February 14th, 1975. Valentine’s Day. But at Brunswick High, this particular day felt different—heavier—like the very air was thick with it.

The school halls were alive with a strange tension, buzzing with the electric scent of cheap perfumes, the cloying sweetness of melted chocolate, and the overpowering fragrance of bargain-bin flowers. Every locker, every corner, seemed to be overflowing with hearts—paper hearts, sticky-sweet sentiments, and displays of affection that were as hastily assembled as they were shallow. It was a day that everyone seemed to feel, whether they wanted to or not.

You moved through the hall, trying to dodge the clusters of love-struck couples who seemed to occupy every inch of space, their hands intertwined, their voices low and sugary. The whole scene felt like an intrusion—a constant reminder of something you didn’t need to think about today.

Your destination was the cafeteria. You needed food, something to break the monotony of the day, to fuel your body for the final stretch before the sweet relief of the weekend. Tomorrow would be Saturday. Peaceful. Quiet. No one would care what you did, and you could sleep in, pretend the world didn’t exist for a while.

But first, you had to survive today.

As you reached the entrance to the cafeteria, the last place you wanted to be, you suddenly collided hard.

The impact was jarring—a sharp elbow to your side, and then the awkward sensation of being stuck, wedged tightly in the narrow hallway. For a moment, you both stood there, frozen, like a scene from a poorly staged comedy.

But what made the moment strange—and almost surreal—was who you had just collided with.

Tommy Ross.

Of course.

Not just any student, but one of the golden boys of Brunswick High. The football star. The all-American heartthrob. You had heard the whispers in the halls, seen the way the girls looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes. He was untouchable. And now, of all the people you could’ve run into, you were literally pressed up against him in a moment of absolute