The third-floor hallway hums with the usual chaos. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow glow that makes even the prettiest girls look tired. The linoleum is cool through my shoes, worn smooth by thousands of feet that walked this same stretch before me. The air smells like floor wax and sweat and the sour ghost of a thousand bodies pressed together between bells.

I see him before he sees me.

River stands at his locker, surrounded by his football teammates like they're orbiters and he's the sun they can't help but circle. He's leaning against the lockers, one shoulder propped against the metal, his black hoodie hanging loose off his frame. His dark hair falls across his forehead, messy and untouchable. He's talking about practice later — something about routes and coverages — and I let his voice wash over me. Deep. Flat. Like he doesn't care about anything enough to put feeling into it.

My heart does that thing it always does when I see him. That stupid, traitorous skip that I can't control no matter how many times I tell myself to stop. To give up. To find a boy who actually wants to be looked at.

But I can't.

I smile and start walking toward the circle. My hips sway with every step. I know how I look. I know how this transparent shirt clings to my breasts, how the fabric is nothing but a whisper between my skin and the world. My nipples are hard against the sheer material, visible to everyone who bothers to look. I'm not wearing a bra. I never do. I love my body — every curve, every inch, every part of me that makes heads turn when I walk into a room.

The football players notice me before I reach them.

Marcus sees me first. His eyes drop to my chest, and he doesn't even try to hide it. "Damn, Bella." He whistles low. "You trying to make it hard to focus on practice?"

I laugh. Easy. Bright. The sound I've perfected over two years of pretending I'm fine. "Like you ever focus on anything but yourself, Marcus."

Danny's next. His gaze lingers on my breasts, on the outline of my nipples through the thin fabric. "What are you wearing, Bella? Trying to start something?"

I shrug. Keep my voice light. "Just a shirt. Don't get excited — it's not for you."

They laugh. They always laugh. They stare at my chest, my hips, my ass in these tight jeans that leave nothing to the imagination. They want me. All of them. And I let them look because it doesn't matter. Their wanting means nothing.

Only one pair of eyes matters.

And those eyes won't look at me.

River hasn't moved. He's still leaning against the lockers, thumb hooked in the pocket of his hoodie, gaze fixed somewhere above my head. He hasn't acknowledged me. Not a glance. Not a flicker. I'm right here, five feet away, wearing a shirt that might as well be painted on, and he's looking at the ceiling tiles like they're more interesting than I'll ever be.

I step closer. Wedge myself into the circle of bodies around his locker. The football players shift to make room — they always do. They want me close. They want to breathe the same air.

River's jaw tightens. Just a fraction. Just enough for me to notice.

I notice everything about him.

"What are you guys talking about?" I ask, directing the question at the group. At anyone but him. "Practice?"

"Yeah," Marcus says. His eyes are still on my chest. "Coach is running us through hell today. Says we need to be ready for Friday."

"You'll be fine." I let my voice go warm. Easy. "You always are."

Danny grins. "You coming to the game Friday?"

"Obviously. I'm a cheerleader. It's my job."

"Then we'll win." Danny nudges River. "Right, man? Gotta put on a show for the girls."

River doesn't respond. Doesn't even acknowledge Danny. He just stares at the open locker, pulling out a textbook with slow, deliberate movements.

The silence stretches.

I feel it in my chest. That familiar ache. That familiar hollow.

I'm standing five feet away from him. Five feet. That's the closest I've ever gotten. Two years of chasing him through these hallways, of finding excuses to be near him, of wearing outfits that make every other boy in this school trip over their own feet — and I still can't break through whatever wall he's built around himself.

"River."

His name leaves my mouth before I can stop it. Soft. Hopeful. Stupid.

He pauses. For a second — just a second — I think he might look at me. I think he might finally let me in.

Then he closes his locker. The metal clangs shut like a door slamming in my face.

"I gotta get to class."

His voice is flat. Empty. Like I'm not even worth the energy of annoyance.

He walks away.

He doesn't look back.

I watch his shoulders disappear into the crowd, swallowed by the flow of students moving between classes. The black hoodie gets smaller and smaller until I can't pick him out anymore.

My chest feels tight. That familiar pressure building behind my ribs, the one I've gotten so good at ignoring.

Marcus says something. I don't hear it. Danny laughs. I don't hear that either.

I'm still standing in front of River's locker, five feet from where he was, feeling the ghost of his presence fade like morning fog.

I smile. Because that's what I do. I smile and laugh and let my hips sway and let every boy in this school look at my body like I'm something worth wanting. I'm the most popular girl here. I have the fattest ass and the biggest breasts and a face that belongs on magazine covers. Everyone looks at me.

Everyone except the one person I actually want to see me.

I turn away from his locker. The fluorescent lights are still humming. The hallway is still full. The air still smells like floor wax and bodies and the sour taste of wanting something I can't have.

The bell rings. The hallway starts to thin.

I don't move.

I stand there for a long moment, staring at the locker he just closed, wondering what it would feel like if he ever opened himself up to me the same way.

This is going to be a long day.

This is going to be a long year.

I press my palm flat against the cool metal of his locker — just for a second — then I pull my hand away and walk toward my first class.

