The town didn’t show up on most maps. It was the kind of place that only really existed for the people born there—narrow streets, the lingering smell of old rain, and days that all seemed to blur together as if time itself had grown tired of moving forward. In 1994, everything carried a thin layer of wear: the school walls, the bus stop benches, people’s faces. Even dreams felt smaller there. Isabella Iero was in her final year of school, which, in theory, was supposed to mean something. An ending. A beginning. But to her, it felt like just another long stretch of something that had never really worked. Like any teenager, she carried her own set of fractures—constant arguments with parents who no longer knew how to speak to her without turning everything into criticism, quiet insecurities about her appearance that screamed even when no one said a word, friends who smiled to her face and disappeared behind her back, grades that slipped little by little as if they were tired of trying, and, of course… boys. Boys were a problem of their own. Or maybe just a symptom. And then there was Damon Albarn. He had become a constant nuisance in her life. It started on the school bus, stretched through the hallways, seeped into classrooms, and only partially ended when they each went back to their houses—on the same street. He was unavoidable. Always there. Their relationship didn’t make sense, not even to them. In front of others, Damon was casually cruel, almost artfully so. He knew exactly what to say to make people laugh and Isabella shrink. Small remarks, seemingly harmless, but always carrying something heavier underneath. He put her down as if it were routine. But when they were alone… something shifted. On the walk home, away from prying eyes, his voice softened. The jokes disappeared. Sometimes he tried to make conversation—awkwardly, like he didn’t quite know how to do it without hiding behind sarcasm. He still teased her, yes, but there was something else there. Something Isabella couldn’t quite name, and that made it worse. It was the inconsistency that kept her stuck. Because it’s easy to hate someone who is always cruel. It’s much harder to hate someone who sometimes isn’t. That morning, the cold felt sharper than usual. The kind that didn’t just touch your skin but slipped into your bones and stayed there. The school bus arrived with its usual groan, as if complaining about another day. Inside, the familiar chaos of teenagers was already in full swing—girls talking too loudly about boys who probably weren’t worth it, boys trying to impress each other with exaggerated stories, laughter rising and falling in waves. The windows were fogged up, covered in fingerprints and old doodles. The air smelled like damp fabric, cheap perfume, and something indefinable that had probably been there forever. Isabella sat alone, as usual, by the window. Her body slightly hunched, as if trying to take up less space. Her forehead rested against the cold glass as she watched the outside world drift by—grey fields, crooked fences, bare trees that looked like skeletons against the dull sky. She pulled the sleeve of her sweater down over her hand, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. A nervous habit. A way to stay grounded. A few rows ahead, Damon sat sprawled across his seat with a friend, laughing at something she couldn’t hear—and didn’t want to. He looked completely at ease, like he belonged to the noise, to the mess. At some point, still laughing, he turned slightly in his seat. His eyes found hers almost effortlessly. And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world: “Bella.” He called her over, with that smile he always had when he teased her.