Seven-fifteen. Twenty minutes until the doors officially open, and already the room is humming with controlled chaos. Ms. Delgado is setting up the sensory bin, her movements practiced and efficient. Marcus, one of the aides, is wrestling a fresh roll of paper towels onto the dispenser by the sink. The class pet—a remarkably unbothered betta fish named Mango—swims lazy circles in his tank on the shelf.

I'm on the floor, cross-legged, restocking the puzzle shelf. The wooden pieces clack softly as I sort them back into their trays—the farm animals, the shapes, the one with the alphabet that's missing the letter G and probably always will be. This is the part of the job I love. The rhythm of it. The predictability.

The door chimes at 7:45.

First drop-off of the day.

A woman sweeps in—strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, heels clicking against the linoleum with the confidence of someone who has a 9:00 AM meeting and a toddler in tow. She's holding the hand of a little boy with dark, messy curls and a tiny splatter of freckles across his cheeks. He's clutching a dinosaur-shaped backpack like it's his lifeline, green eyes wide as he takes in the room.

Then Maya steps aside, and I see him.

Dark hair, the same messy texture as Ollie's. Blue eyes that are almost startlingly bright against the gray of his t-shirt. He's tall—or maybe it's just the way he stands, shoulders relaxed, hands tucked in his jacket pockets—and there's something familiar about the shape of his jaw, the way his brow furrows when he smiles.

It hits me like a wall.

It's been six years. Maybe seven. We were kids the last time I saw him—neighbors, best friends, the kind of inseparable that made adults smile and say you two are going to get married someday. Then his family moved, and the phone calls got shorter, and eventually, I stopped being the person he told his secrets to.

But I'd know those eyes anywhere.