It all started with a feeling.
Whenever he came into the room, her heart would beat faster. Not just faster — chaotically, like it was unsure whether to race forward or fall apart entirely. She didn't understand why at first. All she knew was that the moment he walked into her class, something in her shifted. Her chest tightened, her hands fidgeted, and her eyes suddenly became very good at avoiding his.
They hadn't spoken in years.
She remembered when they were children — simpler, dumber versions of themselves. He was her brother's best friend. Three years older. But at the time, she didn't know that. She thought he was just like them — same age, same jokes, same laughter. They would tease her together. Call her names. Run around the house as if it was their little playground.
One day, when she was ten, she strutted out of the bathroom, wrapped in a cloth like a runway model. She didn't think anyone would be around. But the moment she saw him in the hall, everything inside her froze.
Then — panic.
She turned on her heel and ran. Slammed the door. Closed everything. Her heart beat so loud it echoed in her ears. He laughed. He followed. But she hid until her cheeks cooled, and her pride returned. After changing, she walked back out and acted like nothing had happened.
But it had. And after that, he stopped coming over.