38
The gates open like jaws.
Polished. Grand. Expensive.
They never looked this sharp before.
But maybe I'm the one who changed.
Mama's car pulls off, and suddenly I'm alone.
I clutch my bag tight against my ribs and take one step in.
Then another.
The concrete feels colder than it should.
Like the school knows I'm back and it's already sharpening its teeth.
The hallway smells like sanitizer and rich-people perfume.
The kind that costs more than rent.
Blonde heads swivel.
Voices drop.
The hallway goes still - like prey sensing something strange.
They look at me like I'm something that should've stayed gone.
"That's her, right?"
"Yeah. Hospital girl."
"Anemic or dramatic - you decide."
Laughter.
But the quiet kind.
Sharp. Surgical.
The kind that carves you without leaving a scar.
My feet move on instinct.
Locker. Right side. Row D.
I reach for it and realize my hands are shaking.
Cool metal. Deep breath. Don't fold.
"Should've just stayed in whatever facility they put her in."
That one's not even whispered.
And it hits like a slap.
I stiffen.
I do not cry.
Not here
Not for them.
"Senna."
His voice cuts through the air like a string snapping.
Luca.
He's standing just ahead in the hall like he's been waiting.
Sweater vest over hoodie. Backpack slung like he doesn't care.
And for a second - one small, soft second - I remember I'm not alone.
He walks straight up to me.
Doesn't ask.
Just takes my hand.
Not hard. Not forceful.
Just... certain.
My chest clenches.
"They're staring," I whisper.
"Let them," he says. Calm. Defiant.
"They think you're only with me because-"
"I don't care what they think," he cuts in. "You know why?"
I shake my head.
"Because they've never met you under the stairs."
And god, just like that - I breathe.
We walk through the hall like a storm no one knows how to name.
Girls whisper.
Boys scoff.
Someone mutters, "Pity project," loud enough for me to hear.
Luca glances back once - just once - and the boy shuts up.
No words. Just a look.
Old money can speak louder than anything. Especially when it chooses you.
We reach the classroom.
I hesitate at the door.
He doesn't pull.
He waits.
"You good?"
I'm not.
But I nod anyway.
He squeezes my hand.
Then lets go.
I step into the room.
Eyes track me like heat sensors.
I sit in the chair he saved beside him.
It's quiet.
Uncomfortably so.
But I don't move.
I don't shrink.
I sit.
Because I'm here.
And maybe that's not healing yet.
But it's a start.