Chapter Text
You sat near the window. The third row from the front. The seat was unofficially yours—not because you claimed it, but because no one else ever tried. You were quiet. Reserved. Not shy exactly, but the kind of quiet that made people think twice before bothering you. Not because you scared them, but because you just didn’t seem worth the effort.
He was the opposite. John Lennon. Leather-coated, cigarette-scented, all swagger and sharp tongue. He was loud, magnetic, rebellious, impossible to ignore.
His character stood out. Always sauntering in late, always saying something filthy just loud enough for the girls to giggle or for the teacher to groan, countless write-ups that landed him in detention.
You weren’t friends. Barely even acquaintances. But for some reason, he always noticed you.
And not kindly.
Something about the way he looked at you, thinking you wouldn’t notice.
“Oi,” he called as you passed him in the corridor, nose tucked in your book. “Readin’ all that for fun, or you just thick?”
You didn’t answer. You never did. Why bother entertaining it when he does it just to get a reaction? an eye roll was enough.
But you felt the way his words clung to your skin long after you’d disappeared into your next lesson. You hated how aware of him you were.
The following week, in art class, fate—or cruelty—decided to seat him next to you. He slouched into the chair, spread his legs obscenely wide, and eyed your neat charcoal drawing like it had personally offended him.
"Didn't peg you for someone who could draw," he muttered. "What else’re you hiding, eh?"
You didn’t flinch, just kept sketching, heart thudding. Because something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. And not in a bad way.
The classroom was quiet, just the scratching of pencils on paper and the occasional cough echoing off the cold walls. Outside, rain tapped the windows, soft and persistent. The teacher had left briefly. Something about the kiln in the back room. For a few minutes, the world shrank to just you, your sketchbook, and unfortunately, John Lennon, breathing too loudly beside you.
He was watching you again. You could feel it—like a weight on your shoulder. Not subtle, not polite. Just staring.
You pretended not to notice, shading the curve of a jaw on your paper, but his voice broke the silence.
“That me?”
You blinked. Your pencil stopped mid-stroke.
“What?”
His eyes widened, probably surprised you even answered him. He jerked his chin toward your drawing. “That bloke there. He’s got my nose.” Then he smirked. “‘Course, not nearly as handsome.”
You stared down at your sketch. It wasn’t him. Not exactly. But maybe the lines had drifted—just a little—into something familiar. The tilt of the brow, the sharpness of the mouth.
You hadn’t meant to. He wasn’t supposed to notice.
Your cheeks burned. “No. It’s no one.”
“Sure,” he drawled, voice thick with amusement. “No one with a quiff like that and a gob full of attitude.”
You closed your sketchbook.
But he didn’t stop. He leaned in slightly, elbows on the table, eyes narrowed like he was studying you instead. “Y’know, I always thought you hated me.”
“I don’t think about you at all,” you replied, and it was mostly true.
But then his grin widened like he saw right through you. Like he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Like he knew you’d heard every stupid joke he’d ever cracked across the classroom, even the ones that weren’t about you.
“Hm.” He tilted his head. “Well I think about you.”
You looked up. That stopped you. Something about the way he said it—low, not teasing this time—sent something tight spiraling through your chest. His expression wasn’t mocking now. Just… curious. Like you were a puzzle he suddenly wanted to solve.
You tried to break the moment. “You’re probably just bored.”
He laughed, a quick, surprised sound. “Maybe. But I’ve sat next to plenty of boring birds. You’re… different.”
You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t trust your voice.
Then the teacher’s footsteps echoed back into the room, and just like that, the moment broke. John leaned back, all cool detachment again, drumming his fingers on the desk like nothing had happened.
But it had.
And when he bumped his knee against yours—subtle, like maybe it was an accident—you didn’t move away.
It had been two days since the art room moment. Two days since he looked at you like you weren’t just a ghost in his peripheral. Since he leaned in too close and said something real—something that’s been chewing at the edge of your thoughts ever since.
But that didn’t matter right now. What mattered was the B.
A B.
On your literature essay. You sat in the back corner of the library with the marked paper clutched in your hand like it might change if you stared hard enough. Red ink bled through the margin:
“Great insight, but underdeveloped argument in final paragraph.”
You knew what that meant. You’d rushed. You’d run out of time. You’d let it slip.
And you don’t let things slip.
It wasn’t the end of the world. Not to anyone else. But for you, it felt like one more crack in the foundation. Like everything you were holding together—your quiet, clean little world—was finally starting to sag under the weight.
You blinked hard. You didn’t cry. You didn’t do that. But your hands were shaking just slightly, and your jaw ached from how hard you were clenching it. Eyes still scanning the paper, glistening.
