Torn Pages (Rewritten) ??

"we are what we repeatedly do. excellence, then, it's not an act, but a habit." —aristotle

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THE BATHROOM PASS was still in my hand, when I stepped out, the flickering hallway light doing that annoying stutter thing above me. I was halfway back to class, when I remembered I was running low on gum, which meant enduring Mr. Carroll's coffee breath for the next forty minutes, if I didn't fix that immediately.

Yeah, I know it wasn't me, specifically, with the horrid breath, but if I at least had some kind of minty freshness wafting under my nostrils every few seconds, I'd be alright.

I cut over to my locker, spun the combo out of pure muscle memory, and tugged it open. Snagged the pack of gum from the top shelf, popped a piece into my mouth, and shut the door.

And nearly jumped out of my skin.

Wren was leaning against the locker next to mine, a blank expression on his face, a faint wisp of cigarette smoke clinging to him, like some kind of permanent accessory. It was the mixture of outside air, smoke, and something sharp and cold that made my nose wrinkle instantly.

"Jesus—" I muttered, instinctively taking a step back. "Since when do you smoke?"

He tilted his head, like he was actually thinking about it. "Since about five minutes, after realizing this town still sucks."

"Right." I huffed, slamming my locker shut harder than necessary. "You know, I don't have to stand here and deal with you and your bullshit attitude, so I'm gonna go."

I turned, ready to head back to class—and back to my sanity—when his hand closed gently around my arm. Not hard, not rough, but enough to stop me in my tracks.

"Isabella." he said, voice low, like he was testing how it sounded coming out of his own mouth. My stomach unintentionally fluttered, prompting my face to burn for reasons unbeknownst to me.

At least, that was what I told myself.

I looked down at his large hand, my pulse spiking, once more, then back up at his gray eyes. "What, Wren?"

His gaze flicked over my face in a way that wasn't mocking, or smug. For a second, he wasn't acting like the walking migraine he'd been, since reappearing in my life.

"Aren't you even a little curious as to where I've been all these years?" he asked quietly. Every word slow, deliberate, and it hit something sharp in my chest.

I chewed my gum a little harder, hating the way the question made my stomach flip.

I didn't answer right away. Just stared at him, studying the face I used to know better than my own. Older now, rougher around the edges, gray eyes darker, and jaw stronger and much more defined, than the baby-faced sweetheart I remembered.

Finally, I scoffed, shook my head, and muttered, "I was, but not anymore."

Then, I turned again, this time, my hand slipping from his grip, not looking back.

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Lunch was loud, like usual.

Nick was in the middle of some half-exaggerated story about how Mr. Proctor, his science teacher, had a face shaped like a lopsided potato and how he swore the man blinked sideways, like a lizard.

"I'm telling you, bro, he did it twice. I counted. Left eye, then right eye, but horizontal. Straight reptile behavior." Nick insisted, gesturing wildly with his fork, a sad piece of mystery meat dangling off the end.