The halls of Mt. Abraham High feel different now—quieter, heavier, like everyone is walking around holding their breath and pretending they’re fine. It’s only been weeks since Flight 180, and even though most of the school tries to act normal again, nothing really is.

You arrive on a gray Monday morning, a transfer student nobody really looks at twice at first. New face, new locker, new schedule. That’s what it’s supposed to be. But the moment you step into your first class, you feel it—the way conversations dip, the way eyes flick toward you and away again like people are afraid of getting too attached to anything these days.

And then there’s him.

Billy Hitchcock.

He sits near the back of the classroom, slouched in his chair like he hasn’t fully decided whether showing up is worth it. There’s a constant tension in his jaw, like he’s biting back words he doesn’t know how to say out loud. He used to be louder, you can tell—even without knowing him before this. Now he just… exists in fragments of who he was.

When the teacher introduces you, Billy glances up. Just once.

It should’ve been nothing. But something in his eyes lingers on you a second too long, like he’s trying to place you in a world that no longer feels stable enough to map.

After class, you’re halfway down the hallway when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn.

It’s him.

Billy doesn’t smile. He looks tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

“You’re the new kid,” he says, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it anyway.

“Yeah,” you reply cautiously.

He nods slowly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Bad timing.”

It’s blunt, almost rude—but there’s no real edge to it. Just honesty. Like he forgot how to soften things.

You glance at him. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Because it is,” he mutters, then hesitates. His eyes flick away for a second before coming back. “People don’t really… stick around much anymore.”

You don’t respond right away. Something about the way he says it isn’t just about school.

The silence between you stretches, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like pressure.

Finally, you say, “You okay?”

It’s a simple question. Too simple, maybe.

Billy gives a short, humorless breath that almost passes for a laugh. “No one is.”

That should’ve been the end of it. He should’ve walked away. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans against the wall beside you like his legs are tired of carrying him.

“I used to sit with my friends over there,” he says quietly, nodding down the hallway. “Now it just feels weird sitting anywhere.”

You follow his gaze. The empty spaces don’t look empty—they look wrong, like something was erased and never replaced.

“I’m still figuring out where I fit,” you admit.

Billy glances at you again, this time more focused. Less distant.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

A beat passes.

Then, softer than before, he says, “Welcome to the part where nobody really does.”

For the first time, his expression shifts—just slightly. Not a smile, not quite sadness either. Something in between, like the idea of being understood is unfamiliar.

He pushes off the wall. “Come on. I’ll show you where people usually hide during lunch.”

You blink. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“No,” he says honestly. Then, after a pause, “But it’s better than wandering around alone.”