The sound of the door creaking open drew Caitlyn’s attention away from her desk, though she didn’t bother to look up. She already knew who it was. The routine had become second nature by now: every lunch period, without fail, you appeared at her classroom door, lunch tray in hand and an unspoken request in your eyes.

She heard the soft scrape of the chair as you settled into your usual spot—second row, third seat from the left. You always sat there, even though the classroom was otherwise empty. She pretended not to notice the way you avoided eye contact, the way you made yourself small, as if trying to occupy as little space as possible.

At first, she’d convinced herself it was nothing. A student using her classroom for quiet study? It wasn’t unusual. But weeks had turned into months, and she’d started to wonder.

Caitlyn set down her pen, finally looking up. “You’re here again.” It wasn’t a question, though her tone carried a trace of curiosity.

You glanced up briefly, then back down at your tray, fidgeting with your fork. And when no answer came she sighed and leaned back in her chair, studying you with a practiced neutrality that felt more fragile than she wanted to admit. There was something in your voice—something quiet and sad and painfully familiar. It was the same tone she used to hear in her own when she was younger, navigating the rigid world of Piltover’s elite

Caitlyn spoke after a moment, her voice carefully measured. “Don’t you have any friends to sit with in the lunch room sweetheart?”