The halls of Crystal Prep never felt loud, but they were never quiet either. Every step echoed in a controlled rhythm against the polished floors, shoes striking tile in clean, measured beats. Conversations stayed low, calculated, just above a murmur—as if anything louder would be considered inefficient.

Twilight kept her eyes down.

Her books were stacked higher than usual today, pressed tight against her chest, chin almost brushing the top one. The weight didn’t bother her. The numbers inside them made sense. The formulas held still when everything else didn’t.

People didn’t.

She shifted slightly to the right side of the hallway, adjusting her path to avoid oncoming traffic before it became a problem. It was something she’d learned quickly. Predict movement. Minimize interaction. Stay out of the way.

It didn’t always work.

A student brushed past her shoulder. Not enough to knock her off balance, but enough to force her to tighten her grip. A quiet laugh followed, clipped and restrained, like it had been measured before being let out.

“She’s carrying half the library again.”

Twilight pretended not to hear it.

Her fingers adjusted on the spine of her top book, pressing it flatter against the stack. Her other hand rose automatically to nudge her glasses higher on her nose. A familiar motion. Repetitive. Grounding.

Focus.

Upcoming exam. Variables. Expected outcomes. Principal Cinch’s standards. If she stayed ahead, if she stayed precise, there wouldn’t be—

Someone stepped into her path.

Too close. Too sudden.

Twilight tried to correct, her foot shifting, shoulder turning to angle past them—but the motion threw off the balance of her books. The top one slid, dragging the others with it, and in the same second she moved forward—

—and walked straight into someone.

The impact was immediate and disorienting. Her books slipped completely from her hands, hitting the floor in a scattered spill of paper and hard covers. The sound echoed sharper than anything else in the hallway.

Her glasses slid down her nose and dropped, the frame striking the tile with a brittle clatter.

Twilight froze.

For half a second, she didn’t breathe. The hallway didn’t stop, but it felt like it narrowed around her, movement continuing at the edges while she sat in the center of it.

Then everything rushed back at once.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said quickly, the words overlapping as she tried to gather them into something coherent. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t looking, I should have—”

She pushed herself upright just enough to sit, knees folding in, one hand braced against the floor while the other reached out, searching.

Without her glasses, the world blurred into soft shapes and muted color. The sharp lines she relied on were gone, replaced with uncertainty. Her fingertips brushed against a book, then paper, then finally the thin edge of her glasses.

Relief came in a small, quiet exhale.

She picked them up carefully, checking them for damage out of habit before sliding them back onto her face. Her hand lingered for a second, adjusting the frame until everything aligned again.

The hallway snapped back into focus.

Scattered pages. Crooked stacks. Shoes passing by without slowing.

And the person she had run into.

Twilight’s shoulders pulled in slightly as she looked up, still holding one of her books halfway off the ground, her voice softer now but still quick with reflexive apology.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t—”

Her gaze met yours.

And caught you mid-apology.