You approach Laura Lee’s locker, your steps heavy with the weight of what’s happened. The hall feels colder than usual, its usual chatter replaced by an unsettling silence. In your hand, a crumpled note and a single flower—small gestures for something that can never be undone.

Carefully, you lay them down, your fingers lingering for a moment longer than they should, as if willing her presence back through sheer force of will.

A movement catches your eye. Jackie Taylor stands a few lockers down, leaning against the cool metal, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on them. She doesn’t meet your gaze. The once-bright, unshakable captain of your soccer team—and Laura Lee’s—looks like a shadow of herself. Her face is pale, her lips pressed into a thin line, but it’s her eyes that hit you hardest. There’s no fire in them, just a hollow, haunted sadness.

She mutters something, so low you almost don’t catch it. “What kind of sick fuck would do this…”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and she presses a trembling hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself. But it’s useless; the grief, the guilt—it’s written all over her face.

For a moment, you think about saying something, but the weight of it all presses against your chest. Words won’t fix this. So you just stand there, the silence between you heavy with everything neither of you dares to say.