Sam's POV
If there's one thing I learned about Westview High, it's that teachers have a talent for ruining peaceful mornings. Today is no exception.
Mrs. Hudson steps into class with her usual clipped footsteps, a stack of worksheets tucked under her arm like she's carrying doom. "Pair activity today," she announces. Half the class groans. I don't blame them—pair activities always end with me stuck with someone who does all the talking. Or worse, someone who stares at me like I'm invisible.
I straighten my notebooks, telling myself it's fine. Zoe will probably be my partner. Or maybe Kira. Anyone easy.
But then Mrs. Hudson begins calling out pairs.
"Siya and Ananya."
Siya flips her hair. Ananya looks like she wants to cry.
"Zoe and Hannah."
Zoe glances at me, mouth forming a tiny sorry.
"Sam Rivera and…"She pauses.
I swear my stomach flips upside down.
"…Liam Fernandez."
Of course. Of course the universe is playing games with me again.
I shift in my seat. I don't even need to look at Liam to know he's staring. The air tightens between us like it always does—heavy, tense, strangely electric. After everything—detention, rumors, the note in my locker—I don't know how to act around him anymore.
He approaches slowly, dragging his chair beside mine. For a second, neither of us speaks.
"Hey," he says finally.
Just that. A quiet hey. But it knocks something loose in my chest.
"Hi," I reply, trying not to sound like I swallowed a fork.
Mrs. Hudson drops the assignment sheet on our table. "Fill these questions together. Collaborate, not compete."
I mentally laugh. Collaborate? With Liam? The boy who can't go five minutes without arguing with me?
We stare at the sheet.
Question 1: Write two possible themes of the poem.
I grab my pen. "I think the theme is resilience—"
"Loneliness," he interrupts.
I blink. "It's clearly resilience."
"Or clearly loneliness."
I glare. He raises an eyebrow, leaning back like he's testing me. His eyes are annoyingly unreadable, like he knows exactly what he's doing.
"Fine," I mutter. "Two themes. Resilience and loneliness."
He smirks. "Look at that. Teamwork."
I want to smack the smirk off him. Instead I write it down harder than necessary.
We move to Question 2.
How does the poet convey emotion in stanza three?
I start. "The imagery—"
"The rhyme pattern."
I drop my pen. "Do you disagree with everything just to annoy me?"
His gaze flickers with something—amusement? "No. I'm just… giving my opinion."
"Well your opinion is wrong."
"My opinion is very right."
I make an exasperated sound, and he tries not to laugh. I can see it—the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes soften for a second. It makes my chest feel warm and confused.
The old tension between us is there, but today it feels less sharp. Less like barbed wire, more like… a tangled thread we're accidentally unraveling.
I hate it.
I also don't hate it.
We start writing again, this time without arguing for a whole thirty seconds.
Then I catch his handwriting and stare.
"You write like a doctor," I blurt.
He looks offended. "What's wrong with my handwriting?"
"It's… rebellious."
"Rebellious?"
"Like your letters don't follow rules. Look—this 'e' is trying to escape."
He actually laughs quietly. "Your handwriting looks like it's scared of mine."
I gasp. "Take that back."
"Nope."
He grins—an actual grin—and my heart does something ridiculous.
Mrs. Hudson walks by. "Good. You two are working well together."
If only she knew.
When she leaves, we exchange a look. An unspoken: Are we seriously not fighting?
And for the first time, I feel a strange urge to smile.
Maybe this won't be a disaster.
Maybe.
Liam's POV
I knew today was going to be weird the moment Mrs. Hudson said "pair activity." But I didn't expect this level of weird.
Sam. I got paired with Sam.
My pulse jumped the moment our names were said together. I said "hey" like I wasn't a complete mess inside. She said "hi" like she was trying hard not to explode. Typical us.
The worksheet lands between us. I try to focus on the stupid poem analysis, but my brain keeps noticing… her.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she concentrates.The way her brows scrunch when something annoys her.The way she refuses to look at me for more than two seconds at a time.
She throws the first answer out. I disagree automatically—not because she's wrong, but because her reaction is… interesting.
And maybe because teasing her is becoming a problem I can't seem to stop.
She asks if I disagree on purpose.Yes. The answer is yes.But I'm not saying that.
