Hello

The fluorescent lights of the teachers' lounge hummed with a low-frequency buzz that usually drove Ryland Grace to the brink of a sensory meltdown. Today, however, he was too busy vibrating with his own internal energy to notice. He was currently rearranging the communal fridge by expiration date, humming a tune that was vaguely reminiscent of a space-shuttle countdown.

"You're doing it again," a gravelly voice remarked from the doorway.

Ryland jumped, nearly dropping a carton of almond milk. He spun around to see Simon leaning against the doorframe. The new literature teacher looked like he hadn't slept since the mid-nineties. He wore a charcoal sweater that was slightly too large and a permanent scowl that Ryland had come to realize was just his resting face.

"Simon! Good morning! Or, well, it’s 10:15, so good mid-morning? I’m just optimizing. Did you know that forty percent of food waste in shared spaces happens because of visual clutter? It’s a tragedy, Simon. A thermodynamic tragedy!"

Simon blinked slowly. He stepped into the room, his movements deliberate and heavy, like a man who was used to walking in shackles even though his ankles were free. He headed straight for the coffee pot. "It’s a fridge, Grace. Not a space station."

"Everything is a space station if you think about it," Ryland countered, his eyes bright behind his glasses. "The Earth is just a very large, very wet spacecraft orbiting a massive fusion reactor. We’re all just crew members. Except the eighth graders. They’re more like space debris. Unpredictable and likely to cause a hull breach."

Simon let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn't been so rusty. "Space debris. Accurate. I had them for first period. We’re doing *Dante’s Inferno*. I think they took it as a DIY manual."

Ryland abandoned the fridge and bounced over to the table, sitting across from where Simon was nursing his black coffee. "Dante! Heavy stuff for thirteen-year-olds. Do they like it?"

"They like the gore," Simon said, staring into the dark liquid. "They asked if the Wood of the Suicides had wifi. I told them to shut up and read."

Ryland winced sympathetically. "You can't say 'shut up,' Simon. Remember the orientation? We have to use 'positive redirection.' Like, 'I hear your desire for connectivity, but let's focus on the eternal suffering of the damned instead!'"

Simon looked up, his dark eyes catching Ryland’s. There was a weird tension there—not the bad kind, but the kind that made Ryland feel like he was standing too close to a Van de Graaff generator. Simon’s gaze was intense, observant, and surprisingly soft for a man who looked like he’d survived a shipwreck.

"Positive redirection is bullshit," Simon muttered, though there was no real heat in it. "But you’re good at it. The kids... they actually listen to you. I walked by your room yesterday. You were yelling about tardigrades."

"Because they’re indestructible, Simon! You can boil them, freeze them, put them in a vacuum—they don't care! They’re the ultimate survivors. I think I relate to them on a spiritual level." Ryland started tapping a rhythmic beat on the table with his fingers. "Anyway, I wanted to ask—and feel free to say no, because I know you value your 'brooding alone time'—but there’s a trivia night at the pub down the street on Thursday. It’s science and literature themed. It’s like they made it for us."

Simon went very still. He didn't look away, but Ryland saw his knuckles whiten around his mug. It was the look of a man who wasn't used to being invited places.

"I don't really... go out," Simon said quietly.

"It’s just trivia," Ryland pushed, his ADHD brain already cataloging potential team names. "We’d be unstoppable. You handle the melancholy poets and the obscure Russian novelists, and I’ll handle the physics and the biology. We’d be a symbiotic relationship. Like a lichen! I’m the algae, providing the energy, and you’re the fungus, providing the structural support and the cynical outlook on life."

Simon looked at him for a long beat. "You just compared me to a fungus."

"A very essential fungus!"

A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of Simon’s mouth. It changed his entire face, softening the hard lines of his jaw. "Thursday? I’ll think about it, Grace."

"That's not a no! I'll take it as a 'highly probable'!"

***

The hallways of Westview Middle School were a breeding ground for two things: germs and gossip. By lunch period, the "highly probable" had already been processed through the adolescent rumor mill.

Ryland was in the middle of his "A" Block Science class, trying to explain the concept of inertia using a skateboard and a very nervous-looking plush toy, when he noticed a group of girls in the back row whispering and pointing at their phones.

"Maya, Leo, unless that phone is currently discovering a new element, it needs to be in your locker," Ryland said, not unkindly.

Maya, a girl whose social standing was roughly equivalent to a minor deity, looked up with a smirk. "Mr. Grace, we were just wondering... are you and Mr. Simon going to the pub on Thursday?"

Ryland paused, one foot on the skateboard. "How do you—wait, no. That’s private. And how do you even know about the trivia night?"

"My older brother works there," Leo chirped. "He said you guys are 'vibing.' Is it a date?"

