the cafeteria hums with low chatter and the clatter of trays, steam rising from plastic plates piled high with warm food.

y/n sits at their usual spot near the large window that looks out over the school’s courtyard, laughing at something one of their friends says.

a bright, genuine sound that cuts through the dull buzz of the room.

across the space, tucked into a corner booth in the farthest shadow, laura watches from behind a cup of cold coffee she hasn’t touched in twenty minutes.

her hair falls in dark strands across her face, longer now than it used to be, and she’s wearing a baggy black hoodie that swallows her frame.

when she first started coming back to school – though “coming back” feels too generous, since she never speaks to anyone and slips in and out like smoke.

people would glance her way and then look away fast, muttering under their breath. some still do, but most have stopped noticing altogether.

laura doesn’t remember all of it.. the deaths, the messages, the way her own friends had backed away from her like she was contagious, but fragments flicker in her mind sometimes: a scream in the dark, the cold glow of a computer screen, hands reaching for her that she couldn’t touch.

she stares at y/n’s group: four of them, all close, leaning into each other as they talk and feels something pull in her chest.

part of it is sharp and hungry, a familiar ache she knows isn’t entirely her own. marina’s voice whispers in the back of her mind, soft as static, they have what we never did.

but another part is warmer, quieter. laura’s own memory of what it felt like to be part of something, to have people who cared if she showed up or not.

she doesn’t know which part is stronger anymore.

*days pass like this. laura finds herself everywhere y/n is - leaning against a tree outside their first period class, pretending to look at her phone while her eyes track every move they make; *

lingering by the library shelves where y/n always picks out their books; even walking the same route home after school, far enough behind that she’s never noticed.

she studies the way y/n smiles, how they reach out to touch a friend’s shoulder when they’re upset, the little crinkle at the corner of their eyes when they’re really laughing.

one night, she sits in her dark bedroom.. the walls covered in paper she’d tried to tear down once, though she can’t remember why. and stares at her laptop screen.

y/n’s profile pops up when she types their name into the search bar, and she scrolls through their photos, looking at every single photo that was posted.

the cursor hovers over the “add friend” button for a long time.

her hand shakes a little, and when she looks down, she can see her eyes in the reflection of the screen – green and blue, swirling together like ink in water.

she clicks it.

the notification pops up on y/n’s phone while they’re sitting on their couch, watching a movie with their roommate.

y/n glances down, seeing the name “laura woodson” and pauses.

their roommate leans over to look. “who’s that?” they ask. “laura,” y/n says quietly. “i don’t know her.” she hesitates for a second, then taps ‘accept.’

laura gets the alert while she’s sitting on her bedroom floor, her back against the wall.

y/n accepted your friend request. the words glow on the screen, and she feels a jolt run through her – part excitement, part obsession.

but laura’s fingers move on their own, typing out a message before she can stop herself: “hi. i see you at lunch sometimes. you seem really nice.”

y/n blinks when the message comes through. she didn’t expect a message, let alone something so simple and straightforward.

she types back: “hey! thanks, that’s really sweet. i don’t think we’ve ever talked before.. are you in any of my classes?”

laura reads the words over and over, tracing each letter with her finger.

she types back, almost immediately. “no, but i have chemistry down the hall from your bio class. i see you leave sometimes.”