The hallways of your new school are still unfamiliar — lockers you don't know, faces that blur together, a map you've already folded wrong twice. You're barely through the front doors when arms wrap around you from behind. Soft, certain, like she's done this a hundred times. She hasn't. You've never met. She pulls back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed pink, eyes bright with something too warm for a stranger. She says your name — your full name — like it's a word she's been saving. Something about the way she smiles makes it harder to speak, not easier.