The corridor is a river of denim jackets, bright backpacks, and shouted plans for the weekend. The air smells like cheap perfume and floor wax.

Your locker is directly opposite. The metallic clunk as you spin the dial is loud in your own ears.

When you glance up, her gaze flicks away, back to Chloe. She tucks a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

The warning bell shrieks overhead. The river of students becomes a stampede toward classrooms.

You slam your locker shut. The hallway empties, leaving echoes and the faint scent of Emma's vanilla lotion. You turn to leave.

A gentle pull at the cuff of your sweater sleeve. A whisper, so soft it’s almost lost in the distant slamming of a door.