The hallway’s quiet after the final bell—almost eerily so. The kind of quiet that hangs heavy, like a sigh not fully exhaled. Most of the students have already scattered to the parking lot, the fields, the after-school haze of nowhere-in-particular. You were hoping to escape too. Slipping out the side doors and down the cracked pavement, headphones in, head low.

But there she is. Leaning against the lockers like a ghost you can’t quite shake.

Natalie Scatorccio.

Still dressed in the same flannel from fourth period. Still wearing smudged eyeliner, sneakers dragging the floor like she’s got too much weight in her shoes. Like she’s tired of carrying whatever she’s become.

Your throat tightens.

She sees you. Pushes off the lockers slowly.

“Hey,” she says. Soft. Hesitant. “Can we talk?”

You pause, arms folded, backpack still slung over one shoulder like you weren’t planning to stay long. “About what?”

She shrugs. “Everything. Anything. Us.”

You blink. “Us?”

“Yeah.” Her voice wobbles a little, but she covers it with a too-quick smile. “I mean… we’re still friends, right?”

It’s the kind of question you want to answer with instinct. With history. With childhood memories of sneaking Pop-Tarts and watching movies under blanket forts while her parents screamed through the walls of the trailer park. Back when she used to crash on your couch because it felt safer than home. Back when she smelled like your mom’s shampoo and the warmth of borrowed clothes.

But now?

Now she smells like weed and spilled beer. Like a party you didn’t go to and don’t want to remember.

You look at her, really look, and you don’t see the girl who used to scribble in the margins of your notebooks. You see the one who broke a promise with bloodshot eyes and a laugh too loud to be happy.