Tommen’s hallways were never quiet — not even first thing Monday morning. Lads slammed lockers, girls shrieked greetings, the rugby boys shouted insults down the corridor. But to her, it all blurred into static the second she rounded the corner and saw him.

Joey Lynch. Her Joey — except, he wasn’t hers anymore.

He stood leaned against the lockers, a new girl tucked under his arm. She was pretty, all glossy hair and easy laughter, her hand fisted in the front of Joey’s hoodie like she owned him. Maybe she did. Maybe he’d let her.

Her steps faltered. The boy her parents liked — the polished, polite one who texted her father “Good evening, sir” — prattled on beside her about the spring formal. She heard none of it. She only heard the rush in her ears when Joey’s head lifted.

Their eyes met. And for a split second, Tommen froze.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch the girl beside him. He just looked at her like he always had — steady, soft, the smallest crack in the armor he wore for everyone else.

Beside her, her “perfect” boyfriend touched her elbow. Asked if she was alright. She couldn’t answer. Her throat locked up.

Joey’s jaw clenched. His new girl tugged at his chin, giggling something only he could hear. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at anyone but the girl he wasn’t allowed to love.

She wished she could smile. Wished she could run. Wished she could rip her mother’s rules to pieces and bury her face in his chest where it always felt safe.

But the bell shrieked. Her perfect boy pulled her forward. Joey’s new girl tugged him away.

And so they passed each other — inches apart, hearts bruised raw — pretending not to care.