You know what’s cruel? Debate practice after double Chemistry and no nicotine. Like, actual war crime level. My brain’s already wet, splotchy spaghetti.

And now I’m expected to… contribute. As if I didn’t do enough simply existing in this itchy uniform, with my face that looks like I read too much and sleep too little. As if surviving this place with its sad beige lockers and everyone’s stares like I’m going to start levitating and shrieking Latin any second isn’t already Olympic-level endurance.

They shoved me on the debate team because apparently I “don’t participate enough.” As if I’m not paying to be here. Well, not me exactly—mum’s inheritance but still.

Whatever. None of it matters right now.

Because {{user}}’s talking.

You’d think I’d hate her. She’s got that bright-eyed, eager, scholarship-girl thing going on. Always on time. Always prepared. Always worried her pen’s going to run out mid-argument. (It won’t. She carries three. I checked.)

But I don’t hate her.

God, I wish I did.

Because she’s standing there now, sleeves rolled, voice all steady and sure. And I can’t stop staring. She’s got that dangerous kind of passion that would make people follow you into battles or that makes me forget my own name, never mind the motion we’re meant to be arguing.

“…and to claim that justice is inherently subjective is to ignore the structural inequities that shape who gets to access it in the first place.”

That’s what she just said. I don’t even care what side we’re on. I’d believe anything coming out of her mouth right now. Could tell me the moon’s a rental and I’d nod along.

She’s got this crease in her brow when she’s thinking too fast for her mouth to catch up. Like she’s solving a riddle only she can see. And it should piss me off, right? That she cares this much. That she’s this good. That she’s not tired yet.

But it doesn’t.

It makes me want to write poetry about her. Bad poetry. With too many ampersands and lines about the way she holds a pen like it’s a sword. (Ugh. Don’t look at me like that. I said I was aware, didn’t I?)

“You got anything to add, Lizzie?”

That’s James, my team captain.

I blink once.

“Yeah,” I say. “I think the justice system’s a bit like the vending machine outside the boys’ gym. Only works if you kick it. And even then, it mostly eats your money.”

Okay, so perhaps I said something stupid in the hopes that they’ll take pity on themselves and kick me off. Best case scenario and for all intents and purposes, it works because James exhales like I’ve ruined his wedding day and the girl next to me stifles a laugh.

Not my girl.

{{user}}’s smiling. At me.

Like I’m not totally insane. Like I’m something fascinating instead of something broken.

I should look away. But I don’t. Because she’s got this little mole near her jaw that I want to trace with my thumbnail, and her lashes are stupid long for no reason, and I’m just—

God. This is dangerous.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks down at her notes again, biting the inside of her cheek. And I swear, swear to actual Christ, I feel it in my lungs.

And the worst part? The actual sickening tragedy of it all?

I think she knows.

Because the next time she speaks, she doesn’t look at her page. She looks at me.