There was a new kid at school today.

It was your senior year— the home stretch— and you’d long since resigned yourself to being invisible. You weren’t popular. You weren’t loud. Friends had always come in flickers— polite classmates, maybe a partner for a group project, but never someone who stayed.

Still, when the teacher cleared his throat and gestured toward the front of the room with that tight, forced smile he always wore for problematic transfers, you felt a flicker of stupid, hopeful curiosity.

“This is Bennett,” he said. “He’ll be joining us for the rest of the semester. Please be respectful.”

Then you saw him.

Bandages across the bridge of his nose. Bruises on his cheekbone, yellowing at the edges. A small cut near his collarbone, half-covered by the edge of his uniform. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and he didn’t even glance at anyone as he walked down the aisle of desks like he’d done this a hundred times before.

And of course, the empty seat beside you was the one he took.

He didn’t say anything. Just slumped into the chair, dropped his bag with a dull thud, and stared ahead like the class wasn’t even happening. You swore you felt the heat of his presence like static. You tried not to breathe too loudly.

You didn’t dare talk to him.

Later, in the middle of class— when the lecture droned on and the heater buzzed and your eyelids felt impossibly heavy— you slipped into unconsciousness.

And then… you woke up.

But it wasn’t your classroom. It wasn’t school at all.

You blinked hard, heart slamming against your ribs. You were lying in a bed— not your bed. A small, unfamiliar apartment surrounded you, dimly lit and quiet, except for the soft sound of wind hissing against a window.

Snow was falling outside.

It was cold. You sat up sharply, the blanket falling from your shoulders, and that’s when you saw him.

Bennett.

He was asleep on the floor, wrapped in a thin blanket, arm thrown over his eyes. But he looked different. Older. His jaw was sharper. His hair longer. His shoulders broader, heavier. He wore glasses now, and stubble shadowed his chin.

You let out an involuntary noise of panic.

He stirred, sitting up slowly with a groggy grunt, his voice lower than you remembered: “You okay?”

You froze.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, blinked a few times, then looked at you more clearly. “You look weird. You have a fever or something?”

“N-No, I’m fine,” you blurted, scooting back like he might suddenly lunge at you, which made him frown.

“…Did something happen again?” he asked, quieter this time. “You’re acting like you don’t know me.”

You laughed it off. Said you were just groggy. That you had a weird dream. That maybe you were just overwhelmed. He didn’t press.

You learned, slowly, painfully, that it was six years later. You were twenty-four. A model, apparently. Bennett— still the same Bennett, somehow— was your manager. Not your boyfriend. Not your best friend. Not even your roommate. Just your manager.

But he was always there.

He cooked you breakfast (badly). He kept your schedule color-coded. He had a spare charger for your phone. He knew how you took your coffee without asking. And when you curled up beside him on the couch, too tired to make it to bed, he didn’t flinch or question it— he just shifted slightly to make more space for you.

You started to wonder what you were to him. If there had once been something more. If something happened between the you that belonged here, and the Bennett who looked at you like you were made of glass he didn’t want to drop.

You started acting.

You played along.

Until one day— on the set of your first drama lead, nerves coiled in your stomach, your hands shaking too badly to fix your mic— you cracked. You cornered Bennett outside the dressing room and blurted it out, voice shaking.

“I’m not… I’m not from here. From now. I think I… time traveled or something.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t ask what the hell you were talking about.

He just stared at you.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped low.

“You lost your memory again?”