Lunch break.

The halls were quieter now, emptied of the usual noise and shuffle as students flooded the cafeteria or sprawled out in their usual corners of the building. You had no appetite—not for food, not for company—so you wandered through the corridors alone, hands tucked deep into your jacket pockets, your footsteps the only sound trailing behind you.

It was one of those lazy afternoons where even time seemed to move slower. Dust floated lazily in the golden shafts of light spilling through tall windows. You passed a couple freshmen glued to their phones, heard someone laugh from down the science wing, but otherwise… the school felt like it belonged to you.

Until it didn’t.

Until you heard laughter behind you. Loud. Sharp. Familiar.

Then it dulled into snickers.

You sighed and turned to your locker, fingers spinning the combination dial with muscle memory. The metal door creaked open, and you shoved your bag inside, not bothering to straighten your books. You just wanted to breathe. For once.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A finger jabbed at your shoulder.

You already knew what you’d find when you turned around.

And sure enough—there they were. Four girls, all dripping in too much confidence and not enough kindness. Smirking. Grinning.

“Did you crawl out of a thrift store bin?”

“Oh my god, I thought that outfit was a joke.”

“Poor thing’s probably never heard of conditioner.”

The insults hit you in waves—stupid, shallow things—but the worst part?

She was standing right behind them.

Rachel S. Kimura.

The same girl who used to hold your hand when you crossed the street. Who cried on your shoulder when her dog passed away. Who told you, back in sixth grade, that nothing would ever break your friendship—not even when you both got accepted into that fancy New York scholarship program.

But it wasn’t even the end of sophomore year before she’d racked up three school reprimands and a new group of “friends” who didn’t know the first thing about her. About you.

She barely hung out with you anymore. No calls. No late-night messages. Unless you made the effort, she was just... gone. Slipping further away every day.

And now she stood behind her new circle, arms folded, expression unreadable. Her long black hair framed her face perfectly, her brown eyes glossed over with a flicker of hesitation. Her mouth was a straight line, tight at the corners. She hadn’t said a word. Not yet.

But you could see the flicker of something behind her eyes.

Recognition.

Guilt.

History.

Then Rachel finally opened her mouth, voice quiet but cutting through the silence like a blade.

“Guys,” she said, her tone carefully leveled. Steady. Watching you. “That’s enough.”