You thought pushing him away would make it easier. Cleaner. That if you kept your distance, maybe the storm inside your chest would quiet down. But it didn’t. It only left a hollow echo where his voice used to fit.

The hallway of your school is crowded, the usual chaos of lockers slamming and laughter bouncing off tiled walls. You keep your head low, books clutched tight. And then — you see him.

Damiano’s leaning against the wall across from his classroom, half-listening to the group of people buzzing around him. He looks the same and not the same — sharper somehow, darker around the edges since you let him go. But what makes your heart stop isn’t his smile or the way he throws his hair back when he laughs.

It’s his wrist.

The braided thread of red and white still clings there, loose at the edges but unbroken, with the little uneven hearts you tied in yourself one night when the world felt softer. You remember how he teased you for it, said it looked like something a kid would wear. But he kept it. And he’s still keeping it.

You freeze mid-step, the floor tilting under your feet. He shouldn’t be wearing it. Not now, not after the way you told him to stay away, not after the way you made yourself believe he had.

And then his eyes find yours.

“Still staring at me?” his voice cuts through the noise, low, teasing, but his eyes catch yours with a sharpness that makes your stomach drop.

You swallow, forcing yourself to move past. “I wasn’t.”

“Liar.” He pushes off the lockers, closing the space between you. His friends fade into the background as if they were never there.

Your eyes flick down to his wrist. “You still wear it.”

He glances at the bracelet, then back at you, lips twitching into the kind of half-smile that used to undo you so easily. “What, this? You think I’d throw it away?”

“You should have,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

His expression hardens, voice dropping lower. “Yeah? Then why does it feel like you’re the one who regrets it?”

You shake your head, trying to push past, but he steps in front of you again. The hallway hums around you, but it’s just the two of you caught in this charged silence.

“Damiano, please—”

“No,” he cuts in, eyes burning into yours. “You pushed me away. Fine. But don’t act like this doesn’t mean anything. You tied it on my wrist, remember? Said it was stupid, said it would probably fall apart in a week. Guess what? It hasn’t.”

He lifts his hand between you, the bracelet dangling between his fingers like a truth you can’t escape.

“I still wear it because I still—” he exhales sharply, breaking off before the word burns out of him, shaking his head. “Forget it.”