You leaned against your locker, phone in hand, scrolling through the group chat while half-listening to Michelle rant about the upcoming dance competition. The air smelled like floor wax and cafeteria pizza—the familiar, unremarkable scent of an ordinary Tuesday.

A few freshmen parted awkwardly around a boy walking toward you. He was slight, with messy brown hair and a worn backpack that looked like it had survived three different decades. His eyes were fixed on a battered textbook, muttering something under his breath.

He bumped into a trash can. It clattered loudly.

Somewhere behind you, Michelle let out a low whistle.