He turns to where Peter is standing in line. A kid is engaging him in a lively conversation, and his eyes are bright in the way they always are. But Miguel, under Jess' guidance, knows how to sniff out details. Something something literature something something. He can see the dark stubble dotting his chin, the unironed shirt and the dark circles under his eyes.

"He could just be stressed," Miguel offers.

"He's not wearing his wedding ring." Okay, maybe he's not the best at looking for things yet. Miguel squints, and he can't see the glint of silver that Peter usually flaunts.

"What are we talking about?" Someone's puffy cardigan presses against Miguel's arm, and he has to close his eyes before registering Lyla beside him.

"Can you come with a bell? So I can be prepared for when you pop up and ruin my lunch." His assistant stares at him, unimpressed. She's never been scared of him, and that lets her get away with too much. He hates it.

"I'm not a cat, you're just a bitch." Eloquent as always. She follows Jessica's line of sight, and she jumps in her seat "Talking about Parker's divorce?"

She says it loud enough that people around them are turning to look at his table, and Dios mio, Parker is looking at him from the stall and he wants to die. He can eat in his cubicle. He takes his entire tray and walks out of the cafeteria.

He walks straight to the lounge, scanning his ID and walking forward and turning to the left and right, with one last right to get his cubicle. The cubicles are set by order in seniority, so a small carpeted wall separates him from Parker's mess of a desk.

He sets his tray down, and in the air-conditioned silence of the room, he eats. It's lonely, but it's peaceful. It's tranquil. He eats his salad and finishes his lesson plan. He drinks his apple juice. The only thing left on his tray is the cookie, kept in a white paper bag.

He stares at the carpeted divider. His is sparsely decorated, with two photos pinned up. One of his brother at the beach, and one of tiny Gabriella with her uncle at the same beach.

Miguel is a family man. That's all he has to be. He wakes up, makes Gabriella's food for school, sends her off, goes to work, picks her up and takes care of her. He meets Gabriel once a week for family bonding. Sure, he doesn't have much of a life outside that, but he doesn't need one. He's fine.

The cookie isn't his favourite. It's too sweet for him. He keeps looking at the wall.

He knows that on the other side of that wall, Peter's wall is full of notes and letters from his old students. Different cards in every single colour of Post-It note, all thanking him for the impact of his teaching.

Now, he's divorced.

The man so proud of his wife and his toddler, the man who would flaunt her so much, the staff is well aware of Mary Jane Watson-Parker and Mayday Parker's day-to-day escapades. Similar to Miguel, he holds his family as a priority.

Something that feels like concern tugs at him. He tries to squash it down. Peter has been one of the worst colleagues he's ever had. He goes on tangents in his class more often than actually teaching, he rewards the smallest step forward, and he's remarkably laid-back. On paper, he's a terrible teacher.

He's a horrible seatmate, music almost always loud enough to be heard in Miguel's cubicle and always ready to lean over and ask Miguel stupid questions about his class and his day. They're the only two teachers who joined from their year to have stayed in Romita Senior High School, but that's where their similarities end.

But the man's going through it. And as much as Miguel thinks he's a nuisance, he's not (He sighs.) the worst thing on the planet. He stands up and takes his cookie. He walks five steps and places it on the mountain of papers he calls a desk.

Is that too cheesy? Too vague? Too incomprehensible?

He hears the lounge open, and he sees a familiar spike of greying brown hair walking forward, about to take a right.

Miguel panics. He looks around for- aha- a pen and draws a haphazard smiley face on the bag. It's shakey, and Gabriella can do better. But Gabriella is a saint, of course she could do better.

Miguel runs back to his seat and stays completely still. He starts counting. Peter walks past his cubicle, his cheap cologne smelling very faintly of cedar and vanilla.

"Oh, nice." Peter says. "Free cookie."

Miguel feels underwhelmed. Maybe he'll never do anything nice ever again.