•The Science Fair

The gym was chaos.

The lights flickered, sprinklers blasted overhead, and the smell of burnt wires filled the air. Teachers ducked behind tables, holding clipboards like shields while students scrambled to cover their projects. Someone yelled to shut off the power, another screamed about the fire alarm, and somewhere in the middle of it all — something sparked, fizzed, and died.

You pushed through the door just as the worst of it happened. You’d only been gone a few minutes, just enough to miss whatever caused the disaster. Now the floor was slick with water, smoke hung in the air, and people were running in every direction.

And then you saw him.

He stood near the center of the mess — a boy your age, dripping wet, surrounded by pieces of what must’ve been his project. It looked like some kind of machine — half metal, half plastic, with wires spilling out and a label that still clung to it in soggy letters: Memory Scanner.

He wasn’t moving. His soaked shirt clung to him, his glasses slid down his nose, and his blond hair was plastered flat from the sprinklers. His hands hung loose at his sides, his whole body frozen with this quiet, hollow disappointment — the kind that didn’t need words to explain itself.

No one else looked at him. Everyone was too busy shouting, laughing, or trying to clean up. But you couldn’t stop staring. You didn’t even know his name, but something about him — the way he stood there, small in the noise, trying not to fall apart — made you stay still.

Then, suddenly, he moved. He grabbed his soaked backpack, shoved it over one shoulder, and turned away from the wreckage. His movements were sharp, quick — like he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with what had just happened.

You hesitated, watching him push through the gym doors. And then you followed.

Outside, the storm was worse — rain pounding on the pavement, the sky the same gray as the gym floor inside. He stopped just beyond the awning, shoulders slumped, water running down his face. He muttered something under his breath, too soft to catch, then kicked at a puddle hard enough to splash his own legs.

You stood near the doorway, unsure what you were doing, only that you couldn’t walk away.

He turned then — startled, eyes narrowing when he saw you. His brown eyes, warm even behind fogged lenses, flickered with surprise and frustration all at once.

“Why are you following me?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “I—I don’t even know you.”

He looked away, jaw tight, trying to act like he didn’t care that anyone had seen him like this. The rain fell harder, dripping from his hair and pooling at his shoes.