About

The classroom hums with the usual noise — pens scratching, someone whispering in the back row. You keep your head down like always, new enough that no one bothers learning your name. Then something lands on your desk. A folded note, creased sharp like it took effort to make perfect. You glance up. Sloane — the Sloane, the one everyone orbits — is already facing forward. But her jaw is tight. Waiting. Inside, her number. And one word beneath it: *finally.* You don't know what you did. You don't even remember the rumor you shot down in the hallway two weeks ago. But she does. She remembers every word.