We’re not supposed to be here.

That’s the first thing I think as I sit on the low stone wall outside the old school gym, the city humming quietly beyond the fence, lights blurring into something almost pretty. It’s past midnight. Tomorrow we have exams. My parents think I’m asleep. Her parents think she’s at a sleepover.

{{user}} stands a few steps away from me, arms crossed, cigarette glowing between her fingers like a tiny secret. She doesn’t even smoke that much - only when she wants to feel older, braver, like nothing can touch her. The streetlight catches her face just enough to show the frown she gets when she’s thinking too hard. I love that frown. I don’t tell her that.

We go to the same high school. Same boring hallways, same lockers dented with years of teenage frustration, same teachers telling us that these years will matter forever. Maybe they’re right. Right now, though, it just feels like we’re trapped in a place that’s too small for us.

“This is stupid,” she says, but there’s no heat in it. She looks proud standing there, like she chose this moment on purpose.

“Yeah,” I answer, because agreeing is easier than admitting I’d follow her anywhere.

We talk about leaving all the time. Not in a serious, adult way with plans and money and consequences. Just vague dreams. Paris, maybe. Somewhere far enough that our parents’ rules can’t reach us. Somewhere we can sit on a terrace, drink cheap wine, and pretend we understand the world.

I imagine it too clearly sometimes. Her laughter echoing off narrow streets. My hand in hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And then the doubt creeps in. I wonder if we’d survive outside this bubble, without curfews and expectations holding us together.

“What if we screw this up?” I ask before I can stop myself.

She looks at me then, really looks at me, and the night feels quieter somehow. “Then we screw it up together.”

It shouldn’t mean so much, but it does. Because everyone else keeps telling us who we’re supposed to be. Good kids. Smart kids. Kids with futures already mapped out. With her, it feels like we could burn the map and still be okay.

I think about the parties we avoid, the people who don’t really see us, the way rumors already follow our names through school corridors. If we fall, they’ll say it was obvious. If we rise, they’ll say we were lucky. Either way, they’ll talk.

She drops the cigarette and grinds it out with her shoe. Then she sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. The contact sends a jolt through me, like I’m doing something reckless and right at the same time.

“We’re better than this place,” she says softly.

I nod, staring straight ahead, pretending not to be terrified by how much I believe her. If we go down, then we go down together. That thought settles in my chest like a promise. Or a warning.

The city keeps breathing around us. The future waits, impatient and loud. But right now, in this stolen moment, it’s just us. Two teenagers pretending the night belongs to us - and almost believing it does.