Third period is hell.
Physics again. Of course it is. The numbers blur on the board, and I already know
what's waiting for me at home if this next test goes south.
I don't sit near Chiara—Ms. Bennati changed the seating chart after our last "debate" got too loud—
but she's still close enough.
Just enough to annoy me when she raises her hand with all the right answers.
She's in one of her quiet moods. Focused. Head bent over her notes, pen tapping in rhythm like she's keeping time to some song only she hears.
I look away.
Behind me, Samu mutters something stupid and tries to pass me a sketch he made of the teacher with a dragon head. I smirk, but it doesn't stick. My ribs still ache from yesterday. Every breath reminds me.
"Moretti," the teacher says, dragging my name out like gum.
"You're up. Problem seven."
I stiffen. Walk to the board. Marker in hand, back to the class.
My hands feel cold and sweaty at once.
I get halfway through the equation before I realise I've written the wrong formula. A few snickers from the back. I erase, rewrite.
My head's swimming. My cheek burns again—not from fresh pain, but from memory.
"Try again," the teacher sighs, already disappointed.
I grind my teeth and fix it.
As I walk back to my seat, I catch Chiara looking at me. Not smug. Just…watching. Like she's trying to figure something out.
I drop into my chair, shove my hoodie sleeves down. Pretend I didn't see.
She's probably waiting for me to mess up again.
She's probably already ten steps ahead.
Good.
Let her think I'm fine.
Let her think I'm still the guy who
can keep up.
Because the moment anyone knows the truth, they own it.
And I've already got enough people
trying to do that.