The classroom felt unusually quiet that morning.
Not silent — never silent — but filled with the low background noise of students pretending to care about the lesson.
Pages turning.
Pens scratching on paper.
The distant hum of the teacher explaining something about history that nobody would remember tomorrow.
In the last row, near the window, *** sat alone.
His chair leaned slightly back against the wall.
One arm rested on the desk, fingers loosely holding a pen that hadn't moved for several minutes.
Outside the window clouds moved slowly across a pale sky.
*** wasn't listening to the teacher.
He wasn't even pretending to.
His eyes stayed fixed on nothing in particular.
Thoughts moved through his mind the way fog moves through empty streets.
Heavy.
Quiet.
Slow.
At some point the chair next to him moved.
The sound was small but noticeable.
*** didn't look.
He already knew who it was.
Ozamar dropped into the seat beside him with the casual energy of someone who had decided this was his spot now.
He leaned back slightly and stretched his arms.
Then he glanced sideways.
"Yo."
*** blinked once but kept looking forward.
"…Hi."
Ozamar studied him for a moment.
"Your face looks like you just saw the end credits of life."
*** didn't react.
Ozamar leaned his chin into his hand.
"How's it going?"
The question hung in the air.
*** opened his mouth slightly.
For a brief moment, the words inside his head were clear.
I want to kill myself.
The sentence rose to the surface of his thoughts with terrifying calm.
But before it could reach his lips—
Another voice appeared.
Soft.
Familiar.
Don't cry for me.
*** froze.
His eyes widened slightly.
The words echoed somewhere deep in his memory.
Then his face twisted into a strange expression.
Half confusion.
Half interruption.
"…Good."
Ozamar blinked.
"Good?"
*** nodded once.
"Yeah."
But the word sounded slightly wrong even to him.
Ozamar tilted his head.
"You look like someone just unplugged your brain for two seconds."
*** stared at the desk.
"…Maybe."
Ozamar didn't look convinced.
He leaned closer slightly.
"Why are you like this?"
The question wasn't aggressive.
Just curious.
*** hesitated.
Then he spoke quietly.
"He changed everything."
Ozamar raised an eyebrow.
"…Who?"
*** kept looking forward.
"My view of love."
His voice was calm, but the words carried weight.
Ozamar watched him carefully now.
*** continued slowly.
"Everything about it."
Then suddenly he stopped speaking.
His eyes lifted.
And for the first time in that conversation he looked directly at Ozamar.
Their eyes met.
Brown.
Clear.
Alive.
*** studied them for a moment.
"…Even for Chri."
The name came out quietly.
Ozamar frowned slightly.
"Who's—"
"It's still strange."
*** interrupted softly.
His gaze stayed on Ozamar for a few seconds longer before drifting back toward the desk.
Ozamar opened his mouth to speak.
But *** had already disappeared into his thoughts again.
Inside his head the familiar voice returned.
You're pathetic.
The words didn't belong to anyone in the room.
They belonged to him.
You ruin everything.
His fingers tightened slightly around the pen.
If you disappeared the world would just keep going.
The thought felt painfully logical.
Maybe it would even be better.
The classroom noise faded slightly.
The teacher's voice became distant.
Like hearing someone speak from another room.
*** stared at the surface of the desk.
If I was already dead…
The thought drifted through him quietly.
Things would be easier.
Suddenly a voice cut through the fog.
"***."
Ozamar's voice.
Clear.
Direct.
*** didn't react immediately.
Inside his mind the thoughts continued.
You're already half gone anyway.
"***."
Ozamar said the name again, slightly firmer.
The sound pulled him upward like someone grabbing his shoulder underwater.
His eyes blinked.
The classroom returned slowly.
Students.
Teacher.
Sunlight through the window.
And Ozamar sitting beside him.
"Hey."
Ozamar leaned forward slightly.
"You're drifting again."
*** took a slow breath.
For a moment his mind tried to decide something.
Then he spoke.
"Cri."
Ozamar blinked.
"…What?"
*** looked at him.
"My name."
He said it quietly but clearly.
"It's Cri."
Ozamar studied his face for a moment.
Then nodded.
"…Alright."
He didn't question it further.
But his voice softened slightly when he spoke again.
"Cri."
The name felt different in the air.
More real.
Ozamar leaned back in his chair.
Then looked at the desk for a second before speaking.
"You know something?"
Cri didn't respond.
Ozamar continued anyway.
"I know what it feels like."
Cri glanced at him.
"To be alone," Ozamar clarified.
"It doesn't fix anything."
His voice was quieter now.
"But it also doesn't help."
He tapped the desk lightly with his finger.
"It just drags you deeper."
Cri watched him.
Ozamar didn't smile this time.
"It's like drowning," he said.
"You think going deeper will make it quieter."
He shrugged slightly.
"But it just gets darker."
The classroom noise continued around them.
But for a moment it felt like the conversation existed in its own space.
Cri didn't say anything.
He simply looked at Ozamar.
And Ozamar looked back.
The chapter ends there.
With Cri staring into Ozamar's eyes.