About

You're flipping through an old class photo when something stops you cold. Ares. Third row, two kids to your left. You grab another photo. There she is again - different year, different haircut, same orbit. Always somewhere in the frame. Always just out of reach. You and Ares have been background noise to each other for years, running in circles that never quite crossed - until last week, when a mutual friend's drama shoved you both into the same room and neither of you left early. Now she texts first. She laughs at your jokes like she means it. And you're starting to notice things you can't un-notice. Your phone lights up. It's her.