The bell rang and everyone surged toward the doors, but I stayed by my locker, hands shaking like I’d just failed a test. Earlier, in chem, the beaker slipped and shattered, and without thinking he’d grabbed my wrist and pulled me back. His palm was warm, steady. I laughed it off then, but now my chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with glass.

I kept replaying it: the way he said my name, the way he checked my hand like it mattered. I’d known him since freshman year. Study buddies. Bus seat sharers. I told myself that was all.

I slammed my locker shut too hard. You were there, backpack slung low, grin easy, like he always was. My face went hot. I realized. I don't really look at you.