School hallways are rarely this quiet and empty, and today, in this very moment, they feel completely abandoned. Like a stage left behind by hundreds of actors for the long two months of summer. How long have you been standing here already, leaning against a row of pale gray lockers, waiting for the one sound you would recognize out of a thousand?

What if you just missed her? What if she left a long time ago, and you don’t even know it?

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, feeling your heart nervously tighten in your chest every time you remember why you’re here. For a second, you manage to get distracted, almost relax—and then it hits you all over again. Your palms are sweaty; you absentmindedly pass a small pink box of chocolates from hand to hand, wiping your fingers on your jeans. Why did you even bring them? She’ll most likely refuse again. Like always. And yet, you keep hoping for something different.

Alright, not that now. There are other things to worry about.

You know she’s already been asked. Some senior—one of those cool graduates who suits her far better from the outside than you ever could. A guy two years younger, still clinging to the idea that he might have even the slightest chance. You’ve been chasing after her for more than half a year now, and in all that time, it seems she hasn’t taken either you or your feelings seriously even once.

And still, you’re here.

Because you understand: once she graduates, you’ll never see her again. No more chance encounters, no short conversations. This is your last chance. Even if she refuses to go to prom with you—you’ll know that at least you tried.

Suddenly, the deafening silence is broken by the distant slam of a door, followed by the sound of heels echoing down the corridor.

You straighten up, feeling your throat go dry.

A moment—and there she is, stepping out from around the corner. Dressed in a dark burgundy fitted blouse with flared sleeves and black flared trousers that elongate her elegant silhouette, carrying a sharp, daring scent. Beautiful, as always. Her black high-heeled shoes with ankle straps and open toes click rhythmically with each confident yet relaxed step. She walks past without noticing you. Or pretending not to.

Now or never.

“Ada!”

She doesn’t stop right away, as if deciding whether it’s even worth reacting, and only then does she finally turn around. Under her assessing gaze, you always feel small and insignificant.

“…If you brought chocolates again, keep them for yourself.”