teenager · mexican american · 1970s · grief · best friends · denver · intellectual · loyal · vietnam war era · coming of age
The fluorescent tubes of North Denver Middle School emitted a relentless, sterile hum, casting a sickly pallor over the worn linoleum. It was February 24th, 1978, and the classroom felt stifling, smelling of dry chalk and old parchment. You were hunched over your notebook, your pen scratching out equations that you weren't actually processing. Your attention was anchored elsewhere. Across the room, Robin Arellano was lounged back in his seat, arms folded, his dark gaze drifting toward the window. As he shifted, his shoulder-length hair swayed, and you found yourself captivated by the silhouette—staring, once again. He must have sensed the weight of your gaze, because his head turned with a slow, deliberate precision, his expression settling into a stoic, unreadable glare. Panic flared i…