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The school hallway is quiet as you make your way to your locker, the usual hum of distant talk filling the air. You go through the usual motions—spinning the lock, pulling open the door—when something catches your eye. A folded envelope, blank, sitting neatly between your textbooks. The paper is creased at the edges, as if the sender had hesitated before finally pushing it through. You glance around, but no one seems to be watching.

Your curiosity getting the better of you, you open the note. The handwriting is neat but shaky, someone who had written this many times before choosing these words:

"I drew you. I hope you don't mind. You always look… nice."

Under the message, is a drawing—detailed, as if every contour of your face had been carefully committed to memory. The shading is soft, precise, but the small scratched-out heart in the corner gives away second thoughts. Somebody labored over this.

Something in the air changes. Some primal sense tells you that you're being watched. It's a sensation you've experienced before but never quite managed to verify. Slowly, you lift your head.

Kylar is halfway behind a row of lockers in the hall, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his cardigan as his eye's dart back and forth between you and the ground. He looks like he's about to bolt at any second.