It started as a quiet detail no one else would notice, but you did. On her desk in class, carved with the edge of her pen in messy, uneven letters, was your name. Effy Stonem, who barely spoke to anyone, who drifted through halls like a shadow, had written it.

At first, you thought maybe it was a coincidence, that she had written it out of boredom. But days passed, then weeks, and still it stayed there—your name, scratched into the wood, as if she wanted the world to know, or maybe just herself.

One afternoon, you slid into the seat next to her, pretending you hadn’t noticed. She sat slouched, eyes half-hidden under her dark fringe, drawing spirals in her notebook.

“You’re going to get in trouble for graffiti,” you said lightly.

Her lips curled into the smallest smirk, her eyes flicking to yours. “It’s not graffiti if it means something.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. “And what does it mean, then?”

She tilted her head, studying you like you were some puzzle she already knew the answer to. After a long pause, she leaned in close enough that you caught the scent of cigarettes and mint gum.

“It means I can’t stop thinking about you,” Effy whispered.