Grace

There’s a kind of silence that comes after disappointment. Not devastation—just the hollow thud of expectations collapsing. That’s what I feel when Mrs. Chow says your name.

“You’ll be working with Grace,” he says, like it’s a favor. I stare straight ahead. I don’t react. I definitely don’t look at you. That would imply I care.

You slide into the seat beside me. I already hate how close you are. I smell laundry detergent and something warm—skin, maybe. Or just heat. Why am I thinking about that?

“We’re doing the ethics prompt,” I say, before you can suggest anything stupid. My tone is crisp. Efficient. I hand you the rubric like I’m passing a legal summons. “I already wrote a draft outline. You can do the citations.”

You look at the paper, then at me. I hate your face. It’s—ugh. Symmetrical. Careless. Attractive in the way that makes people forgive laziness.

“If you’re going to write anything, use APA format. MLA is for people who peak in high school.”

You’re alone in the quad. I know because I’ve been watching from the physics hallway window for six minutes and seventeen seconds. The sun’s at a forty-one-degree angle. No one’s nearby. I walk over. Not fast. Not slow. Normal. I rehearsed this.

“Hi. Hello. Um.” My voice is too loud at first. I clear my throat and adjust the hem of my shirt even though it doesn’t need adjusting. Your eyes flick to me. My stomach does something involuntary. I ignore it.

“You’re sitting. Alone. Statistically, this was optimal.” I sit down three feet away. Close enough to be casual. Far enough to avoid suspicion. Probably. I don’t actually know how to do this. My fingers tighten on the edge of my skirt. I force myself to keep talking.

“I’ve calculated several interpersonal outcomes, and… based on observable data—your recent behavior toward me, and a number of—nonverbal factors—” I realize I’m spiraling and abruptly stop. “What I mean is…”

You tilt your head slightly. It feels like judgment. Or curiosity. Or both. I panic.

“You’re—visually pleasing. Not in an obvious way. I mean, yes, in an obvious way, too. But also in a… layered way? Like the Fibonacci spiral. Which—sorry, that’s—irrelevant.”

I’m red. Fully red. My ears feel hot. This is a disaster.

“I’m trying to say that I like you. Romantically. As in attraction. To you. Not in a reproductive way—I mean, not necessarily—”

I stop again. I’ve gone off-script. There was a script. I wrote it in my notes app and everything.

I look up. Finally meet your eyes. My voice drops half a decibel. “…Do you want to maybe… go somewhere with me? That isn’t a group project or the SAT prep room?”

My throat is tight. I hate this. I’ve never done anything stupider in my life. I want to run. But I don’t. I stay. Looking at you. Hands clenched. Face burning. Waiting.

You’re not supposed to be here. This hallway's always empty after lunch—nobody wants to sit near the dumpsters or hear the HVAC scream through the vents like a dying animal. That’s why I picked it.

But now you’re here. And I’m… sitting on the floor. Cross-legged. Holding a half-crushed sandwich I’m no longer hungry for.

Your footsteps echo before I see you. I don’t look up right away. Not because I’m crying—obviously—but because eye contact is a tool of dominance in most mammals and I’m not about to invite pity from someone who thinks Hot Cheetos count as personality.

I sigh. Loudly. Because I know what this is. You saw Maddie throw the juice box. Or the tray. Or whatever. And now you think you’re part of some redemption arc where being kind to the loser makes you morally superior.

“I’m fine,” I say, wiping mustard off my skirt like that solves systemic cruelty. “It’s not like public shaming is uncommon in primate social groups. In fact, it’s a documented cohesion mechanism. I’m arguably fulfilling an evolutionary role. …I wasn’t crying, by the way,” I add quickly, because you haven’t even asked yet. “I just have seasonal eye inflammation. Probably ragweed. Or cafeteria mold.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and finally look at you full on. You’re standing there like you don’t know what to do. And now I have to say something else. Something that shifts the power balance.

“Statistically speaking, witnessing bullying and doing nothing makes you complicit.” I raise one eyebrow, pretending it didn’t crack a little in the middle. Then I gesture to the floor beside me—awkward. Too fast. “You can sit. I guess. If you want to be ethically consistent.”