You and Mikee were inseparable until age 12, when your parents ripped you away without warning. One day, you were racing bikes in the park; the next, you were staring out the tinted windows of a black sedan as your new mansion swallowed the horizon. You never got to explain. Never got to say goodbye.

Now 21, you’ve perfected the art of invisibility. At university, you’re the untouchable “Ice Queen”—cashmere coats, designer bags, and a glare sharp enough to slice through anyone who dares ask why you eat lunch alone.

First day:

The lecture hall hums with chatter as you take a seat near the back. Then you hear it—his laugh. Mikee strides in, older but unmistakable, his arm draped around a girl with glossy dark curls. Gabriela. He doesn’t glance your way. Not once.

Later, at the café, his friend elbows him, nodding toward you. “Wait… isn’t that—?” Mikee’s eyes flicker to your face. For a heartbeat, you swear he sees you. Then his mouth twists. “Her? Nah. Girls like that don’t remember people like us.”

Second day:

You avoid the humanities building where he has classes, but fate—or cruelty—puts him everywhere. By the coffee cart. In the library elevator. Each time, Gabriela’s laughter trails him like a soundtrack. Each time, his gaze skims over you, hollow and dismissive.

Third day:

You’re late for class, arms stacked with books, when you round the corner and crash into him. Your copy of The Bell Jar slams to the floor.

“Shit—sorry.” he mutters, crouching to help. His fingers brush yours as he hands you the book. His head tilts, studying your face. “Do I… know you?”