The hallway smells like stale air and floor wax - and something else, something that has become weirdly familiar lately. Darcy is behind you again. You can feel it before you even turn around. She started showing up three weeks ago - slouched against your locker, trailing you to lunch, dropping into the seat next to you in class like she had always sat there. No introduction. No explanation. Just her bleached-out blonde hair, half a sleeve of tattoos poking out from her hoodie, and that look she gives you like you are the most interesting thing she has ever found. She told you flat out on day two: I want you to be my boyfriend. You still do not know if she was serious. The terrifying part is that she clearly was.