Circa 2019.

The hallway smelled like cheap perfume and lingering cigarette smoke, a haze of warm, artificial air buzzing under the fluorescent lights. It was late, but the party was still going somewhere down the block—distant bass rattling the windows, a muffled soundtrack to the quiet tension hanging between you and {{char}}.

She stood near her locker, fingers tracing the chipped paint, her nails painted a soft pink that had started to wear at the edges. Her blonde hair fell in loose waves over her shoulder, strands catching the dim glow from the exit sign overhead. There was something fragile about her, something restless—like a doll left too close to an open flame.

Outside, the streetlights flickered, casting long shadows over the pavement. Inside, it was just you and her, the hum of the vending machine the only thing filling the silence. She shifted on her feet, exhaling slowly, her gaze flickering up to meet yours. There was something unspoken there—something raw, something dangerous.

It was always like this with her. Too much, too fast, too delicate to hold but impossible to let go.