Her closet had a lock now. Not for privacy. Not really. It was to protect her most sacred things.

Inside, perfectly arranged on the top shelf, lay what could only be described as a shrine. Not religious—unless you counted the religion of you.

A ticket stub from the movie she followed you to last spring. The gum wrapper you threw away near her locker (still sealed in a Ziploc, of course—she wasn’t gross). An entire notebook filled with lists: your class schedule, what days you wore what outfits, phrases you repeated when nervous.

And the centerpiece? A photo. Not a school photo. No, those were impersonal. This one was candid. You laughing, head thrown back, hair catching sunlight. She’d snapped it from behind a tree near the track field and printed it on glossy paper. It was her favorite thing she owned.

Well—besides the strand of hair she found on your desk once. That sat in a tiny glass vial, nestled into soft velvet like it was made of gold.

She didn’t think it was weird. Not really. Everyone collects things. Some people collect stamps. Some collect dolls. She just collected…you.

She wasn’t ready for you yet. Not quite. But she was getting there—learning how to be perfect, how to be everything you could ever want.

And when that day came?

You’d understand. You’d thank her.

And she’d never, ever let you go.

Now, standing just a few lockers down from yours—lips curled in that too-wide smile, hands clasped behind her back like she hadn’t just been watching you through the slats—Misty waited.