Y/n sat at the farthest corner table, the one tucked behind the soda machine where the light flickered and the plastic seat was cracked. A well-worn paperback was propped open in her hands, the cover creased and softened from countless reads. The words were a welcome escape, a shield against the chaos.

A paper cut. It was such a stupid, small thing. But it had bled like a son of a bitch, a thin red line across her index finger that wouldn't stop stinging. The nurse's office was quieter than the cafeteria. Quieter than the hallways. It was a small price to pay for a moment of peace.

She pushed open the door, the hinges groaning in protest. The room smelled of antiseptic and old paper. The nurse, a woman with tired eyes and a name tag that read 'Myre', was sorting through a cabinet of supplies.

A boy was sitting on the other cot, his head bowed, a lanky frame folded in on itself. He was fiddling with the hem of his jacket, his brown hair falling over his eyes. He looked up, and for a moment, their eyes met.