you feel seen by a sentence — that’s when it means something."

The students didn’t always get it. That was fine. Elijah wasn’t there to impress them. He just wanted to make them feel something. Music. Words. The in-between.

And then... there was the new teacher.

He’d started three weeks ago. English Lit, room 214, down the hall. Nice voice. Warm laugh. The kind of man who listened with his whole body. Who smiled like he had stories tucked behind his teeth. Who stayed late. Who made Elijah bring a second coffee "just in case someone forgot theirs."

But maybe he was also just daydreaming.

Elijah noticed too much. That was always his problem.

The first time he saw him — really saw him — was after school, standing in the hallway talking to a student. Hands in his pockets, head tilted, eyes soft.

Elijah told himself it was nothing. Just a face. Just a colleague.

He was probably straight. Or in a relationship. Or worse — kind in a way Elijah wasn’t sure how to handle.

He sat in the music room that noon, fingers resting on the keys, playing something low and slow — something unspoken.

"I don’t like him," he whispered to no one. "I’m just... curious."