(Ava's POV)
My locker still smells like cinnamon gum and sadness.
Like seriously, it's been weeks. You'd think the scent of heartbreak would've faded by now, but nope—every time I open it, there it is. Memories, perfume, and tragedy, all stuffed between my chemistry book and a crushed bag of chips I never ate.
I opened it slowly, like maybe this time it would be different.
It wasn't.
His note was still there.
Stuck behind a photo I pretend I forgot about.
Just a stupid sticky note with a dumb smiley face he drew in class once. He passed it to me under the desk like it was some kind of secret treasure.
"You look bored. Wanna escape?"
I rolled my eyes then. I'd probably cry over it now.
But whatever.
I shoved my stuff in and slammed the locker shut. A little louder than I meant to. The kind of slam that echoes down the hall and makes people turn their heads.
"Girl. You look like a ghost," a voice said behind me.
I didn't have to turn. Only one person on Earth said "girl" like that—with that dramatic judgy but loving tone.
Mila.
She leaned casually against the lockers, arms crossed, eyebrow raised like she was in a teen drama.
"You're not seriously still thinking about him, right?" she asked.
Me: blank stare.
"Avaaaaa."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
"You're annoying."
She smirked. "That means I'm right."
I sighed and leaned back against the lockers, letting the cold metal dig into my spine. I stared up at the flickering hallway light like it held all the answers I couldn't find in myself.
"I just thought... I don't know. I thought it'd be easier by now."
"It's not supposed to be easy," she said, softer this time. "You loved him."
"I didn't—"
"Please. You wrote poetry about his left elbow."
I choked. "That was ONE TIME and it was a metaphor."
"Sure, girl. 'His arm, a bridge to where my heart used to be.'"
She quoted it like she had it memorized. The betrayal.
I shoved her shoulder and tried not to smile. "You're the worst."
"And you're still in love with a boy who ghosted you."
Okay ouch. Fair enough. That hurts.
The words settled in my chest like pebbles sinking to the bottom of a lake—small but heavy.
Before I could fire back with a savage comeback (which I totally had, by the way), the bell rang.
Mila straightened up and threw me a look. One of those half-annoyed, half-concerned best friend looks that said "I've got you even when you're being dramatic."
She winked. "Come on, Ms. Morgan. Time to be sad in Math class like the tragic main character you are."
I laughed. Just a little. But it felt good.
And for a second, it almost felt like I was okay again.