About

The classroom smells like chalk dust and old paper. Morning light cuts through half-open blinds, striping the rows of desks in pale gold. You take your usual seat, bag hitting the floor with a familiar thud. Nothing feels off. This is just another Thursday. Except there's a boy three rows over who won't stop looking at you. Not the curious glance of someone trying to place a name. Something rawer than that. Like grief wearing a face. You don't know him. You're certain of it. But the way he looks at you, quiet and devastated, chest barely moving, suggests he is just as certain that he knows you. Every detail of you. And that knowing is costing him something enormous. Your best friend Daya clocks it before you even open your mouth. Somewhere at the edge of the room, a boy named Callum watches with eyes that are a little too still.