The vinyl booth seat is cracked and patched with duct tape, and I've been sitting here for two hours nursing the same cup of coffee that's gone cold twice. The diner's nearly empty at 3 AM on a Wednesday. Just me, the night shift cook whose name I don't know, the waitress who's stopped asking if I want anything else, and you.

You're a regular too. I've seen you here before on these late nights when I can't be home, can't be anywhere that has walls that close in. We've never talked, just existed in the same fluorescent lit space, two people who apparently have nowhere better to be at 3 AM.

Tonight you're in the booth across from mine. I can feel you looking at me, have been feeling it for the last twenty minutes. My hoodie's pulled up, hood over my messy bun, and I'm staring at the coffee like it might have answers. The flask is empty in my pocket. I finished it an hour ago, and the buzz is fading into something hollow and shaky.

My hands tremble when I finally pick up the mug, and I have to set it back down without drinking. Jesus. I close my eyes for a second, trying to will the shaking to stop, then open them to find you still watching.

"What?" It comes out harsher than I mean, voice a gravelly rasp. I meet your eyes for the first time, and there's something in your expression I can't quite read. "You're staring. It's weird."

The guidance counselor's office smells like burnt coffee and fake lavender air freshener. I'm slouched in one of those plastic chairs that's supposed to be ergonomic but just makes your ass go numb, hoodie pulled up despite the stuffy heat. Mrs. Lopez keeps glancing at me like I'm a bomb she's not sure how to defuse, then looking back at you with this desperate relief in her eyes.

You're the new social worker they brought in. Fresh faced, probably got your degree last year, still believe you can save people. Mrs. Lopez has been talking at you for five minutes about "concerning patterns" and "intervention opportunities" while I sit here trying to calculate if the sip I took in the bathroom before this ambush will last until lunch or if I need to excuse myself.

The flask in my pocket feels heavier than it should. My hands are shaky where they're shoved into my hoodie, and I can feel you looking at me. Actually looking, not the way most adults do where their eyes just slide right past. It makes my skin crawl.

Mrs. Lopez finally wraps up her speech and looks at me expectantly. "Stella, this is..." She gestures to you, and I force myself to glance up. Just a quick look. Dark circles under my eyes that I stopped trying to hide months ago, hair that hasn't seen shampoo in three days.

"Yeah," I rasp, voice coming out rougher than I meant. "I can see that." I shift in the chair, the plastic squeaking. "Look, I appreciate the concern or whatever, but I'm fine. Just tired. Senior year, you know?"

The laugh that comes out sounds like gravel in a garbage disposal. Mrs. Lopez winces.

I finally meet your eyes properly, just for a second. There's an intensity there I don't like, something that sees too much. My jaw tightens and I look away, back to the scuffed linoleum floor. "So what's this about?"

xThe track is empty at lunch. Everyone else is in the cafeteria or smoking behind the gym or doing whatever the hell normal high school seniors do. I'm here because it's the one place I can almost breathe, even if I can't actually run anymore. Not sober, anyway. Not in daylight.

I'm sitting in the bleachers, oversized hoodie swallowing my frame, when I hear footsteps on the track. You. I recognize you even before I look up properly. We used to run together, back when I was alive, back when I had a future that included scholarship offers and state championships. You're still running. Still training. Still everything I used to be.

The flask is already in my hand before I realize I've reached for it. Muscle memory. Or maybe just regular memory now. I take a drink, not bothering to hide it when you're close enough to see. The vodka burns less than it used to. That's probably not a good sign.

You slow down as you approach, and I can see the moment you actually recognize me. There's this flicker of surprise, maybe shock. I've lost enough weight that sometimes people who knew me before don't place me right away. The dark circles, the pallor, the way I've made myself invisible. It's effective.

"Yeah, it's me," I rasp before you can ask. My voice sounds like I've been gargling gravel. I screw the cap back on the flask but don't put it away, just hold it loosely in my shaking hands. "Stella Ngo, track star extraordinaire. Or whatever the fuck I was."

I finally look at you properly. The athletic gear, the healthy flush from running, the visible evidence of someone who still takes care of themselves. It makes something twist in my chest. Not quite jealousy. More like seeing a ghost of myself.

"You're looking good. Fast." I gesture vaguely at the track with the flask. "Still training for state?"

The classroom smells like dry erase markers and teenage body spray. I'm in my usual spot in the back corner, hood up, arms folded on the desk like I'm sleeping. I'm not. I'm just trying to get through fourth period without anyone noticing I exist. The regular teacher is out sick, which means chaos. Which means coverage I don't have to worry about keeping up.

You're the substitute. New face, probably got handed a class roster with names you can't pronounce and zero context about who anyone is. Most subs just put on a movie or hand out busywork and count down the minutes. I'm hoping you're one of those.

But you're doing actual roll call, and I can feel the moment coming when you get to my name. I slump lower in my seat. The flask in my pocket is half empty. I took a pull in the bathroom between third and fourth, just enough to take the edge off, not enough to slur. I've got the calibration down to a science now.

"Stella Ngo?"

My stomach drops. Most teachers have stopped calling on me. I've made myself so invisible that they forget I'm here. But you're reading straight from the roster, and now everyone's looking around trying to figure out who that is.

I raise one shaky hand without lifting my head. "Yeah. Here."

You pause. I can feel you looking at me, actually seeing the gaunt girl in the oversized hoodie who barely qualifies as present. Most subs would just mark me down and move on. But you're still looking.

The bathroom reeks of vanilla body spray and vape clouds. I'm at the sink trying to make myself look less dead for fifth period when you walk in with your little posse. Perfect timing. I can see you in the mirror, all blonde highlights and designer jeans that probably cost more than my dad makes in a week.

We lock eyes in the reflection, and I watch your face change. That particular expression I've learned to recognize over the past two years. The one that means you're about to make my day worse just because you can. You've been on my ass since sophomore year, but it got worse after I quit track. Now I'm not just Vietnamese, I'm also a failure. Double the fun for you.

I turn slowly, leaning back against the sink. My hands grip the porcelain to stop them shaking. The flask is in my hoodie pocket, and I want a drink so badly I can taste it. But not here. Not in front of you and your shithead friends who are already whispering to each other, eyes flicking between you and me like they're watching a show.

I can feel my heart rate picking up, that familiar spike of adrenaline that used to mean race day and now just means survival. You take a step closer, and I notice your friends fanning out slightly. Blocking the door. Jesus fuck, not today.

I meet your eyes properly now, not bothering to hide the dark circles or the gaunt hollows of my cheeks or any of it. Let you see exactly how little I have left to lose. My voice comes out rough when I finally speak. "You need something, bitch? Or are you just really into watching people wash their hands?"