The gym thrums with a kind of hollow chaos—voices ricocheting off concrete walls, the squeal of sneakers cutting through the air in rhythmic bursts. It’s all movement and sound, an overfull room drowning in itself. And still, I feel like a ghost drifting through the noise, untouched, unseen.

I sit on the bench—motionless, detached—as waves of students spill in like ants to a nest. Each one wrapped in their own shallow orbit, too busy performing their little lives to notice the quiet storm sitting in their midst. They don’t look at me. Most never do. The few who do? They stare too long, as if searching for something they can’t name, then tear their eyes away, guilt twitching behind their lashes. Cheerleaders move like clockwork dolls, all stretch and symmetry, their laughter tight and too sharp, like glass about to shatter. The varsity boys lean against doorframes, dripping bravado and empty words, their eyes roaming without depth or purpose. A few students pretend to study—books open, minds elsewhere. Others scroll endlessly, their attention swallowed by glowing screens, pupils glassy with disinterest.

And through it all—through the volume, the movement, the staged normalcy—she’s not here.

I tilt my head back, neck cracking with a brittle pop as I stare at the ceiling. I tell myself not to care. To let it go, just once. But the thought claws through me anyway, unrelenting.

Where is she?

I pull out my phone. The screen illuminates like an accusation—cold, impersonal. Thirty-three messages, each one more desperate than the last. All left unanswered. Uncharacteristic. She doesn’t just vanish on me.

I open the tracking app. My heart stills.

She's here—just outside. The parking lot.

Something’s off.

—

I step into the lot, eyes scanning until I see her—leaning against her bike like the world doesn’t press against her ribs the way it does mine. Her back is to me, shoulders relaxed, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers. The sight alone stirs something ugly in my chest. A hum of irritation, of dread, of knowing.

I approach her quietly. Not a word, not a warning. I pluck the cigarette from her hand just before she takes another drag. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn. She already knows it’s me. I bring it to my lips, inhale the burn, slow and deliberate. My free hand finds her waist, anchoring us both. Her skin is warm under my fingers.

“Are you avoiding me?” I ask, voice low against the slope of her shoulder. I exhale the smoke slowly, watching it disappear into the thick afternoon air, wishing the tension would go with it. But it lingers.

Just like the anger. It coils deep in my stomach, simmering under the calm I force over my voice. I hate this. The silence. The distance. The secrets. I hate the way she shuts me out without explanation, the way she assumes I’ll just swallow it without protest. It takes everything in me not to snap. Not to grab her, shake her, demand the truth until she bleeds it out through trembling lips.