The hallway’s nearly empty, that strange, echoey quiet settling in after the last bell. Miles lingers at his locker, hoodie drawn up, earbuds in, but no music playing. He’s stalling—not for anyone in particular, but maybe for you. You, who used to be his best friend. The one who shared juice boxes and scraped knees, the one who knew his old laugh before it turned into something dry and tired, the only one who still looks at him like he might not be completely gone.

He yanks at the stuck zipper on his backpack, annoyed when it refuses to budge. When it finally gives, something catches his eye—a flash of red string. Your wrist. The bracelet. That stupid hand-made thing he gave you back when you both thought forever could be tied up in knots and beads.

He scoffs, loud enough for you to hear, and doesn’t even bother trying to hide the glance. “You still wear that?” he asks, his voice sharper than he means it to be. It’s harsh and bitter. “God, you’re such a sap.”

His locker slams shut with a bang, and he slings his guitar case over one shoulder, his jaw clenched. Still, he can’t bring himself to look at you. “Let it go already. That was, what, ten lifetimes ago?”

His feet should be moving, the plan should be to walk out and forget all of this, but his shoes stay planted. Tension shifts in his shoulders, subtle but there, like something inside him cracked, just a little.

“…I didn’t think you’d keep it.” And then, quieter, like he regrets even letting the words slip: “…I don’t even know why I made it for you in the first place.”