Hunger was never just an empty stomach. People liked pretending they understood it. They called it a craving, a deficiency, a bad habit—anything that made it sound ordinary. But hunger had a way of changing its name depending on who carried it. Midtown High had learned that lesson years ago.

Students rarely wanted the same thing twice. Some found themselves distracted by the metallic scent of blood until the thought of red meat settled the ache behind their eyes. Others wandered the greenhouse between classes, stripping herbs and leaves before teachers quietly redirected them toward vegetables grown for that purpose. A few developed stranger compulsions, unable to explain why rough bark, damp soil, chalk dust, or the texture of uncooked rice seemed almost edible. The counselors stopped asking why. Instead, they asked how bad.

The faculty adapted. Lunch periods became longer. Gardening became mandatory on Mondays. The greenhouse was less about agriculture than distraction—hands buried in dirt instead of reaching for something they shouldn’t. Students who managed their cravings earned quiet praise. Those who couldn’t were spoken about in lowered voices behind closed office doors. No one liked talking about where those students went. Edward hated wasting food. He tore into meals with sharp efficiency, chewing only enough to swallow before searching for another bite. He was painfully selective, refusing almost everything except the things his appetite accepted. What he claimed became his alone, and everyone respected that without question.

Tyler was different. People joked he could make anyone stay for dinner. Whether it was fresh bread, roasted vegetables, or a simple bowl of soup, something about his cooking softened the ache inside people. The cafeteria grew quieter whenever he worked. Arguments ended halfway through a meal. Even the worst cravings dulled for an hour or two. Tyrone never apologized for eating. His appetite swallowed portions meant for two, then three. Plates disappeared in front of him with startling speed, yet the look in his eyes never changed. He always seemed moments away from asking for more. No one laughed when he reached across the table anymore. They simply moved their trays closer.

Then there was you. Every Monday, while others worked because they had to, you gardened because you wanted to. Dirt beneath your fingernails felt steadier than silverware in your hands. Watering seedlings was easier than wondering why every hallway carried a scent no one else seemed willing to acknowledge.

Edward noticed. He watched the way you lingered among the tomato vines long after class ended, breathing slowly as though each inhale was a decision. He never asked what your hunger felt like. Some questions only fed it. Instead, he asked whether you’d eaten. He stayed a little longer than he needed to, close enough that you’d notice if he left. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t nothing, either. Some hungers didn’t have names yet, and his was learning to be patient with that. He checked on you more often than either of you acknowledged. In the end, everyone carried a deficiency. Hunger was only the name most people gave it.