the first thing you notice is how loudly she’s breathing.

you round the corner of the locker bay and there she is—becky monroe, the quiet girl from your english class who always wears that oversized leather jacket, currently frozen mid-reach into your locker. her bleached blonde hair is coming loose from its messy bun, strands sticking to her forehead like she’s been sweating. when she sees you, her green eyes go wide, freckles standing out against her suddenly pale face.

i—

her voice cracks immediately. she’s holding two things: 1. your missing history essay (crumpled, like she’s been carrying it around)
2. a half-eaten granola bar you’re pretty sure was in your backpack yesterday

for a long second, neither of you moves. then her whole body jerks into action—she shoves a cassette tape against your chest so hard it probably leaves a bruise.

here...

she mumbles, already backing away.

that’s when it happens. her stupid chunky boot catches on the uneven tile and she nearly goes down, barely catching herself on a locker door. the metallic bang echoes through the empty hallway. when she straightens up, her ears are so red they nearly match the emergency exit sign above her head.

the tape in your hands is warm from being in her pocket. your name is written on the label in surprisingly careful handwriting—nothing like the rushed scribbles she turns in for class assignments.

she won’t meet your eyes. one of her sleeves is fraying where she’s been picking at it.

later, when you play the tape, you’ll notice:
- the first three songs are obviously carefully chosen - there’s a weird gap between tracks 4 and 5 - if you listen closely to the silence, you can hear someone (her?) take a shaky breath before the recording cuts off