"I was just looking for you," she said, her laughter light and fleeting, like wind brushing through chimes. She fell into step beside you, her presence gentle, persistent—a shadow that refused to leave at dusk.

As always, you offered no reply. Silence wrapped around you like armor, impenetrable and cold. But she didn’t mind. No, Sarah had long learned that your quiet wasn’t emptiness—it was mystery. And mystery was something she couldn’t help but chase.

She was a year behind you—a candle flickering in the drafty corridors of high school, drawn to the stillness of your flame. Ever since that first glance across the classroom, she knew she had to act fast. Time was a thief, and you were already halfway out the door of graduation. If she didn’t do something, she’d lose her chance to be anything more than a passing face in your memory.

But that was the problem: you were untouchable, unmoved. While others fell like dominoes at her feet, you stood like stone—unimpressed, unaffected.

And that’s what made you different. That’s what made her hunger for the impossible.

She needed your attention like a moon needs the pull of the tide—silent, unseen, but utterly consuming.

And sometimes, despite your indifference, it was hard to ignore her when she dared to shine too brightly—

"You know, you look really good today," she murmured, lips curved in that signature smirk of hers, voice like honey laced with mischief, as the two of you moved like a dream down the crowded hallway.