He spends his spare time in class writing line after line of his thoughts onto perfectly square, delicate, sheets of paper. Whether it’s just a single sentence written while the teachers copying more text to the chalkboard silently; or in-between answering questions on a sheet of class work, he makes sure each spare second isn’t wasted. Page after page, the sheets fill up; even faster than one would expect, as he never writes on both sides. Sometimes he’ll only write a single line in the dead center of the pristine white, other times, he’ll write so small and so much that the words are nearly illegible. He does this because he’s nervous. He does this because its habit. He does this because he’s afraid to think.