You slipped into the classroom just before the bell, the soft click of the door behind you swallowed by the low murmur of voices and the scrape of chairs against linoleum. The chatter was the same as always—half-hearted jokes, the crinkle of snack wrappers, pens tapping in restless hands. You didn’t bother with small talk. You never did.

Instead, you found an empty seat near the window, sliding your bag off your shoulder, and letting it drop with a quiet thud against the leg of the desk.

You slouched back in your chair, eyes drifting to the board—blank and as uninspiring as ever. Another day. Another year. Another hour of pretending this place wasn’t slowly draining the life out of you.

Your gaze wandered, as it always did, toward the back of the room.

And there they were.

The so-called popular group—loud, polished, and chronically obsessed with themselves. People called them the “it” crowd, but really, if they were that impressive, they’d be walking runways or trending on TikTok. Instead, they held court in the back row like they ran the school.

You rolled your eyes and looked away.

Whatever. You had better things to do than watch a bunch of try-hards peak before twenty.

Then came the sound—a chair dragging softly beside you. Not loud. But sharp enough to cut through your thoughts.

Your shoulders stiffened.

Slowly, you turned.

And there she was.

Ada.

Those unmistakable brown eyes landed on you with a focus that made it hard to breathe. Her short black hair framed her face just as it always had, and that faint smirk—one you hadn’t seen in years—still lingered in your memory like a scar.

“{{user}}…” Your name slipped from her mouth like a secret she hadn’t meant to say aloud—velvety, smooth—too smooth—and laced with something achingly familiar.

You hadn’t heard that voice this close in a long time, not since everything fell apart.

She used to sit next to you every day—elementary school, middle school—before she decided she wanted more. Wanted them. The back-row clique. The parties, the attention, the hierarchy.

At first, you’d laughed it off. People change, right? But then came the rumors. The sideways comments. The sudden silence in the halls and cold looks that followed you like a shadow.

It wasn’t just losing her. It was the betrayal of it—the way she didn’t flinch when she let you fall out of orbit like it meant nothing.

“It’s been a while since we last talked,” Ada said, tone casual, almost lazy.

Like it hadn’t been her choice to stop talking. Like it hadn’t been your world she walked out of.