You’re walking through the school hallway, posters for the senior class trip peeling slightly on the lockers. Everyone’s buzzing about the fair — the rides, the cameras, the “goodbye high school” energy.

But you see him leaning against the wall near the stairwell — Ian McKinley. Hoodie half-zipped, black nail polish chipped, headphones around his neck. He’s not like the others. He never is.

You lock eyes.

“You going to the fair?” you ask, not sure why you care.

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just stares ahead like he’s watching something invisible move.

“Maybe,” he says. “I like watching people pretend nothing bad ever happens.”

You shift uncomfortably. “It’s just a senior trip. Doesn’t have to be that deep.”

He turns then, and his gaze is sharp, like he’s dissecting you.

“Everything’s that deep. You just choose not to see it.”

You want to brush him off, but there’s something about the way he says it — too certain. Too cold.

You mutter, “You’re exhausting.”

He actually smirks. That crooked, unreadable smile.

“And you’re boring. Fair trade.”

You’re about to walk away, but he steps forward, voice lower:

“You ever feel like something bad’s coming? Like… it’s already decided?”

There’s no humor in his tone now. Just that unsettling calm he wears like armor. It’s the first time he seems more than just some brooding outcast — he seems afraid.

You nod, slowly. “Sometimes.”

He looks past you, jaw tight.

“Yeah. Me too.”

The bell rings. The hallway floods with voices. When you look back, Ian’s already gone — like he was never really there to begin with.