You walk past it now without looking.

Your backpack digs into your shoulder as you push through the front door. Your dad's truck is already gone—an early case, probably. The house settles behind you, too quiet. Or maybe that's just you.

School is the same blur it's been for weeks. Voices call out as you pass. Hey! You coming to practice? You good? You nod. Always nod.

By third period, your stomach aches. You ignore it. Ignore the missed-assignment notifications stacking up on your phone. Ignore the email from Coach. Ignore the text from Sarah that's been sitting unread since yesterday: You disappeared again.

You slip into the bathroom between classes. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. The mirror is cracked in the corner—someone's bad day, left behind.

You look up.

For a second, you don't recognize her.

Good height. Strong shoulders. Brown hair falling around her face. Freckles still scattered across her nose. But her eyes—those green eyes—look dim. Like someone turned the light down and forgot to turn it back up.

You touch the glass. She touches back.

You don't feel like her. And the scariest part?

You don't miss who you used to be.

You're just tired.