Instead, I let myself enjoy the way her eyes flare, the way she huffs. It's too easy. Too dangerous.
Then she starts judging my handwriting—my handwriting of all things—and I almost lose it. I almost laugh, right there.
"Your 'e' is trying to escape," she says.
It's so unexpected I nearly choke on air.
"Your handwriting looks scared of mine," I say back before thinking.
Her reaction is priceless. She looks like she might throw her pen at me.And then… she smiles for half a second.
A small one. Barely there.
But I see it.
And that tiny smile does something strange to me, something warm and unsettling.
We keep working, still arguing but softer now. Less defensive. More… playful?
Mrs. Hudson says we're working well together.
If she means I'm watching Sam talk with way too much attention and fighting the urge to laugh again, then yeah, we're doing great.
Sam glances at me. I glance back. Something shifts between us—lighter, warmer.
This is new.
And for the first time since the whole detention incident, I don't want the moment to end
Sam's POV
I really thought the worst was over. We finished the first two questions without yelling, and Liam didn't try to sabotage my sanity—progress, right? But then comes Question 3, which might as well be titled: Let's Ruin Sam's Day Again.
Describe the poet's use of contrast.
I start writing. Something simple. Normal. Harmless.
"He contrasts darkness with—"
"Light," Liam completes, leaning closer unexpectedly.
I freeze. His face is way closer than my brain prepared for. I swear I stop breathing for a whole second.
"Uh—yes," I breathe out, eyes fixed on the worksheet, not his stupidly focused eyes. "Light."
He nods slightly, and we continue. Everything is fine.
Until I hand him the paper to write the next part. He reads my handwriting, squints exaggeratedly, and mutters—way too loudly:
"Is this… a word?"
My jaw drops. "It clearly says 'metaphorical.'"
"It clearly says 'meta… something.'"
"I wrote it perfectly!"
"You wrote it like the pen fainted halfway."
HoW dArE hE.
I yank the paper back, annoyed—and the universe decides this is the perfect moment to betray me. The paper slips, folds, and catapults upward, hitting me squarely in the forehead with a dramatic fwup.
I blink.
Liam blinks.
The class looks over.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, embarrassment exploding through me—
And then, without warning—
I laugh.
Not a polite laugh.Not a fake laugh.Not a shy little giggle.
I laugh like someone literally rewired me.
The sudden, ridiculous slap of paper to my face, the stunned look on Liam's face, the absurdity of us attempting to be normal human beings—it all just bursts inside me like a shaken soda.
I clutch my stomach, trying to breathe between snorts. "Okay—okay—ow, my dignity—"
Liam stares at me like I've grown wings.
"What?" I manage between giggles.
He shakes his head slowly, eyes stuck on me in a way that makes my heart misbehave. He looks… not embarrassed.
But something close to fascinated.
"You've never laughed in front of me," he says quietly, more to himself than to me.
I blink. "Uh… that's not true."
"It is."
"It's—well—it's because—" I try to find an excuse. There is none. "You annoy me too much to laugh!"
"Maybe you're finally getting used to it."
He says it lightly, but it lands deeper than he knows.
Before I can react, the worksheet—because apparently it hasn't ruined me enough—slips and lands perfectly over Liam's hair like a crooked hat.
I lose it.
I absolutely lose it.
My laughter bursts again, louder this time. Liam looks up, cross-eyed, trying to see the sheet balanced on his head.
"Oh my god—" I gasp. "You look like a—like a rejected magician."
He scoffs, snatches the paper off, and tries to glare, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. It twitches upward.
Then finally—He laughs too.
A real laugh.Warm, surprised.A sound I've barely heard from him.
For a few seconds, it's just us—laughing like nobody else exists.
The world feels lighter. The air warmer. The distance between us smaller.
Too small.
Dangerously small.
I force my laughter to settle into a smile. "Don't blame me. The paper attacked first."
He exhales a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. I saw."
We return to the worksheet, but everything has changed. The tension is gone, replaced with something that makes my pulse flutter every time he glances at me.
Something I'm trying really hard not to name.
Liam's POV
Sam laughing was not on my bingo card for today.
Sam laughing like that?Like… wide-eyed, head thrown back, absolutely losing it?
Definitely not on any card.
When the paper hit her forehead, I expected her to snap at me, or glare, or… something Sam-like. But instead she laughed, and the entire class faded away.
