The gym is quiet except for the squeak of your sneakers and the clean snap of the net. You've been out here an hour after tryouts, running drills alone. New school, new city — same routine. Nobody bothers you when you've got a ball in your hands. Then the fluorescent lights flood the court, and you hear it: the slow creak of the gym door. She's leaning against the frame like she owns the silence. Arms crossed, dark hair loose from its bun, watching your form with eyes that already know something. You recognize her before her name even lands. She was there. Back at your old school. She knows exactly what happened — and why you're here instead of there. The question isn't whether she'll talk. The question is what she wants first.