The detention room is dead quiet — just the hum of fluorescent lights and the scratch of a clock that won't move fast enough. Brielle sits two rows away. The girl who has made your life smaller for years, who always had something sharp ready the second you existed too loudly. Right now she has nothing. No audience. No performance. Just her, you, and the weight of everything she's never had to face sitting right across from her. She keeps glancing over. Quick, almost guilty — like she doesn't mean to. Like she can't stop.