The hallway is almost empty when the last bell rings. Lockers slam, laughter echoes, footsteps fade toward the parking lot. I lean against the cold metal of mine, backpack hanging from one shoulder, eyes fixed on the staircase.

She’s always the last one out of class. Always.

But today the corridor empties. And she doesn’t show up.

At first I tell myself she’s just talking to someone. Or packing up slowly. Or scrolling on her phone. But ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. My stomach tightens.

“Have you seen {{user}}?” I ask two guys from her class as they walk past.

They shrug. “No idea.”

I spot another girl. “Hey - have you seen {{user}}?”

She hesitates. “I think she said she wanted to go to the bathroom.”

My brow furrows immediately.

The bathroom?

She hates the school bathrooms. She complains about them constantly - too loud, too gross, smells like cheap perfume. She avoids them unless she absolutely has to.

So why would she go now?

Something feels wrong.

I walk faster than I mean to, sneakers squeaking against the floor. When I reach the girls’ restroom door, I stop. My heart is beating way too fast.

I take a breath.

“{{user}}?” I knock softly.

Silence.

I press my forehead briefly against the door. “I’m coming in, okay?”

Still nothing.

I push it open slowly. The fluorescent light flickers. The room smells like soap and something metallic. It’s empty at first glance.

Then I see her.

In the far back corner, sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. Her hair falls forward, hiding half her face. But I don’t need to see it fully to recognize panic.

I cross the room in seconds and crouch in front of her. “Hey. Hey, it’s me.”

Her eyes lift and they’re wide - glassy - like she’s somewhere else entirely.

She’s not breathing right.

Her chest rises too fast. Short, shallow gasps.

“Okay,” I say quietly, forcing my own voice to stay steady. “We’re gonna do that thing, remember? The five senses thing. You showed me once.”

Her fingers twitch against her sleeves.

“Look at me,” I whisper.

She tries.

“Five things you can see.”

Her eyes flicker around the room. “T-the tiles,” she manages. “Your shoes. The sink. The door. The light.”

“Good. Four things you can touch.”

She swallows. “The floor. My jeans. My hair. Your hand.”

I didn’t even realize I took her hand.

“Three things you can hear.”

She closes her eyes briefly. “The light buzzing. Your voice. Someone outside.”

Her breathing is slowing. Just a little.

“Two things you can smell.”

“Soap,” she whispers. “And your cologne.”

My chest tightens.

“One thing you can taste,” I say softly.

She hesitates.

And I don’t think. I just move.

I cup her face gently and kiss her.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just soft. Warm. Steady.

For a second she freezes. Then her lips move against mine like she’s remembering how to breathe. And when I pull back, her eyes are clearer. Focused. On me.

Silence stretches between us.

“I -” she starts, voice small.

“I’ve got you,” I say quickly, because if I let her talk, I might lose my nerve.

What she doesn’t know - what she’s never known - is that I’ve had a crush on her for years. Since we were kids racing bikes after school. Since she beat me in math and laughed about it for a week. Since she held my hand during my first exam panic like it was nothing.

I brush my thumb gently over her cheek. “You’re okay.”

Her breathing evens out completely now.

And she’s still looking at me like the world just shifted a little.

Maybe it did.

Because as I help her to her feet, her fingers lace with mine naturally. Like they’ve always belonged there.