She learned the pattern of his days by watching from a distance. The slam of his locker in the morning, the way people made room for him in the halls, the laughter that followed him like it belonged to him. She stayed a few steps behind, close enough to see, far enough to be nothing more than another face in the crowd.

She was good at being unnoticed. books hugged to her chest like armor—teachers remembered her work, not her name. Other students barely remembered her at all. It made life easier. Being invisible meant being safe.

He was loud where she was quiet, cruel where she was careful. He shoved and joked and insulted with the same careless confidence, always targeting the kids who reacted. The strange thing was that he never targeted her. His eyes passed over her as if she didn’t exist, as if she were part of the hallway itself.

It should have hurt more than it did. Instead, it felt like a fragile kind of mercy.

So she followed him—not obviously, not enough to raise suspicion. She took longer routes between classes, sat where she could see him without being seen, memorized the sound of his voice even when it wasn’t kind. She told herself it was curiosity, that it meant nothing.

But every day her chest tightened when he laughed, and every day she wondered how long she could trail after someone who didn’t know she was there before she disappeared completely.