I've seen her annoyed, upset, quiet, angry, awkward—everything but this.
This felt like getting punched in the chest by sunlight.
She tries to cover it with her hand, but the sound spills out anyway, bright and unfiltered. I don't think she realizes how rare it is for her guard to drop like this. I don't think she realizes how it affects me.
And then—of course—the worksheet decides to land on my head.
Her laughter doubles.
She looks at me like she can't believe what she's seeing—then bursts into another round of giggles. She's actually laughing so hard she's clutching her stomach.
And I…I'm helpless.
I try to keep a straight face. I try so hard.
But the moment she meets my eyes, that's it. Something in me breaks, and suddenly I'm laughing too, quietly at first, then louder. Real laughter—something I haven't felt in weeks.
She calls me a rejected magician.
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling before I can stop myself. I can't look away from her. Not with the way her eyes shine, the way her guard completely disappears.
It hits me then, out of nowhere—
I like seeing her like this.Like… a lot.
When the laughter fades, the air between us feels different. Softer. Warmer. Like we accidentally stepped into a space we weren't meant to see yet.
She avoids my eyes now, tracing circles on the worksheet with her pen. I should go back to doing the assignment. I should pretend nothing happened.
But I can't.
I keep stealing glances.She keeps pretending not to notice.
She's quieter now, but there's still a small smile tugging at her lips—one she can't hide. And I realize I'm smiling too.
Something started today.Something neither of us planned.Something neither of us understands.
But one thing I know for sure:
I want to hear her laugh again.
Sam's POV
The worksheet sits between us, now wrinkled and slightly bent from its dramatic attempts at homicide. I try to smooth it out, still fighting the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips. Laughter is dangerous—especially when it happens with someone like Liam, who already confuses me on normal days.
I shouldn't be smiling.But I am.
We move on to Question 4: Explain the tone of the final stanza.
Easy enough.
I tap my pen against the table. "The tone is hopeful—"
"Nope," Liam says instantly. "It's somber."
I narrow my eyes. "You didn't even read it properly."
"I did. Twice."
"You read fast."
"I'm smart."
I scoff. "You're impossible."
"And you're dramatic."
My mouth drops open. "Me? Dramatic?"
"Yeah." He shrugs with a straight face. "You laugh like someone just tickled a squirrel."
I gasp so loudly the two girls behind us turn around.
"I DO NOT laugh like a squirrel!"
He gives a small grin. "An angry squirrel."
"You know what? You—" I point my pen at him, trying to look intimidating, "—laugh like a malfunctioning microwave."
He blinks.
Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his stupidly perfect face. "A malfunctioning microwave?"
"Yes."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means you make that weird short-huff-laugh thing—like 'pff—'" I attempt to imitate it and immediately regret everything.
He stares.
I stare.
And then he bursts out laughing again. Not the quiet laugh from before. An actual laugh, leaning forward, hand over his mouth like he can't stop.
"Oh god," he breathes out between laughs, "you sound worse than the microwave."
"HEY!"
He wipes his eyes, still laughing. "Okay—okay—stop trying to copy it before the whole class thinks you're possessed."
My face heats, but I can't help smiling. "You started it."
"You insulted my laugh!"
"You insulted mine first!"
He gives me a look—half challenging, half amused—and suddenly it feels weirdly natural. Like we've done this a hundred times. Like we're… friends?
No.We're not friends.We're something in-between, something undefined and confusing, but definitely not friends.
At least that's what I tell myself.
We both lean forward to write at the same time, our heads nearly bumping. He pulls back a little, chuckling.
"You're seriously dangerous with that pen," he mutters.
"It's harmless."
"You stabbed the air earlier."
"That was an accident!"
He raises a brow. "Sure."
I roll my eyes. But inside… something warm sits in my chest.
This—this banter, this tiny slice of easy—feels nice. Unexpected. Fragile. Like one wrong word could ruin it, but for now it's safe. Real.
I write my answer, and he leans sideways to read it, his shoulder brushing mine lightly. My breath catches, but I pretend I didn't notice.
"You forgot a comma," he murmurs.
"Stop judging my punctuation."
"I'm helping."
"You're criticizing."
"Same thing."
We glare at each other, but the edges soften almost immediately.He nudges the sheet toward me.I nudge it back.
