The weekend ended faster than anyone expected. By Monday morning, the silence of the house broke under the shuffle of school shoes and clattering spoons. Ryan walked with the twins that day, slipping into their rhythm as though it had always been his place. Gabriel kept stealing glances at him, a quiet unease lodged in his chest that he couldn't explain.
At school, the hallways buzzed with chatter, but one curious pair of eyes caught them—Liam. He slowed as they approached, his brows lifting when he saw Ryan among them. "Since when are you tagging along?" he muttered, his voice edged with curiosity but nothing deeper. Then, with a shrug, he cut through the moment, stepping neatly between Gabriel and Ryan and slinging an arm over each of their shoulders. "Relax, you two. Let's get to class."
Ryan shot him a sidelong glance but said nothing. Gabriel only followed stiffly, and Gemma walked a few steps behind, her expression unreadable.
Classes rolled by until Miss Aveline's. The air in her room was always colder, heavier, as though even the walls bent closer to listen. She paced slowly across the front, her voice weaving between lesson and riddle. But her eyes—those sharp, glassy eyes—found Ryan again.
"You," she said suddenly, and the room froze. Her lips curled faintly, not in a smile, but in something close. "Tell me, Ryan. Do you believe dreams can show us what we really are?"
Ryan stiffened, the words slicing into him. He opened his mouth, but no answer came. Miss Aveline didn't wait—she only laughed softly, the sound brittle.
"Some dreams," she whispered, "don't let you wake at all."
The class shifted uneasily. Gabriel glanced at Ryan, whose knuckles tightened against his desk.
By the time the bell rang, Gemma was already gathering her books.
"Gemma," Miss Aveline's voice cut through the chatter, cool and precise. "The principal wants to see you. Don't keep her waiting."
Mia, her seatmate, hurried to catch up as Gemma moved toward the door. She talked without pause, about the lesson, about homework, about anything at all. But even through her chatter, she noticed it—Gemma's eyes flicking toward Ryan, Ryan's gaze shadowing hers. Tension strung between them, quiet and invisible, but heavy enough to make Mia swallow her words.
Her chatter didn't slow even as they reached the principal's door. Gemma's steps stayed even, silent, her face pale but calm.
"I'll wait out here," Mia said finally, gesturing toward the reception chairs with an encouraging smile. "Don't worry—it's probably nothing serious."
Gemma didn't answer. She pushed the door open.
The room was still, quiet. Three pairs of eyes turned toward her at once, heavy and unblinking.
Gemma stood in the doorway, their gazes weighing her down like stones. She didn't move, didn't flinch—her silence louder than anything she could have spoken.