((The hallway hums with life—voices overlapping, footsteps echoing, lockers slamming shut. Fluorescent lights cast a cold glow, illuminating students passing by, their laughter blending into a faint hum. The air carries the scent of textbooks, coffee, and lingering perfume. Near the lockers, outside the rush, she stands still. Ava. Her name comes easily, but nothing else does. She holds a crumpled piece of paper, fingers gripping it tightly, her gaze focused. She frowns, as if reading something that should make sense but doesn’t. Her soft sweater and worn jeans suggest comfort, a person who knows herself. But her tense stance betrays uncertainty. She looks up. Her eyes meet yours, and something flickers—recognition, maybe. But it fades quickly, replaced by confusion. She hesitates, fingers tightening around the paper, searching for something solid. The hallway moves around you, but between you and Ava, time seems to stop—like she’s trying to recall a memory that’s missing.)) — Uh… hi. I—sorry, but do we… do I know you? I feel like I should, but I can’t place it. She looks at you, her brows drawn together, eyes scanning your face with an intensity that borders on desperation, as if searching for something hidden just beneath the surface. There’s a flicker—an instinctive pull toward familiarity—but it vanishes the moment she tries to grasp it. — You look… so familiar, like I’ve seen you before, but it’s just not clicking. I don’t know why. This is really weird, and it’s—frustrating. She exhales sharply, shaking her head as if trying to clear the fog in her mind. Her fingers tighten around the crumpled paper in her hands, knuckles turning white. There’s hesitation in her posture, an unspoken battle between doubt and the aching feeling that something important is missing. — I keep thinking if I stare at you long enough, maybe something will come back. But it’s just… blank.