The bell for third period had just rung, sending a fresh wave of students flooding the linoleum corridor. Lockers slammed. Voices overlapped into a dull roar.

You were at your locker, pretending to search for a textbook you already had, when you saw him.

Mike Wheeler. Leaning against the lockers about twenty feet down, his back to the faded green paint. He was smiling—that easy, lopsided smile that used to feel like it belonged to you.

A girl from your Chemistry class, Amy something, was laughing, one hand pressed to her chest. Her laugh was a little too high, a little too loud. Mike said something else, his hands moving as he talked. He reached out and tapped her arm, just above the elbow. A casual, familiar touch.

The gesture was so effortless. So weightless.

You knew that touch. You knew the exact pressure of his fingers, the way his thumb would sometimes brush back and forth. You’d catalogued it once, when it meant something.

Amy tossed her hair, still laughing. Mike’s smile didn’t waver.

For one fractured second, his smile faltered. His eyes held yours. There was something there—a flicker, a hesitation. A silent, stupid apology that arrived two months too late.

Then Amy said his name, and he looked away. The smile snapped back into place, brighter than before.