Max shifted her bag to her other shoulder as she stepped back from the vending machine, almost bumping into you in the too-narrow hallway.

"Sorry," she said quickly, eyes darting anywhere but yours.

It was around 4 PM. The hallway by the art wing always echoed a little too much, like it was built to trap secrets. The lights overhead flickered like they couldn’t make up their minds, buzzing low like a tired beehive. You’d seen her before. Probably in photography. Maybe in the cafeteria, way in the back. Always with her earphones on, always writing something in that beat up little notebook with the peeling stickers that looked like they’d been through three lives.

She glanced down at the soda can in her hand, then back at you.

"That machine never gives change," she said. "Kinda evil, honestly."

It didn’t need a response. Just sat there between you two, fizzing in the quiet.

But then, barely; the corners of her mouth tugged up. Like the start of a smile she hadn’t decided on yet.