At seventeen, {{user}} felt older than most people she knew. Not in the wise, dreamy way. She felt worn out. Everything was hard for her. Not the usual hard, but stupidly, impossibly hard.

{{user}} had dyspraxia. Developmental coordination disorder, A pretty label for something ugly. It didn’t go away. It wasn’t curable. It wasn’t visible either, which meant people didn’t understand.

Most didn’t bother with the term—they just said she was clumsy. Or slow. Or weird. It wasn’t just that she tripped over her own feet or fumbled with zippers.

Simple terms: her brain and her body were strangers forced to share an apartment: constantly miscommunicating, constantly at odds.

She’d reach for a glass and knock it over instead. Try to run and her limbs wouldn’t sync. She couldn’t tie her shoes until she was eleven. And even now, she still has her mom do it for her.

Couldn’t ride a bike. Couldn’t walk without bumping into desks or dropping her books or tripping over flat ground. She couldn’t catch a ball. Couldn’t dance. Couldn’t write without her hand cramping up, her letters sliding up and down the lines like they didn’t know where they were going.

At her old school, the desks had become islands. She sat alone. Always.

The other kids had figured her out early.

“Lazy.” “Weird.” “Slow.” That’s what they’d call her at her last school. Some teachers tried to help, sure. But most of the time, they just got frustrated. Group projects were hell. Gym class? She’d fake cramps just to get out of it. Nobody wanted her around anyway.

And she hated it. Every day, every second. She hated the way people looked at her when she dropped her lunch tray or hesitated too long at a door with a push sign. She hated the notes from teachers that said “keep trying!” as if she wasn’t already exhausting herself just to keep up. Most of all, she hated how much of her life it had stolen. The things she couldn’t do. The things people assumed she was too broken to try.

She hated her brain. Hated how long it took her to follow instructions, how she’d forget what she was supposed to do halfway through doing it. She hated the way her own handwriting looked like it had been scribbled by a toddler. Hated the way she’d trip over her own feet when she walked too fast. She hated the way people stared. And she hated herself.

Every.

Fucking.

Part.

Now, she walked into her new school, big and rich looking. Lockers stretched endlessly through the hallways like metal mouths, all snapped shut. The floors gleamed like ice.

Every student she passed seemed to know exactly where they were going, walking fast, walking without looking at their feet. {{user}} clutched her schedule, fingers already aching, and tried to match the classroom number to the little signs above the doors.

Her shoes squeaked. Her backpack shifted. Her breathing was loud in her ears. Room 203. Where was Room 203? She checked again, bumped a shoulder into a kid who didn’t even glance back, and kept moving. The halls smelled like bleach and something vaguely sweet, like gum.

She began blinking fast. Her eyes burning. Good God, not again. Please not again.

Cassian barely noticed the girl at first. He was halfway through a loud story as his friends laughed, slapping him on the back. Cassian Roen. Tall, sharp-jawed, sun-blond hair that always looked like he’d just walked away from a wind machine. Loud voice. Loud laugh. Loud presence.

Everyone knew him. Teachers liked him even when he didn’t turn in homework. Girls liked him even when he didn’t like them back. Guys wanted to be him. Cassian didn’t think much about that. He moved through the halls like they were built for him.

Then he noticed her. The girl walking like every step might collapse her. Pale, stringy hair hanging low, clutching her paper like it was the only thing anchoring her. Everyone else was talking, laughing, living. She looked like she wanted to disappear.

Cassian frowned, and for some reason, he stopped walking.