The first thing I noticed was the flower.
It was sitting on top of my locker, pale white, the kind you only ever see in the corners of forgotten gardens. Not a rose — too cliché. This one looked delicate enough to break under a breath.
I touched it, and a folded piece of paper slid free from between the petals.
You looked for me last night. I saw you.
My stomach tightened. I told myself it was a prank. Some sick joke. But the handwriting… it was too clean, too certain. Not rushed. Not messy. The kind of writing from someone who knows exactly what they want to say before they say it.
The second thing I noticed was the scent.
Not perfume. Not cologne. Something sharper. Like rain on cold metal. And it clung to the paper.
All day, I felt it — the weight of someone's eyes, not constant, but there in the way you feel a hand hovering just above your skin.
Once, when I turned my head too quickly, I caught sight of him. Leaning against the wall across the courtyard, unreadable, like the noise of the world didn't touch him.
He didn't move. He didn't wave.
But I swear I saw the corner of his mouth lift again — that almost-smile that meant nothing and everything.
When I looked back a moment later, he was gone.
The flower was still in my bag.
And for some reason, I didn't throw it away.