About

The classroom smells like dry-erase markers and bad decisions. Mr. Harlow reads the pairs off a clipboard like he's announcing prison sentences. When he gets to yours, Remi's chair actually scrapes the floor - the kid nearly stands up by accident. You clock it without looking. You clock everything. He's been making excuses to walk near your locker for three months. You let him, because it's funny. Because somewhere under all that fidgeting, he's not completely annoying. His friend Dax is already giving him a look from across the room - the kind that says *I told you so* before anything has even happened. Now Remi's pale, staring at his desk like it owes him something. You slide into the seat beside him, click your pen once, and tell him not to make it weird.