It's stupid.Childish.Fun.
When Mrs. Hudson isn't looking, Liam pokes a tiny doodle on the paper—a round little blob with stick legs.
"What is that?" I ask, leaning closer.
"A poetic potato."
I burst into a laugh I barely manage to restrain. "That is not a potato."
"Yes, it is."
"It looks like a sad egg."
He laughs under his breath. "A sad egg?"
"Yep."
"You're weird," he says softly, but without judgment.
For once, I don't mind.
Liam's POV
I don't know what spell this worksheet cast, but Sam is… different today. Softer. Warmer. Less guarded. And—god help me—funny.
She actually called my handwriting rebellious. Then claimed I laugh like a broken microwave. And now she's insulting my artistic masterpiece—the potato.
"Sad egg," she says.
I can't stop smiling. "That's rude."
"It's honest."
"Your honesty is rude."
"Well, your rudeness is rude!"
I pinch the bridge of my nose, pretending to be frustrated. "I can't argue with that logic."
She laughs again. Smaller this time, but still real. Still Sam.
I draw another tiny potato—this one with a cape.
She leans in. "What is that supposed to be?"
"A superhero potato," I whisper, deadpan.
She presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. I see it—the moment she breaks—her eyes crinkle, her shoulders shake.
"You're hopeless," she says, voice mixed with amusement and disbelief.
"Maybe. But my potato is heroic."
"You need help."
"I'd ask you," I say before thinking, "but you're too busy fighting your own handwriting."
She gasps. "NO—okay—that's it. Give me your pen."
"Absolutely not."
She lunges forward to grab it.
I pull it back.
For three seconds—only three—her hand is wrapped lightly around mine as we tug the pen back and forth. Her skin is soft. Warm. A shock runs through me, unexpected and too much.
She freezes first.Then I do.
We look at each other, not speaking, not moving, not breathing.
My chest tightens.
Her fingers slip away slowly. "Sorry," she murmurs.
"Don't be," I say quietly.
We both look down at the worksheet, pretending nothing happened.
But everything happened.
The silence is small, but charged.Careful.Different.
Then suddenly—thank god—Sam clears her throat and points to the potato.
"Well," she says, "at least he looks braver than you."
I blink. "What?"
"The potato."
"You're comparing me to the potato?"
"Yes."
I shake my head. "Unbelievable."
She smirks—actually smirks—and for a moment I forget how to breathe again.
Our banter continues, lighter now, like we slipped into some secret version of ourselves we didn't know existed.
And I realize something:
I don't want this to end.Not the teasing.Not the laughter.Not the way she looks at me now—not like an enemy, not like a stranger.
But like someone figuring me out.
Sam's POV
I didn't even realize how close Liam and I had leaned in until the noise of the class returned to my ears—like someone had slowly turned up the volume knob on reality. For a moment it had just been our laughter, our stupid worksheet, his quiet smile, and… something soft hanging in the air between us.
I force myself to sit back properly in my chair, clearing my throat and pretending to focus on the paper again.
"Okay," I say, tapping my pen dramatically. "Where were we before you offended the entire alphabet?"
Liam narrows his eyes, playing along. "I didn't offend it. You just have a fragile emotional attachment to letters."
I scoff. "Maybe. But still."
He smiles—really smiles—and I feel my chest tighten again. Ugh. Why does he have to look good when he smiles? It should be illegal.
I try to concentrate, but I can feel his eyes on me occasionally, like he's checking if I'm still laughing or still annoyed—or maybe both. And I don't know why, but it doesn't bother me at all.
Then I feel a presence from across the room.
Zoe.
I don't even have to look up; I can feel her stare. And when I do glance her way, she's leaning on her desk, chin on her hand, wearing the smuggest smirk I've ever seen.
Great.Amazing.Perfect.
She lifts her eyebrows at me twice, the universal sign for:So… you and Liam, huh?
I shake my head frantically.
Her smirk only grows.
I mouth, It's not like that!
She mouths back, way too dramatically, Sure it isn't.
Liam turns slightly, confused. "What are you doing?"
I straighten immediately. "Nothing. Zoe's just being… Zoe."
He glances toward her, but Zoe instantly looks away and pretends to be deeply invested in her notebook like an actress who wants an award.
Of course.
