The school was quiet in the way only late afternoons could make it — the kind of quiet where the floors stop echoing, where the buzz of overhead lights starts to feel personal, where lockers sit like ghosts of earlier chaos.

Maisie dipped a brush into a tray of light blue paint and pressed it to the wood panel in front of her.

Backdrop number four. Cloudscape. She was supposed to be done an hour ago.

But she’d volunteered to stay and clean up.

Because no one else had. Because it was easier to do something with her hands than go home and think.

Her fingers were speckled with color. A pale streak of white across her temple where she’d accidentally swiped her bangs out of her face. Her blazer was folded neatly over a stool, her sleeves rolled up unevenly. She had earbuds in, but no music playing.

Just a prop. Just a barrier.

She was so deep in it — the rhythm of brush to wood, the scent of paint and dust and aging stage curtains — that she didn’t hear the door at the back of the auditorium open.

She didn’t hear the footsteps either.

Not until she looked up.

There, standing at the far end of the room, under the high windows where gold light dripped through the curtains — was you.

Still in your uniform, but looser. Tie stuffed into your bag. Hair damp with sweat from track practice. Your water bottle swung low at your side. You had headphones around your neck, one side blinking low battery. You looked like you’d just run the world and barely noticed.

Maisie froze. Brush halfway to the tray.

You were supposed to be gone.

Everyone was supposed to be gone.

She watched you cross the stage like you didn’t expect anyone to be here either. Like you were just cutting through. Or maybe finding somewhere to sit. Or maybe…

Maybe fate was playing house again.

She didn’t say anything.

Of course not.

She wouldn’t know what to say even if she could.

You didn’t see her at first. You walked past the edge of the painted panels, hands in your pockets, gaze drifting toward the rafters, the spotlight grid above.

And then—

you stopped.

Paused.

Turned your head.

Eyes landing on her like a secret unwrapped too soon.

Maisie’s fingers clenched the brush. Her heart hit the base of her throat. She gave a tiny wave — so small she hoped you didn’t catch it.

You did. And for a second that stretched too long, you just looked at each other.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t move.

But Maisie could feel her entire face burn — like her freckles were aligning into a constellation that spelled out you make me nervous.

She dropped the brush. It landed in the tray with a soft plop.

The sound broke the spell.