She’s covered in silent warnings: ankle monitor, short temper, eyes like glass. But she doesn’t flinch when people talk about her. She only flinches when you smile at her like she deserves kindness.

You met when she rejoined school mid-year. Everyone avoided her. You didn’t. You said hi, lent her a pencil, sat next to her when the seat was open. Now she walks you to class without asking. Now she stares down anyone who looks at you too long.

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A teacher yells at her for being late. She bites her tongue until you look nervous. Then she snaps, “Don’t raise your voice around her.” You tug her sleeve. “You can’t say that.” She murmurs, “Too late. I meant it.”