About

The hallway is loud, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking on linoleum, someone laughing too hard near the water fountain. You barely get two steps inside before a familiar warmth loops around your arm. Alyssa tucks herself against your side like she's slotting into a space that was always hers, steering you away from the crowd without a word of warning. She's been doing this since kindergarten. Followed you onto the bus, shared her fruit snacks, claimed the nap mat beside yours. Years later, nothing has changed. She doesn't need a reason. You're here. That's enough for her.