You didn’t hear him come in. Of course you didn’t.
“Christ,” came the voice. “Did someone die?”
You flinched.
He was leaning against the bookshelf near your table, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other fiddling with a chewed-up pencil like he’d meant to come in and then gotten distracted by you.
“What do you want?” you asked, trying to sound cold. Instead, your voice came out small.
John tilted his head. “Nothin’. Just looked like you were about to bite through your lip.”
You didn’t answer. You stared down at the essay, hoping he’d get bored and sod off.
But he didn’t. He slid into the chair across from you without asking.
He took the paper from your hands, eyes scanned the paper. You were too bummed out to even say anything about it. “A B?” He snorted.
“You’re seriously havin’ a meltdown over a B?”
Your throat tightened. “It’s not about the grade.”
“Bullshit,” he said, grinning. “You’re actin’ like you failed.”
You snatched the essay back, folding it in half.
“Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands like you were a feral cat about to bolt. “Didn’t mean to make fun.”
Silence. You tried to focus on your breathing, but it wasn’t working.
He looked at you again, and his voice dropped. Softer this time.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m not takin’ the piss, alright? Just… I dunno. Didn’t expect you to care this much. Thought you were one of those who just… gets it. Easy.”
You looked at him for the first time. Really looked.
“I have to work,” you said quietly. “Every mark counts. People don’t expect much from me as it is.”
He blinked. “That’s mad.”
You gave a hollow laugh. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t I?” he asked, and for once, he didn’t sound cocky.
You held his gaze. And for a second, something unspoken passed between you. Something cautious and raw.
He shifted in his seat. “Look, I never… I never thought you were thick. Not once. You’re probably smarter than the whole damn school.”
You didn’t reply, but your throat was tight.
John glanced around, then leaned forward like he was about to share a secret.
“I once copied an essay off some bird in my cousin’s school. Swapped the name out and everything. Still got a bloody D.”
You blinked.
He grinned. “She wrote about Hamlet bein’ gay or somethin’. Teacher hated it.”
You huffed, a tiny sound that might’ve been a laugh. It startled you.
John saw it—and his grin softened into something more real.
“Don’t let some wanker’s red pen ruin your day,” he said. “They’d probably give Shakespeare a B too.”
For once, he didn’t linger to be admired. He stood, hands in his pockets, and nodded toward your paper. “Keep that, though,” he said. “Be worth somethin’ someday when you're runnin’ the bloody country.”
And then he left. Just like that.
And you sat there, blinking back tears that felt a little less sharp than they had before.
You always sat with Katherine Thornton. One friend. That was enough. She talked enough for both of you anyway—gossipy but sweet, the kind of girl who painted her nails with chipped polish and called teachers by fake nicknames when they weren’t around.
You were halfway through your cheese sandwich when it started.
That feeling. The prickling at the back of your neck. Like someone was staring. Watching.
You lifted your eyes from your lunch tray and scanned the cafeteria—just out of instinct, not really expecting anything.
And then you saw him.
John, seated three tables away with a rowdy pack of boys, half a sausage roll in one hand and a bent fork in the other. Laughing, loud as ever—but not at the joke someone told. Because his eyes were on you.
Locked. Unblinking. Like he’d been waiting for you to look up.
You froze.
His smile twitched, just a little. Not cruel. Just… like he’d caught you doing something interesting.
You dropped your gaze instantly.
“Y’alright?” Katherine asked, mid-chew.
“Yeah,” you said, opening your milk carton. “Just tired.”
But you felt it for the rest of lunch. That tether. That line drawn across the room.
After Lunch, Third Period
You made it to the corridor before you felt the tug.
A hand—not rough, but firm—curled around your elbow and pulled you gently aside.
“What—” you started, but he was already speaking.
“Need a pen,” John said. “Mine’s knackered.”
You stared at him. He had a pen behind his ear.
He must’ve realized, because he smirked and pulled it off. “Alright, not for me. Macca forgot his again. Thinks I’m his mum.”
You didn’t respond, but he didn’t seem to care. He took the pause to look at you. Really look.
“You always eat with that Kathy girl?”
“She’s my friend.”
“Only one?”
You raised a brow. “Are you keeping count?”
He grinned. “Maybe.”
A teacher rounded the corner, and you ducked your head, brushing past him to head to class. You felt the warmth of his stare follow you all the way down the hall.
It happened fast. One moment you were collecting your books for the next class. The next, Mr. Harper was dragging John Lennon by the collar into the corridor, face red, voice booming.
“You think throwing ink at someone’s coat is funny, Lennon?!”