The class erupted into a chorus of "Ooooohs" and "Mr. Grace has a boyfriend!"

Ryland felt his face heat up to the temperature of a red dwarf star. "It is not a date! It’s a... a professional collaboration of intellects! And 'vibing' is not a scientific term. We are friends. Colleagues. Like... like Watson and Crick! Minus the credit-stealing."

"Mr. Simon doesn't have friends," Maya pointed out, leaning forward. "He looks like he wants to fight the sun. But he smiles when you talk to him. We saw it in the hall. It was weird. Like, creepy-nice."

Ryland felt a strange tug in his chest. He wasn't great at the "romance" thing. In fact, he’d spent most of his life assuming that part of his brain was simply missing a circuit. He liked people, he liked talking, but the physical stuff always felt like a confusing chore he didn't have the manual for. But Simon... Simon was different. He was quiet in a way that made Ryland want to be loud just to see him react. He was a mystery that Ryland wanted to solve, one data point at a time.

"Back to physics!" Ryland shouted, perhaps a bit too loudly. "Inertia! An object at rest stays at rest unless acted upon by an external force! Like me, acting upon this skateboard!"

He kicked off, zoomed across the front of the room, and promptly ran into his trash can. The class roared with laughter.

***

After school, the building took on a ghostly quality. The shouting died down, replaced by the rhythmic thud of a janitor’s mop and the distant squeak of sneakers in the gym.

Ryland found himself wandering toward the English wing. He told himself he was just checking if Simon needed help with the heavy stacks of essays he’d seen him carrying, but his heart was doing a weird little pitter-patter that defied biological necessity.

He stopped outside Room 212. The door was cracked open.

Simon was at his desk, but he wasn't grading. He was staring at a small, weathered photograph he kept in his wallet. His shoulders were hunched, his posture defensive, as if he expected someone to come in and snatch the memory away.

Ryland knocked softly on the doorframe.

Simon jumped, reflexively shoving the photo back into his pocket. His eyes were sharp, guarded. For a second, Ryland saw a flash of something terrifying in them—the look of a man who had spent a long time in a very small cage.

"Grace," Simon said, his voice reaching for its usual monotone and failing. "What are you doing here?"

"I... I brought you a snack," Ryland said, holding up a slightly squashed granola bar. "Brain food. For the grading. Also, the kids are talking."

Simon sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. "I know. I caught a pair of seventh graders debating whether I was 'emo' or 'a secret assassin' during my lecture on the Odyssey."

"They think we're dating," Ryland blurted out.

The silence that followed was heavy. Simon didn't scoff. He didn't laugh. He just looked at Ryland with an expression that was painfully unreadable.

"Does that bother you?" Simon asked. His voice was very low.

"No!" Ryland said quickly. "I mean—not the idea of it. I'm not... I'm not very good at that stuff. Relationships. I tend to talk too much and forget that other people have feelings that aren't related to the Hubble Constant. I’m told I’m 'a lot' to deal with."

Simon stood up. He walked around his desk, stopping just a few feet away from Ryland. Up close, he smelled like old paper and cheap coffee and something cold, like winter air.

"I've spent a lot of time in places where 'a lot' was exactly what I needed," Simon said. He reached out, his hand hovering near Ryland’s sleeve before he pulled it back. "I’m a convict, Ryland. Or I was. I’ve done things... I’ve been in places you can’t imagine."

Ryland didn't flinch. He just tilted his head. "Did you hurt someone who didn't deserve it?"

Simon paused. "No."

"Then I don't care," Ryland said firmly. "The past is just a lower-entropy state. We’re moving forward. That’s how time works. Second law of thermodynamics, Simon. You can't go back to the way things were, but you can build something new with the energy you have left."

Simon looked at him as if Ryland were the most confusing, brilliant thing he’d ever seen. "You're a strange man, Ryland Grace."

"I prefer 'eclectic,'" Ryland grinned. "So. Thursday? Trivia? I promise not to make too many lichen jokes."

Simon reached out again, and this time, he didn't pull away. He brushed a stray piece of chalk dust off Ryland’s shoulder. The touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a jolt of electricity through Ryland that made his ADHD brain go completely, blissfully silent for three whole seconds.

"Thursday," Simon agreed. "But if you bring up the tardigrades again, I'm leaving you with the bill."

"Deal!" Ryland beamed, already planning their winning strategy.

As Ryland turned to leave, Simon watched him go. For the first time in years, the literature teacher didn't feel like he was waiting for a cell door to lock. He felt like he was waiting for the stars to come out.

Down the hall, hidden behind a locker, Maya and Leo exchanged a high-five.

"Total vibing," Leo whispered.

"Totally," Maya agreed, snapping a blurry photo of the two teachers standing in the doorway. "The ship has officially launched."