The first day back after winter break was the usual chaos—crowded halls, lockers slamming, laughter echoing off the walls. But when Alexa Mendoza walked into chemistry class, everything went a little quieter.

You’d seen her before, in the hallways and at assemblies, but never really spoken. Everyone knew she’d been gone for a while—some whispered words like “chemo,” others said “cancer,” but no one ever really talked about it. They just stared a little too long, then looked away.

The teacher clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone. New semester, new partners! Alexa, you’ll be with…” She scanned the seating chart. “You.”

You raised your hand slightly. Alexa turned to you, smiling politely as she slid into the seat beside yours.

“Hey,” she said, her voice light but a little nervous. “I’m Alexa.”

“I know,” you said, then winced. “I mean—uh, everyone does. I’m—”

She laughed softly, saving you from finishing. “It’s okay. First-day jitters. Even for people who’ve technically done this before.”

Her smile was warm—brighter than the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. You noticed the scarf wrapped around her head, the way she tugged it gently as if to keep it perfectly in place.

“So,” she said, glancing at the beakers and test tubes. “What’s our experiment? Exploding something?”