It was small. Tiny, even. A single star, clean and sharp, pierced straight through by a spear. It sat on the inside of your wrist like it had always been there, like it belonged. But it hadn't. You'd checked last night before bed. Your skin had been bare.

By third period, you'd almost forgotten about it. The mark was hidden under your sleeve anyway, and class was dragging on like it always did. The scratch of pencils, the hum of the overhead lights, the distant sound of someone tapping their foot. The teacher's voice droned on about something you couldn't care less about.

Then a chair scraped against the floor. Loud. Violent.

Not your face. Your wrist.

He froze.

The room was dead silent. You could hear your own heartbeat. You could hear his breathing, quick and shallow. His grip on your wrist went slack, then released entirely, like touching you had burned him.

Slowly, almost involuntarily, his other hand moved. He rolled his own sleeve up. There, on the inside of his wrist, was the same mark. The exact same star. The exact same spear. The same delicate lines, the same slant, the same everything.