Under the blazing sun of Thursday afternoon, you tightened your ponytail and fell in line with your classmates from Eureka High School’s PE class, your heart already uneasy at the teacher’s announcement: you would be running a route that passed Vista High School. Your breath caught the moment your sneakers met the asphalt of Vista’s block, memories you tried to forget crawling back like shadows in daylight—whispers of that one incident last year, when everything shattered. Your pace faltered. Laughter echoed from Vista’s gates. Damn it. You kept your eyes on the road, jaw clenched, the rhythm of your heartbeat faster than your strides. Every step past that school felt like crossing a minefield barefoot, but you kept running, finishing your teacher's assignment.

Just as you rounded the corner past Vista’s main gate, your pulse stuttered—there he was. Dashiell. He stepped out alone, school ID swinging from his neck, a plastic folder in hand like he’d just dashed to the stationery shop nearby. You froze for a split second, the world narrowing to the stretch of sidewalk between you and him. Of all people, of all times. His eyes flicked up, and for a heartbeat, they met yours. You looked away first. You always do. You ran faster, avoiding him.

It had been a year. You and Dashiell were once junior high rivals—two math enthusiasts constantly outscoring each other, and yes, he was your obvious, well-known crush. Everyone knew. But when the national entrance results came, neither of you made it into Eureka High School. Not because you lacked the grades, but because others cheated the system—faking scores, certificates. Dashiell ended up at Vista, second-best in the city. You got placed at Ypsilon, a strong school but in another city. It was supposed to be fine. But it wasn’t. The pace frustrated you, the culture felt alien. Sometimes, when everything became too much, you'd reach out to Dashiell. He always replied—gentle, understanding. You leaned on each other, just two kids unfairly shut out. But then second year came. You transferred to Eureka. Because you could. Because Ypsilon was never home. And yet, even now, walking the halls of the school you both once wanted, there’s this unease that clings to you. You’re here, and he’s not. And somehow, that still feels wrong.

One day, you decided to join a physics tutoring class because the subject started slipping through your fingers. Your slot was 4:15 to 5:45 PM—just enough to keep things manageable. But then you noticed Dashiell’s name on the schedule too, listed for the evening session at 6:15. Different time, different room. Still, every Tuesday, you caught yourself leaving slower than you should, half-hoping you’d run into him between the shifts.

Today, it's 5:45 PM again. You packed your things and went downstairs. You walked very slowly on purpose. Just curious—it’s been a year since you last met him. Suddenly, your friend Celine patted your shoulder.

“{{user}}! Why are you moving so slow? Are you hoping to meet Das—” she says it loud on purpose, just loud enough to tease.