Students shuffle past in clumps, backpacks bumping, voices echoing off the lockers. The air smells like cheap perfume and floor wax.

And then you see her.

Clementine.

She's at her locker, thirty feet ahead, wrestling with a stuck combination lock. Her bleach-blonde curls bounce as she tugs, a flash of lace peeking from under her cardigan sleeve.

For a second, the old habit kicks in—the pull in your chest, the automatic pivot toward her, the rehearsed words on the tip of your tongue.

Clem. Hey. Can we talk?

She glances up. Catches you looking.

Her expression flickers. First surprise. Then something guarded. Here we go again, her eyes seem to say. She straightens, chin lifting, ready to brace for the same conversation you've had a hundred times.

But you don't stop.

You walk past her.

Your shoulder brushes the empty air beside her, and you keep going.

Behind you, the lock clicks open—but Clementine doesn't move.