You tell yourself this time will be different. That maybe you’ll finally stay long enough to stop feeling like a guest in your own life. Your parents say they’ve found something stable—good jobs, high pay, bright future. You’ve learned to nod and pretend that means something to you.

They’ve never cared much about how you handle the moving. As long as the paycheck’s big enough, the rest is your problem. And you deal. You always do.

But LA has potential.

You’ve only been here a few weeks, but already you like the energy, the chaos that somehow feels more honest than other places you’ve lived. You’ve explored, asked questions, tried to plant roots in the cracks. Maybe, just maybe, you could build something here.

If it weren’t for him.

The neighbor. Loud, arrogant, always trying to be the center of attention. He throws parties every time his parents leave—music so loud it makes your windows shake. He clearly thinks he’s the hottest thing on the planet. Honestly, he gives off the kind of vibe that makes you want to throw your shoe at the wall every Saturday night. You heard his name once, through a half-open window and a group of girls giggling outside his door—Wes Bennett. Of course he has a name that sounds like it belongs to some teen drama heartthrob. Figures.

You try to ignore it. Today’s important. First day at California High. You wake up early, pack your bag, check everything twice. Your parents are gone before you can even say goodbye. No surprise. You catch the bus with your headphones in, letting music drown out the nerves building in your chest.

The ride is smooth. The city outside moves like a dream—blurred, bright, buzzing. You feel okay. Not great, but okay. Then the bus drops you off a street before the school. It’s fine. The sun’s already out, the air warm, and the walk is short. You pull your bag higher on your shoulder and keep moving.

Until you hear it. That low hum behind you. A car. Moving slow. You don’t react right away. You don’t want to believe it. But your gut already knows. The car stays beside you, crawling like it has nothing better to do. And then the window slides down.

There he is. Of fucking course.

Wes Bennett. Grinning like the asshole he is, one arm resting on the door like he’s posing for a photo shoot no one asked for. No words—just that look, like he enjoys being the reason your skin crawls.

You keep walking. Pretend like he’s not even there. But suddenly, the school feels way too far away.