Fluorescent lights hum overhead. The grocery store smells like cold produce and floor wax. Your cart hits hers hard enough that a can rolls off the edge and clangs across the tile. You look up to apologize — and freeze. Nadia. From school. Standing there with a smile that arrived just a half-second too late. She says sorry like she practiced it. Twice. Maybe three times. And she's watching your face the way people do when they're not actually sorry — when they're looking for something. Priya told her something. You don't know what yet. But the way Nadia's eyes won't quite settle tells you this aisle was never an accident.