Behind me, the locker stays closed.

The rest of the day passes like I'm underwater.

First period English. Mrs. Chen's voice droning about symbolism in *The Great Gatsby*. I stare at the page and see nothing but the back of his locker, the way the metal caught the fluorescent light when he closed it. Five feet. I was five feet away from him and he couldn't even look at me.

I run my thumb along the edge of my desk, feeling the grain of old wood, the ridges where someone carved their initials years ago. The clock on the wall ticks too loud. The seconds feel like hours.

Second period history. I don't remember walking there. I don't remember sitting down. My body goes through the motions while my brain is still trapped in that hallway, still standing in front of River's locker, still watching his shoulders disappear into the crowd.

Did his jaw tighten?

I freeze, the thought hitting me mid-note-taking. I replay it. Rewind. Slow down.

When I said his name. When I called out to him before he closed his locker. He paused. His hand was on the metal handle and he paused. And in that pause, I remember his jaw — it tightened. Just slightly. A muscle flexing beneath his skin.

Or did I imagine it?

I bite my lip. Hard. The pain anchors me to the present, to this classroom, to the sound of Mr. Peterson writing dates on the whiteboard in squeaky dry-erase marker.

I probably imagined it. I've gotten so good at imagining things with him. The way I imagine his hands. The way I imagine his voice softening. The way I imagine him looking at me the way every other boy in this school looks at me — hungry, desperate, like I'm something they need to survive.

But River doesn't look at me like that. River doesn't look at me at all.

Third period. Lunch.

The cafeteria is loud. Trays clattering. Voices overlapping. The smell of pizza and stale fries hanging in the air like a permanent fog. I sit at my usual table, surrounded by cheerleaders and jocks and people who think I'm someone worth knowing.

Maya's talking about some drama with her boyfriend. Jessica's complaining about a test she failed. Danny waves at me from the football table, and I wave back, my smile automatic, practiced, perfect.

River sits three tables away.

I don't look at him. I refuse to look at him. I stare at Maya's face and nod along to whatever she's saying and laugh when Jessica makes a joke and I don't look at him.

But I feel him.

I feel him the way you feel the sun on your skin even when your eyes are closed. A warmth you can't escape. A presence that fills every empty space in the room.

He's talking to Marcus. His head is down. His hands are wrapped around a water bottle, turning it slowly, watching the liquid inside slosh against the plastic.

He looks tired. Dark circles under his eyes. His black hoodie is zipped all the way up, collar brushing his jaw, like he's trying to disappear inside it.

I look away.

My chest aches. That familiar hollow ache that lives behind my sternum, the one that wakes me up at 3am and keeps me staring at my ceiling wondering what I did wrong.

I didn't do anything wrong. That's the worst part. I've been nothing but open with him. I've smiled at him in the hallways. I've said his name like it matters. I've worn outfits that make other boys stammer and stare, hoping he'd be the one to look, hoping he'd be the one to want me.

But River doesn't want me.

River acts like I don't exist.

And the worst part — the part that makes my eyes sting if I think about it too long — is that he's not even mean about it. He doesn't sneer at me. He doesn't roll his eyes. He doesn't say cruel things to hurt me.

He just... doesn't see me.

Anger would require attention. Disdain would require energy. River treats me like I'm not worth the effort of either.

I press my palm against my chest, feeling my heartbeat through my ribs. Steady. Stubborn. Still going even though it feels like it should have stopped by now.

The bell rings.

I gather my tray, stand up, and let my eyes drift toward his table one last time.

He's already gone.

Of course he is.

Fourth period. Chemistry. I sit in the back row and stare at the periodic table and think about how every element has a number, a name, a place where it belongs. Carbon is always carbon. Oxygen is always oxygen. They don't have to wonder where they fit.

I wish I was an element.

I wish I had a place where I was supposed to be, instead of this constant aching drift toward someone who doesn't want me.

Fifth period. Sixth. Seventh.

The day bleeds together. I'm a ghost in my own life, moving through hallways and classrooms, smiling at people, laughing at jokes, being Isabella — the popular one, the pretty one, the one everyone wants.

Except the one I want.

When the final bell rings, I don't head straight to my car. I take the long way. The third floor. The hallway near the science wing where the fluorescent lights hum in that specific way and the linoleum reflects the pale glow like a dirty mirror.

His locker.

I stop in front of it. Number 247. The paint is chipped around the edges. There's a small dent near the bottom where someone kicked it. A sticker of a football helmet on the upper left corner, peeling at the edges.

I reach out and touch it. Just my fingertips. Just for a second.

The metal is cold. Smooth. Unforgiving.

I remember the way he stood here this morning. His shoulders. His hands. The way he moved like he was carrying something heavy, something invisible that only he could feel.

He paused when I said his name.

I know he paused.

I replay it again. Frame by frame. The way his hand froze on the locker handle. The way his shoulders tensed. The way his jaw tightened, just for a moment, before he shut it all down and walked away.

It means something.

Doesn't it?

Or am I just making up stories again, weaving fantasies out of nothing, convincing myself that breadcrumbs are a meal?