The rest of the day felt wrong.
Not bad. Not normal. The texture of reality had shifted, like a familiar room with all furniture moved one inch left. The whispers never stopped. They simply changed key—higher, tighter, threading through every hallway I entered.
Silence fell when I appeared. Murmurs resurrected behind me. I was the center of something I didn't understand. Or worse—something I'd forgotten.
"This is seriously creeping me out," Synthia muttered.
"It's probably nothing." My stomach
twisted. It felt exactly like something.
By final bell, I needed air. "Text me if you find out what's going on," Synthia said, heading for buses.
"I will."
I turned toward the side exit. My first mistake. The door opened six inches before—hard —fingers closed around my arm. I gasped. Concrete wall against my spine. Amber. And she wasn't alone.
Two girls behind her, arms crossed, watching like this was scheduled entertainment. But Amber's face was different. Colder. Sharper. Furious.
"Thought you could just walk away?"
My heart slammed against bone. "Amber… what are you doing?"
A humorless laugh. "What am I doing?" She stepped closer. Too close. Breathing my air. "Fixing your mess."
"My mess?" Confession curdled into panic.
Her voice dropped to something venomous, intimate. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"I haven't done anything! " Too sharp. Too desperate.
Her palm slammed the wall beside my head. I flinched. "You always do this." Her teeth showed. "Act innocent."
"I am innocent!"
Her friends snickered, low and pleased.
Amber leaned in. "Everyone's talking about you." Her grip tightened, nails finding skin. "And now… he's back."
My chest constricted. "Who?"
The smile didn't reach her eyes. "You really don't know?" Another grab, harder, hurting. "You don't even remember what you did to him, do you?"
My lungs stopped. The hallway narrowed, walls pressing inward, Amber's face the only thing in focus—twisted with something older than today, deeper than sisterhood.
I pushed her. Hard. She stumbled. I ran.
Down the hallway. Through the doors. Into open air that burned my throat. I didn't stop. Not when school vanished behind me, not when my legs ignited, not when my chest felt ready to collapse inward. I ran because stopping meant thinking, and thinking was impossible.
"I can't stay here…" Whispered, broken.
The world grew colder. Houses thinned. Streetlights failed. Until: just me and the road.
I slowed finally, gasping. The sky burned orange, sun hemorrhaging into horizon. My hands trembled. My whole body shook with adrenaline leaving too fast.
Then—headlights.
A car approached slowly. I froze. It stopped. The door opened. A tall figure stepped into the dying light.
"Hey." Deep. Gentle. "You okay?"
My throat was dust. I couldn't answer.
He stepped closer. "Do you need help?"
Something in his voice—my chest tightened. Not fear. Something worse. Recognition. The particular frequency of being truly seen.
Impossible. The only person who ever made me feel like that was dead. Buried. Two years of learning not to search for him in crowds.
The boy in front of me was a stranger.
He had to be.