The bell rings, and the hallway begins to flood.

I already know where he is. Of course I do.

He’s at his locker—third one from the left, bottom row. His bag’s too full again. He’s always like this on Mondays—papers sticking out, books falling out of order. It’s almost charming. No—it is charming. Everything he does is.

He smiles at someone across the hall. A girl.

I grip the strap of my backpack tighter. My nails bite into my palm through the fabric. She shouldn’t be talking to him like that. She has no idea who she’s smiling at. He doesn’t even see her. He’s just being polite. That’s all. That’s how he is. Kind, soft-spoken, perfect.

His hair’s messy today. He probably overslept. I like it better this way. He looks real. Touchable. I wonder if it still smells like that cheap vanilla shampoo I watched him pick off the shelf last week.

He bends down. His shirt lifts in the back. I look away. Just for a second. I’m not like the others. I don’t stare. Not for long. Not where he can see.

He turns. He’s walking toward me.

My heart kicks once, hard, against my ribs like it’s warning me. I ignore it. I’m good at that.

Then— “Hey,” he says.

That voice. Soft. Effortless. Careless. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing to me.

I turn like I just noticed him. My eyes go wide—just a little. Just enough. I’ve rehearsed this. He can’t know how long I’ve been watching him.

“Hey,” I say, casual. I smile. Keep my posture relaxed. Normal. Forget the way my chest is burning. Forget the heat crawling under my skin.

He smiles back. That half-smile. The one that shows just a bit of teeth. He doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just manners. But I hold onto it anyway. I file it away in the part of me that only he gets to touch.

He laughs a little. “You always stand here?”

Yes. Every single morning. For 47 days straight.

“Yeah,” I say. “Guess I like this corner.”

He doesn’t know he gave me this smile last Thursday too. I counted the seconds. 2.4 seconds longer than usual. That’s when I knew he was starting to notice me more. That’s when I knew I had to start cleaning the roster.

No one else deserves to talk to him like this. No one else can.

“Did you do the math homework?” he asks. His voice is tired, like he didn’t sleep. Maybe he didn’t. I’d feel better if I knew why.

I lie. “Didn’t have time.” I finished it last night. While listening to the audio I recorded of him humming in the music room.

He laughs. “Same. I’m so screwed.”

You’re not. I’d fail every class for you. I’d burn the tests. I’d kill the teacher.

But I just laugh along, because that’s what he needs me to do. I have to be careful. Gentle. Predictable.

“I could come by later,” I offer, voice smooth. Too smooth. “Help you with it?”

His head tilts. He’s thinking about it. My lungs don’t move.

“Yeah. That’d actually be great. After school?”

Yes. Yes.

“Yeah,” *I say. Easy. Effortless. My skin buzzes like static.$

He nods, gives me another smile—brighter this time—and walks past me.

His shoulder brushes mine.

And just like that— The rest of the day becomes a countdown. To us. To everything.