Before I can relax, I sense another stare.A heavier one.
Siya.
She's a few rows away, arms crossed, looking right at us with a mix of annoyance and… disappointment? No, jealousy. Real, sharp jealousy. I've seen her irritated before, but this is different. Her eyes flick from Liam to me, then back, and her jaw tightens like she's chewing on a thousand words she wants to spit out.
I freeze.
I shouldn't feel guilty—Liam and I were literally just laughing at a worksheet—but something about her expression makes my stomach twist.
Liam doesn't notice. He's busy trying to make sense of the last question.
"Why does number six sound like a threat?" he mutters.
I turn back to him quickly, trying to ignore Siya's stare burning into my side. "Because it is. It wants us to suffer."
He huffs a soft laugh, and for some reason the sound calms me. Pulls me back into our bubble. As if the rest of the room—Zoe's smirk, Siya's glare, everything else—just… fades again.
I didn't mean to let us slip back into that easy rhythm, but it happens anyway.
I don't think either of us notices how it looks from the outside.
We're just caught in the moment—weirdly synced, laughing quietly, leaning a little too close again.
Maybe Zoe is right to smirk.
Maybe Siya is right to stare.
Maybe we are being obvious.
But right now… I don't feel like pulling away.
Liam's POV
I should be focusing on the worksheet.I should be reading question seven.I should be acting normal.
Instead, my attention keeps drifting to Sam—her expressions, her reactions, the way her pen taps when she's pretending not to be amused. The laughter we shared is still echoing faintly in my head, like it's stuck there replaying itself for no reason.
She looks at the paper again, brow scrunching. "Do they want a short answer or an emotional essay?"
"Both," I answer without thinking. "They want us to suffer."
She laughs softly—this tiny burst of sound that she tries to hide behind her hand. But it escapes anyway, and I feel something in my chest shift again.
She really does look different when she laughs. Lighter. Brighter.
I don't know why I'm noticing that.
While she's writing, I glance up—and notice Zoe. Her eyes jump between us with a knowing look, one eyebrow raised like she's watching a movie she's already predicted the ending of.
Sam sees me looking and immediately shakes her head like she's denying a crime scene. Zoe snickers into her notebook.
I fight a smile.
Then I look to the right and see Siya.
Her expression is the opposite—tight, sharp, and very clearly unhappy. Not at me. Not at Sam.At… both of us together.
I blink, confused.
Siya isn't subtle. Her glare is pointed enough to stab someone. She looks away only when she realizes I'm staring back.
I know she and Sam used to be close.I know something changed between them recently, even if neither of them talks about it.
But I don't understand why she's looking at us like that—like she's been left out of something she thought she owned.
Sam shifts beside me, clearly uncomfortable, and I suddenly feel protective for a reason I don't want to examine.
I lean slightly closer and whisper, "Ignore her."
Sam glances at me, surprised. "You saw too?"
"Hard not to."
She sighs. "She probably thinks I'm doing something wrong."
"Are you?" I ask quietly.
Sam hesitates. "No. We're just working."
I nod—but something about the answer feels incomplete.Not wrong.Not a lie.Just… incomplete.
Because what's happening between us doesn't feel like just working anymore.
The way she laughs, the way we talk, the way the world fades out—it's too easy. Too natural. Too warm around the edges.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to sit back.
But Sam leans in again, pointing at something and accidentally brushing her shoulder against mine. She doesn't even notice.
I do.
She smells like citrus soap and something soft I can't name.
I look away quickly.
Zoe is still smirking.Siya is still staring.
And Sam and I…We're in our own world again, pretending we're not.
Sam's POV
The bell rings far too suddenly.
It snaps the room back to reality, and everyone groans as they begin packing up. For a second, I just sit there blinking, because I hadn't even realized how fast time passed. Maybe because laughing made everything feel lighter. Or maybe because sitting next to Liam didn't feel like the usual stiff, awkward version of group work.
It felt… easy.
Which is weird.
I gather my books slowly—mostly to buy myself a moment to breathe. My heart is still doing this soft, annoying flutter every time I replay that one laugh he let out. The one that surprised him as much as it surprised me.
Liam stands too, running a hand through his hair in that way he does when he's trying to act casual but is actually nervous. His bag slips off the side of the chair with a soft thud.
