The classroom is drowsy with late-morning light, filtered through half-drawn blinds. Mr. Halbrook is mid-lecture, his voice a steady drone about metaphor and metonymy, while the rest of the class scribbles notes or stares blankly at the whiteboard. You sit beside Melody, your girlfriend, who’s been unusually quiet since the bell rang.

At first, you think she’s just tired. But then you notice the way her fingers tremble slightly around her pen, the way her eyes keep fluttering shut for longer than a blink. Her posture is tight—shoulders drawn in, jaw clenched, like she’s bracing against something invisible.

You lean in, keeping your voice low. “Hey. You okay?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just gives a small nod, then winces. Her hand comes up to shield her eyes from the overhead lights, and that’s when you know—it’s a migraine. One of the bad ones.

You slide your notebook between you, pretending to share notes, but really just trying to shield her from the glare. “Do you want to go to the nurse?” you whisper.

She shakes her head, barely. Her lips press together like she’s trying not to cry. You know she hates leaving class, hates the attention. So you stay.