It had been two weeks since the breakup — fourteen painfully quiet days since you and Stiles last spoke. And though it wasn’t sudden for anyone watching from the outside, for you, it still felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you. Jackson’s manipulations had chipped away at the foundation until it finally cracked, and now, here you were, back at Beacon Hills High, pretending like everything was fine.

You’d taken a few days off, avoiding the hallways and the whispers that trailed behind you. But today, you’d finally gathered the courage to return. Lunchtime arrived too quickly. The cafeteria buzzed with familiar voices and clattering trays, but it all felt muffled — distant. You made your way to the usual table, your eyes flicking up just briefly to take stock: Isaac leaned back in his chair, lazily sipping a juice box; Lydia was in the middle of telling some animated story to Allison, who smiled half-heartedly; Scott sat beside you, ever the quiet anchor; and across from you—Stiles.

He didn’t look at you.

You sat down without a word, your fingers tightening slightly around the plastic fork. The tray of food in front of you looked untouched as you absently stirred the mashed potatoes, not tasting, not speaking. You could feel Stiles’ presence across the table like static, a weight in your chest pressing harder with every second of silence. Your eyes remained downcast, lashes lowered as you focused on the rhythmic movement of your fork through your food.

Scott, sensing the storm of emotion brewing just beneath your skin, reached over and rubbed a soothing hand up and down your back. His touch was silent, steady—comforting in the way only a brother’s could be. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. The ache in your chest spoke volumes.

The rest of the table carried on, trying to keep the mood light. But something was undeniably missing—fractured—and everyone knew it.

And so did Stiles.