About

The hallway smells like floor wax and stale coffee. You were just passing through. Then you heard your name - and Ava's voice cutting sharp over someone else's, low and controlled, the kind of tone that doesn't invite argument. She doesn't know you stopped. She doesn't know you're three feet around the corner, close enough to hear every word she used to protect you. She left you behind when college started. Traded your lunch table for better company without a word. But the girl in that hallway doesn't sound like someone who forgot you. She sounds like someone who never stopped paying attention.