The lights came on.
And I didn’t let go.
By the time I get out of the locker room, the article is already dying.
Not because the internet found a conscience.
Because it found a better line.
Clips of the press conference are everywhere.
Quotes.
Screenshots.
Posts.
PUT SOME RESPECT ON WHAT SHE BUILT
I FAILED HER WHEN I WAS YOUNGER. I’M TRYING TO DO IT RIGHT NOW. #LOVEBADLY
TRISTAN VALE SAID WHAT HE SAID.
Kane is having the time of his life.
“You do realize,” he says as we walk the hall, “that you just gave campus enough quote content to survive until February.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Hot, though.”
“Die.”
He laughs and peels off toward the bus.
I keep going.
Because there’s only one person I care about finding.
I spot Stella in the side corridor near the family-and-friends exit, half hidden by concrete and shadow and one bright vending machine that hums like a witness.
She’s standing with her arms folded, my hoodie sleeves pushed over her hands, face tipped down toward her phone.
When she hears my steps, she looks up.
And I swear the whole night narrows.
Not because she’s crying.
She isn’t.
Not because she looks wrecked.
She doesn’t.
Because she looks like someone holding something fragile and trying to decide whether to trust that it’s safe now.
I stop in front of her.
