It starts with a boy who walks into school like he's already somewhere else.

Tuesday morning, second period about to start. The hallway's loud with the usual noise—lockers slamming, someone's phone playing a song too loud, a group of freshmen arguing about something that doesn't matter. Y/n's at her locker, halfway through switching out her history textbook for chemistry, when the front doors swing open.

A boy she's never seen before steps inside. He's tall, messy dark hair falling into his face, blazer hanging off one shoulder, tie loose and crooked. His sneakers are scuffed, his shirt untucked, and he's moving a little too slow, like the air itself is heavier around him. But it's his eyes that catch her—huge, dark, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the color. Like twin moons.

A few kids in the hallway notice him. Someone snickers. Someone else mutters, "What's he on?" The boy doesn't look at them. His gaze drifts over the crowd, unfocused, like he's trying to find something that keeps slipping away.

And then, somehow, his eyes land on Y/n.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Like he's not sure if she's real.