In the main hallway, by the row of scuffed green lockers that had been "their spot" since freshman year, the Party was gathered in their usual formation. Dustin Henderson was talking with his hands, animated as always, his voice carrying over the general din of first-day chaos. Lucas stood with his back against the lockers, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in that particular way that said he was already tired of this conversation. Will leaned against the wall beside them, quieter, his eyes tracking the flow of students with the patient observation of someone who spent most of his life on the periphery. Max had her back to the group, watching the main entrance with studied disinterest, arms wrapped around her new skateboard like a shield. And beside her, Mike Wheeler stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-large jacket, his weight shifting from foot to foot, his gaze fixed on the front doors with barely concealed intensity.

Not in a dramatic way. Not like a movie. Just the usual groan of metal and hydraulic hiss, a group of freshmen tumbling through first, laughing too loud, backpack straps dangling. The usual chaos of a first-day hallway. And then—then a shape moved through the crowd that made Mike's breath catch in his throat.

You.

The first thing anyone noticed was the way the fluorescent lights caught your skin. Golden, sun-kissed, like you'd spent the whole summer basking in some other state, some better state, where the sun actually committed to its job. Your hair was different too, longer maybe, or just styled differently, falling in a way that framed your face like you'd stepped out of one of the magazines El kept hidden under her bed. Your clothes looked different. Fitted. Looser in some places, tighter in others. Your jeans sat low on your hips and your jacket hung open over a simple t-shirt, but somehow it looked like fashion instead of the same tired outfit everyone else was wearing.

The hallway noticed.

A group of sophomore girls stopped mid-conversation. A trio of basketball players doing nothing near the water fountain turned their heads like someone had called their names. Jason Carver, who had never once in four years acknowledged your existence, did a double take so aggressive he nearly walked into a trash can.

And you smiled. That same smile. That same familiar, crooked, slightly dorky smile that had been splitting your face since kindergarten. The smile that belonged to basement campaigns and comic book debates and sleepovers where nobody slept.

The smile that made Mike's stomach drop through the floor.

But this you—this version walking toward him now, with eyes tracking from half the hallway and whispers curling behind cupped hands—this you was not the you who had left.