Industrial glue. Burnt hair. Harsh fluorescent lights. The stale air of a high school chemistry lab where I was sixteen, painfully quiet, and doing everything I could to disappear into the back row.
But Mark had no intention of letting me disappear.
Back then, he was everything the town loved. Broad shoulders in a football jacket. Easy grin. Loud voice. The kind of boy teachers forgave and classmates admired. He moved through the halls like the world had been built for him.I was the opposite. Serious. Invisible. Easy to laugh at.
That morning in chemistry, while Mr. Jensen droned on about covalent bonds, I felt a slight tug at my braid. I assumed it was an accident. Mark sat behind me, after all, always restless, always moving, always taking up more space than anyone else.
So I ignored it.
Then the bell rang.