I laugh. "Smooth."
He gives me a deadpan glare. "It was gravity's fault."
I shrug. "Everything is gravity's fault."
He huffs a soft laugh—barely a sound, but enough to make me smile again. I don't know why this kept happening today. Maybe the universe glitched. Maybe something shifted. Or maybe laughing together knocked down some invisible wall neither of us knew existed.
I swing my bag onto my shoulder. He does the same.
And then—without a word, without planning it—we fall into step beside each other as we head out of class.
It happens so naturally that I don't even realize it until we're already halfway down the hallway.
He looks over at me, eyebrows raised. "You heading to your locker?"
"Yep."
"Same."
That shouldn't make me stupidly happy. But it does.
Students pass around us, noisy, rushed, loud—yet somehow it still feels quiet between us. Calmer. As if the laughter earlier is still echoing softly behind us, following along like a memory that doesn't want to leave.
We turn the corner at the same time and nearly bump shoulders.
Liam gives me a look.I give him one back.
He smirks. "Are you trying to walk into me on purpose?"
I scoff dramatically. "Yes, that's exactly my plan. Step one: collide with Liam. Step two: cause chaos. Step three: flee."
He nods seriously. "Seems well thought out."
"It is," I say proudly.
His lips twitch.
I can tell he wants to tease me again—he's fighting a smile, jaw tightening in that barely-contained way I'm starting to notice. I wait, pretending I'm not expecting anything.
Finally he says, "You know… you're different when you laugh."
I stop walking.
My heart drops straight to my shoes.
Different?Good different?Bad different?
Liam realizes too late what he said; his eyes widen slightly, like he wants to take it back or rephrase it or hide under a table.
He clears his throat. "I mean—different in a good way. Like you—uh—look happier."
I blink at him, caught between warmth and embarrassment. "Oh."
Smooth, Sam. Great response.
But he smiles softly at my stunned expression. "You should do it more."
My face heats up.
"I—yeah. Maybe. If you stop bullying letters."
"Not possible," he says instantly. "I have a reputation."
I laugh. And the moment is light again.
We reach my locker before his. I stop. He stops too.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he gestures at my locker. "Go. Open it. I'll supervise."
I snort. "Why?"
"To make sure you don't pick a fight with the door or something."
"Wow. Thanks for believing in me."
"You're welcome."
I open the locker dramatically just to annoy him. He pretends to take notes on imaginary paper.
I roll my eyes. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he says quietly, "you still walked with me."
My breath catches.
Before I can reply, someone calls his name from somewhere down the hallway—one of his basketball friends. Liam glances over his shoulder, then back at me.
He hesitates.
And in that hesitation, I feel something warm settle in my chest.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" he says.
My voice comes out softer than I intend. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
He gives a small half-wave, half-salute, almost embarrassed. Then he walks off.
But I stand there a moment longer, staring at my locker and replaying his laugh in my head.
It echoes.
And I don't hate it.
Liam's POV
I shouldn't be replaying her laugh this many times. It's just a sound. Just Sam laughing. Nothing special.
Except… it kind of is.
Even as I walk away, my lips tug upward at the memory. It was loud enough to shock her, soft enough to make me want to hear it again.
I keep glancing back—once, twice—because she's still at her locker, adjusting her books with that small, unfocused smile people wear when they're thinking about something that happened a few minutes ago.
Maybe she's thinking about our worksheet disaster.Maybe the alphabet tragedy.Maybe the way we both started laughing without meaning to.
Maybe—just maybe—she's thinking about me too.
My friend calls me again, louder this time, and I finally lift my hand to show I heard him. But part of me stays behind with Sam, in that hallway, in that moment that somehow felt too easy to ignore.
I don't understand why walking with her felt natural.I don't understand why teasing her felt comfortable.And I definitely don't understand why her laugh is stuck in my head like a stubborn song.
I just know I want to hear it again.
Maybe tomorrow.Maybe accidentally.Maybe because of something stupid.Maybe because we'll sit together again.Maybe because… she wants to.
As I reach the end of the hallway, I glance back one last time.
She's looking down at her books, but there's this soft, lingering smile on her lips.
And it hits me harder than I expect:
I like that smile.
I want to be the reason behind it again.
Tomorrow doesn't feel boring anymore.It feels like something to look forward to.