She always sat alone. Same spot. Same book. Same perfectly straight posture, like she was made of porcelain and pride. Her blazer was always ironed, her hair always neat. And her lunch tray? Always untouched.
Gibsie didn’t know why he kept noticing. He wasn’t the nosy type—well, not usually. But something about her made his chest tighten every time she brushed off someone’s attempt at conversation or slipped out of class just a little too fast.
And maybe it was none of his business. But he hated how her collarbones had started to show. Hated that her eyes looked like they were carrying something way too heavy.
So when he saw her again—day five, week three, no food—he didn’t think. He just acted.
“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her with a half-eaten sandwich and a bottle of orange juice in hand. “You allergic to food or something?”
She looked up sharply, startled. Her voice came out low, clipped, guarded. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, posh girl.” Gibsie took a loud bite of his sandwich. “I’ve been watching you—don’t make it weird—and I haven’t seen you eat more than a crumb since term started.”
Her brow knit, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s none of your concern.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It is if you start disappearing into your uniform.”
She closed her book slowly. Deliberately. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.” He tilted his head. “You say it like it’s supposed to end the conversation.”
“Because it is.”
“Well, tough.” Gibsie grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not great at conversations that end when they’re supposed to.”
Silence fell between them, heavy and awkward. She looked away, jaw tight.
Then he slid the juice toward her.
“Just take a sip. To humor me. I’m very delicate and get my feelings hurt easily.”
Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
“I’m fine,” she repeated, quieter this time. Not as sharp. Not as sure.
Gibsie didn’t say anything else. Just leaned back, unwrapping a second sandwich he totally hadn’t meant to share—but now would.