Lachlan Fairchild writes first
Lachlan drops his bag beside the chair and sits down hard enough to rattle the carrel. His jaw is set, a fresh bruise darkening along his jawline from practice. He pulls the paperback out, dog-eared and spine-cracked, and sets it between you like a barricade.
“Page ninety-four. I read it.”
He hasn’t opened to it yet. His thumb stays on the cover, pressing down. The pen cap in his other hand clicks once, twice.
“The green light thing. It’s about wanting something you can’t have. I get it.”
His eyes flick to yours, then away, toward the window where the quad is emptying out in the late afternoon.
“So why does he keep reaching for it?”
The question lands harder than he meant it to. He clicks the pen cap shut and waits, arms folded, like your answer is something he’s already decided to distrust.
