School feels like a tunnel today. The noise, the lockers slamming, the endless drone of the teachers—it's all a blur.
I slide into my seat at the back of Literature, hood down, eyes half-shut. Pretending to listen. Pretending to care.
Mr. Benadetti drones on about tragic heroes or something. I don't even bother
writing it down.
My side still aches. My face feels less swollen, but it's like my body remembers better than my brain does.
Across the room, Chiara's bent over her notebook, neat handwriting filling the page. Perfect. Focused. Like nothing in her world could ever crack.
It's stupid, but it pisses me off.
I hate how she looks so... untouched. Like nothing messy ever sticks to her.
But then I catch a tiny thing: her hand, hesitating over the paper. A small twitch in her jaw. Most people wouldn't notice it.
I do.
I lean back in my chair, kicking it onto two legs, letting my gaze drift away. Doesn't matter. None of it matters.
The bell rings and the class explodes into motion. Backpacks zipping. Chairs scraping. Mr. Benadetti shouting last-minute reminders.
I hang back, pretending to fix the crap in my bag until most of the class is gone.
When I finally move into the hallway, Chiara's already ahead of me. Sofia loops her arm through hers, whispering something that makes Chiara half-smile.
It's the kind of smile you put on when you don't want people to ask questions.
I know that smile way too well.
Samu appears beside me, tossing a soccer ball between his hands.
"You coming to practice later?" he asks.
I shrug. "Yeah."
"Coach said he wants to see more fire. Whatever the hell that means."
"It means 'run until you puke,'" I mutter.
Samu laughs and claps my back. The slap jars my bruised side, and I flinch before I can stop it.
His smile fades for half a second, but he doesn't say anything. Just keeps walking.
I'm grateful.
I glance once more at Chiara, just before she disappears around the corner.
Curiosity is a dangerous thing.
And I've already got enough broken edges without adding hers to the pile.