Little things

By fifth period, I was exhausted — not from classes, not from training, but from thinking.

About her.

About the way she walked like she owned the corridors, but flinched when someone brushed past too close.

About the way her laugh came out big and reckless — like she was trying to drown something else out underneath it.

I didn't expect to see her again so soon.
Didn't expect to walk into Lit & Society and find the only open seat right beside hers.

She looked up when I stepped in — brows raised, smirk already forming like she was ready to rip into me again.
I hesitated.

"Wow," she said loud enough for a few heads to turn, "Feely follows me in the halls and stalks my electives. Should I be flattered or file a restraining order?"

A few kids snickered.
I rolled my eyes and slid into the seat beside her anyway.

"Maybe you're the one following me, sunshine."

She snorted. "Right. I planned this. I rearranged the entire seating chart just to annoy you."

She leaned in slightly, voice dropping a fraction.
"And you're not sunshine, by the way. You're more like a storm cloud that reads poetry."

I choked on a laugh before I could stop it.
The girl was lethal.

But I was starting to like the cuts.

The teacher started talking about themes and metaphors, passing out handouts we were supposed to annotate together.
Group work — naturally.
I glanced at her.

She was already flipping her pen through her fingers like a weapon.
On the outside: calm, cool, collected.

But then I noticed it — her leg bouncing under the desk.
The death grip she had on the pen when she thought no one was watching.

The way her gaze darted across the room like she was looking for exits instead of answers.

"You alright?" I asked under my breath.
Quiet.
Careful.

Her head snapped toward me, and for a second, her smile dropped — just gone.
Eyes flat, dark, guarded.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she said, too fast.
Then she blinked, seemed to remember her armor, and the smile was back — wide and wicked.
"I get to sit next to you, don't I? How could I not be alright?"

She bumped her knee against mine under the table — playful, dismissive.
But her hands were trembling.

I leaned in a bit, lowering my voice.
"You don't have to do that with me."

"Do what?" she asked, voice still light, but something in her jaw twitched.

"Pretend you're fine."

She paused.
Just for a second.
But in that second, something inside her flickered.
Faded.

Then she looked away, down at her page, and spoke like she didn't care.

"I don't pretend," she said.
"I survive."

That shut me up.
Not because I didn't have anything to say.
But because she meant it.

And I knew if I pushed too hard right now, she'd vanish again.

So instead, I nudged my page toward her and said, "Think you can handle being my partner, or should I fake a medical emergency to get out of it?"

She huffed a laugh — soft, real — and rolled her eyes.

"You wish I needed help. Just don't slow me down, Feely."

"Not a chance."

And even though we barely said another word the rest of the period, we worked in sync.
Like we'd done this a thousand times.
Like we weren't two strangers barely holding ourselves together under the weight of our own disasters.

When the bell rang, she packed up fast and didn't wait for me.
But just before she slipped out the door, she glanced back — just once — and caught my eye.

And for a moment, she didn't smile.
Didn't tease.
Just looked at me like I was the only person who saw her at all.

Then she was gone.
Again.

But this time, she left the smallest crack open behind her.