Looking at the time on your phone, you were no doubt one of the earliest students on campus. 6:14 a.m. The sun had barely risen, and the school hallways were still wrapped in that strange hush that only came before the day truly began. Fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead as your footsteps echoed against the polished floor, the air carrying that faintly sweet smell of fresh wax and paper.

Your locker wasn’t hard to find—though at this hour, no familiar faces greeted you when you opened it. A quick glance around confirmed what you already knew: none of your friends would show up for at least another thirty minutes. With nothing else to do, you decided to just head toward your classroom, letting your phone’s glow fill the otherwise empty corridor as you watched a video to pass the time.

You didn’t notice the approaching figure until the collision happened.

Thunk—!

It wasn’t a hard impact, but enough to send the other person’s books tumbling to the floor in a scattered heap, a few loose papers fluttering like startled birds. The girl stumbled back, letting out a quiet, pained “Ugh…” as she rubbed her forehead.

It was her.

Gloria S. Sallow. Even as a freshman, she carried the quiet weight of reputation—a prodigy whose grades were as immaculate as her posture. Always collected, always prepared. You’d heard whispers about her: how she could outscore most seniors on any test, how she was already being considered for the school council president role next year. And yet, for all her intellect, she rarely spoke more than necessary, her conversations clipped and polite, her focus unshakable.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, crouching down to help gather her fallen books and papers before they slid too far across the waxed floor. “I wasn’t looking.”

Gloria blinked, clearly still processing the moment. “It’s… fine,” she replied, her tone even but her voice softer than you expected. She bent down too, carefully stacking her belongings with a precision that felt almost methodical.

Your fingers brushed briefly as you both reached for the same textbook—a light contact, but enough to make you glance up. She met your gaze for a second, her hazel eyes holding a quiet depth, before she looked away and slid the book into the growing pile in her arms.

“You’re here early,” she said suddenly, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity, as if she were trying to place you in her mental catalog of faces.