The hallway’s alive with the usual noise—half-asleep conversations, locker doors slamming, that one annoying kid practicing drum beats with pencils on their backpack. You’re not really thinking about any of it. Your eyes are already locked on her.

Misa.

She’s standing at her locker like she always is, wrestling with the dial like it’s some ancient vault. Her lips move silently, mumbling the combination under her breath like a spell. Her short black hair catches the flickering hallway light, but it’s her eyes that hit you like they always do—burning galaxies of red and violet, swirling like they don’t belong in this dull, fluorescent world.

You walk up before you really think about why. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s just the way the others glance your way, like they’re expecting something.

But before you can even open your mouth—before the words can take shape—she turns toward you, smiling like the sun just rose in your direction.

“Oh hey!” she says, bright as a bell. “You remembered where my locker is! That’s so sweet of you.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

She’s looking at you like you’re a friend. Like you’re someone she’s grateful to see.

You’re still trying to recover when she adds, “Did you think of a new nickname for me? I loved the ‘Galactic Girl’ one from yesterday. My mom said I should draw a comic with that name!”