The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, the same tired hum they'd made every afternoon since September. Mrs. Harlan's voice cut through it like chalk snapping in half: "Open your textbooks to page three."
Half the class obeyed with the sluggish rustle of pages. I didn't bother. My forehead stayed pressed against the cool glass of the window, breath fogging it in slow, lazy circles. Outside, the sky had that washed-out December look—thin gray clouds, bare trees, the football field already empty even though practice wasn't supposed to end for another twenty minutes. Everything felt like it was waiting for the bell.
Page three. Probably something about the Louisiana Purchase or the War of 1812. Again. I could feel the textbook sitting closed on my desk, heavy and pointless. My mind was already somewhere else—drifting down the highway in whatever beat-up car I'd own someday, radio loud enough to drown out everything behind me. Or maybe just walking through the parking lot after the final bell, earbuds in, pretending the cold didn't bite.
Mrs. Harlan cleared her throat, sharper this time. I didn't turn around. Ten more minutes. Just ten more minutes and this day, this week, this whole dragging year could finally start folding itself away.
The window reflected me faintly: eyes half-closed, hair falling over my face like I was trying to hide in plain sight. I looked like someone who'd already left the room.
And honestly? I pretty much had.
The bell shrieked through the hallways like it had been waiting all day to be set free. Chairs scraped, zippers hissed, voices exploded into the usual post-class chaos.
"Have a nice day, class," Mrs. Claude, our English teacher, said, already turning to erase the whiteboard. Nobody answered; we were already halfway out the door in our heads.
I moved like I was wading through wet cement. Backpack open, notebooks shoved in without looking, water bottle clattering against my binder. Everything felt heavier than it should—seven periods of pretending to care had wrung me out. I just wanted air that didn't smell like dry-erase markers and cafeteria tater tots.
My pencil—cheap mechanical one, half the lead broken off—slipped from my fingers and rolled under the desk. I sighed, crouched down to grab it, the floor cold against my knuckles.
But someone else got there first.
A hand—slimmer, nails painted a dark, almost black purple—closed around the pencil before I could. I froze there, half-bent, staring at it like I'd never seen a hand before.
Then I looked up.
She was already straightening, holding the pencil out to me between two fingers. I hadn't even heard her come over. Dark hair tucked behind one ear, a thin silver ring in her eyebrow catching the fluorescent light. I didn't know her name, not really—just that she sat two rows behind me and never raised her hand, same as me.
"You dropped this," she said. Voice low, like she was used to people not listening the first time.
I stayed crouched a second too long, brain stuck on the fact that someone had noticed me enough to bother. Then I stood up slowly, taking the pencil. Our fingers brushed—just static, nothing dramatic—but it still jolted me awake.
"Thanks," I managed. It came out rougher than I meant.
She gave a small nod, almost like a shrug, and turned back to her own bag. No smile, no big deal. Just… did it.
I stood there holding the pencil like an idiot while everyone else streamed out around us. The room emptied fast, voices echoing down the hall.
She zipped her backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and glanced back once—like checking if I was still breathing—before heading for the door.
I finally exhaled.
Outside the window, the gray sky had cracked open a little; thin sunlight was trying to push through. For the first time all day, the cold air waiting beyond the doors didn't feel quite so heavy.