The hallway was almost empty.
Afternoon light poured in through the tall windows, warm and golden against the lockers.
Voices drifted faintly from outside.
Jake had protested when Raxian told them to go ahead.
"Since when do we split formation?"
"Go," Raxian had said.
Unusual.
They always waited for him.
He was the center.
Today he wasn't.
He stood in front of his locker now.
Door open.
Head lowered.
Staring into nothing.
His bag hung loosely from one shoulder.
His movements felt… off.
Even he could tell.
Wrong, slower, uncertain.
He shoved a notebook inside harder than necessary.
The metal echoed slightly.
He exhaled through his nose.
And then—
He felt it.
That quiet awareness.
Like someone had stepped into his radius without noise.
He looked up.
She was standing there.
Close enough that he could see the faint texture of her beanie.
Her locker was next to his, he knew that already.
But she wasn't opening it, not yet.
She was looking at him.
Directly.
He straightened instinctively.
"What?" he asked.
Her gaze didn't move.
"You're different today."
It wasn't accusatory..it wasn't curious.
He frowned slightly. "You've known me for what, a day?"
"Long enough."
That annoyed him.
He shifted his weight. "Is there something you need?"
A beat.
"You don't move the same."
His brow furrowed. "Move?"
"You're heavier."
The word sat strangely between them.
"I'm not—" He cut himself off. "What are you talking about?"
She tilted her head a fraction. "You usually walk like you're going somewhere."
"And now?"
"Now you look like you're avoiding something."
His jaw tightened.
"You're reading way too much into this."
"Maybe."
Still calm. Still steady.
"But you're holding your shoulders like you lost."
That landed harder than he expected.
He forced a small, humorless scoff. "Everyone loses."
"Yes."
She didn't argue.
"But not everyone lets it sit on them."
He looked away first.
Down the hallway. Anywhere but her.
"You don't know anything," he muttered.
"I don't need to."
That again.
Simple. Infuriating.
She finally shifted her backpack off one shoulder, reaching for her locker key.
"You don't look like someone who quits," she added.
He blinked. "I don't."
"I know."
Her locker clicked open.
She slid a notebook inside, movements precise, unhurried.
"You're just playing like someone who's scared to lose again."
His pulse jumped.
He hated how quickly it reacted.
"I'm not scared."
She closed the locker gently.
Looked at him one last time.
"Then stop moving like it."
Silence.
Students passed behind them, laughter echoing faintly from the stairwell.
She adjusted the strap on her backpack.
"And whatever you're trying to prove," she said, almost as an afterthought, "it's slowing you down."
He didn't ask what she meant.
Didn't ask how she could possibly know.
She stepped past him.
The faint scent of laundry detergent and something sharp—mint, maybe—lingered for half a second.
Then she was walking down the corridor.
Not looking back, like she'd just commented on the weather.
Raxian stayed there a moment longer.
Her words replaying.
You're heavier.
You look like you lost.
Stop moving like you're scared.
He flexed his fingers.
Uncurled them.
For the first time since Sunday—
His chest didn't feel like it was collapsing inward.
It felt… clear.
He shut his locker more gently this time.
And walked.