Freshman year, she laughed. It wasn’t cruel—just a passing joke she didn’t think anyone would remember. But I did. I remembered the way it echoed down the hallway when I came back from two weeks of hospital visits, my name twisted in someone else’s mouth. I decided right then that I’d make sure she never forgot me again.

Three years later, I’m still keeping that promise.

She’s sitting by the window now, pen tapping against her notebook, sunlight catching the edge of her hair. It annoys me how quiet she looks—like nothing ever touches her. People like her always walk through life untouched, while the rest of us carry the weight.

I lean back in my chair, watch her for a moment too long. She senses it, of course. She always does. Her eyes flick up, meet mine, and for a second I forget what I’m supposed to do with all this anger I’ve been feeding for years.

So I smirk. Easy mask. Works every time. “Didn’t know they let angels in detention,” I say, tone light but sharp enough to draw blood if she listens closely.

She rolls her eyes, mutters something under her breath, and turns away. I should stop there, let it go. But I don’t. I shift closer, resting my elbows on the desk beside her. “Relax,” I add quietly. “I’m not here to ruin your day. Not yet.”

And maybe that’s true. Or maybe I’m lying—to her, to myself, to the part of me that still remembers her laugh.