“It weren’t me—”
“I saw it. You’ll spend your lunch in detention cleaning the classroom. Maybe it’ll teach you some respect!”
You weren’t going to say anything. You shouldn’t have.
But then you saw his eyes dart toward you for the briefest moment—just one heartbeat, one flicker of a glance—before he dropped his gaze again, jaw clenched like he’d already accepted his fate.
And before you could stop yourself, your voice came out:
“Sir?”
Mr. Harper turned, surprised. You rarely spoke unless called on.
“I don’t think it was him,” you said. “He was at his desk the whole time. He didn’t throw anything.”
Harper narrowed his eyes. “You saw that?”
You nodded. Steady. Certain.
After a tense pause, the teacher exhaled. Letting go of his collar.
“Fine. But if I find out otherwise…”
He trailed off, waving John away like a fly.
The hallway fell quiet again.
You didn’t even look at John. You just walked back to your class, face burning.
But as you took your seat, your hands still trembling a little, a folded note dropped onto your desk.
His handwriting was messy and slanted. But you read it anyway:
Didn’t know you were watching me too.
–J
The diner wasn’t glamorous. Just a small, greasy spot tucked between the laundromat and the butcher’s, mostly serving roasts, pies and all day breakfasts. The place had flickering lights and a jukebox that only played songs from three years ago. But it was quiet, and it paid. And for a girl like you—smart, quiet, invisible—it was a blessing.
You wore your hair tied back, name pinned to your chest on a slightly crooked badge. You worked Thursdays and Saturdays, occasionally picking up random shifts. No one from school ever came in. Not the teachers, not the kids. Certainly not him.
Until today.
The bell above the door jingled. You didn’t look up at first. You were mid-wipe on a syrupy table near the window.
Then you heard the voice.
“Smells like burnt bacon and broken dreams.”
You froze.
No…
You turned, slowly.
John Lennon stood at the door, shaking off rain from his collar, Paul McCartney behind him looking half-apologetic, and George Harrison, who looked too young to be hanging around either of them, hunched and shivering in a wool coat two sizes too big.
They slid into a booth without hesitation—your booth. Section B.
Paul glanced at the menu, already smiling like he owned the place. “This is dead charming, John. Where’d you find it?”
“Been past it on the bus. Thought it looked shite enough to be funny.”
“Great,” George mumbled, “I’ll just chew on a coaster.”
You hovered behind the counter, praying someone else would take them. But the other waitress—Rita—was in the back getting smokes from her purse.
And then he saw you.
His eyes locked on yours instantly. Not a blink of recognition—just straight, focused attention.
He smiled. Slow. Shit-eating.
“No bloody way,” he said aloud, leaning back against the vinyl booth like he’d just been handed the punchline of the century. “You work here?”
You swallowed. Picked up the order pad. Walked over like you didn’t care.
“Can I take your order?”
George blinked at you. “She’s in our class, right?”
“She is,” John said. “Top marks. Sharp tongue, too, if you catch her in the right mood.”
You ignored him. Clearing you throat.
Paul gave you a soft, almost embarrassed smile. “Er, can I have the full English? No mushrooms.”
“Same,” George said. “Extra toast?”
You scribbled it down. “And you?”
John stared at you, eyes glinting.
“I’ll have whatever you’d recommend.”
Your pencil paused. You looked at him. He was daring you—testing if you’d flinch.
You didn’t.
“Alright. One bacon sandwich, no mustard. Extra black pudding.”
Paul snorted. “She’s got your number already, you git.”
John grinned wider. “Better than I thought.”
You turned and walked away, cheeks burning. You hated how your hands were shaking again.
They stayed for nearly an hour. Loud, of course. Laughing at things you didn’t understand. John kept glancing your way—under his lashes, or directly, unashamed. It was relentless. Like even outside school, even here, you couldn’t slip out of his sight.
You dropped off their food with practiced indifference.
“You gonna sit with us?” John teased, biting into his sandwich.
“Not part of the job,” you muttered.
“Should be.”
You turned to go, but then—quietly, under the table noise—he said your name. Just your name. Low and serious, like he was trying to see what it sounded like when he meant it.
You didn’t look back.
But your chest wouldn’t stop twisting.
—
Later, when the diner emptied and the boys were gone, Rita came up behind you and nudged your side.
“Your boyfriend’s loud.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Rita raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You didn’t answer. You just cleared the table, wiped up the crumbs, and tried not to notice the folded napkin tucked under John’s empty plate.
You opened it when no one was watching.
His handwriting again, messy and slanted.
You’re hard to ignore, y’know.
See you Monday.
–J