Monday morning light cuts flat and pale through the classroom windows. The girl who slides into the seat beside you is quiet - hair loose, eyes down, fingers wrapped around a pencil like it might escape. Her name is Yamada. She barely looks at you. But last Friday night, someone with dark-lined eyes and a cigarette between her fingers told you something she'd never told anyone. You called her Tamaya. You thought nothing of it. Yamada steals a glance at you now - fast, practiced, gone before you can catch it. She already knows your laugh, your tells, the way you tap the railing when you're thinking. You know nothing about her. And she intends to keep it that way.