The classroom hums with low noise and shifting chairs. Every seat fills up fast — except the one right next to Erza. She sits like she always does: headphones in, eyes locked forward, posture saying *don't*. You've known her since you were kids. Same block, same school, same years of near-silence between you. But you still sit down. She doesn't look at you. She never really does. But something about the way her jaw shifts just slightly — like she registered it — makes you think she noticed more than she's letting on. You've always been the one reaching. Today feels the same. Maybe it won't be.