Slow It Down

Part 12 •REWRITTEN•

I don't know her. At least, I don't think I do. My brain desperately tries to go through all of the people from my first school, and the second one when I moved and met Natalie. She would've definitely been popular, maybe even on the cheer team, but I can't remember ever seeing her in my classes or the hallways.

And despite never having seen her before, something about the way she looked at me—sharp and personal—tells me this isn't just casual gossip to her.

Which makes no sense.

I shift in my seat, pretending to scroll through my notes even though my fingers are trembling. I try to make myself smaller, quieter, less noticeable.

The whispers quiet eventually, but the discomfort lingers for the rest of class.

By the time the bell rings, I'm not even listening to the final instructions. I just want to get out. Away from her. Away from the simmering embarrassment spreading through me like heat.

I wait a few seconds, letting the aisle clear before standing, but it doesn't matter. When I walk past her row, I can feel her eyes on me again, burning through me.

Full of judgement. Measuring. Finding me lacking.

I don't look back. I just keep walking, avoiding eye contact with her, my bag slung over my shoulder and my pulse tapping hard at my throat.

When I finally push through the door into the hallway, the air feels cooler—but I don't. Not in the slightest.

Everything inside me feels too tight. Too exposed. Too familiar. Like I've slipped backward into a version of myself I thought I'd grown out of.

The hallway swells around me with its usual chaos—voices overlapping, lockers slamming, the sharp squeak of sneakers on tile. It blurs into a dull roar, too loud and too bright after the way class ended. My pulse is still tangled, tripping unevenly in my chest. I keep my head down and focus on the floor, telling myself that if I move quickly enough, maybe the knot in my stomach will loosen.

Halfway down the corridor, I lift my gaze just to navigate the crowd—and stop.

Jackson is leaning against the wall near the vending machines, one hand braced above his head while he talks to someone on his team. He looks relaxed in that effortless way he always has, half-listening, half-bored, like nothing could possibly rattle him.

Until his eyes land on me.

The shift is immediate. His shoulders draw in, the easy slope of them tightening, and the faintest crease forms between his brows. It's small—so small I doubt anyone else would see it—but it hits me in a way that feels unsteady. His gaze sharpens, not just landing on me but searching, taking me in with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

Concern moves through his expression, quiet but unmistakable.

It knocks something loose inside me. I try to straighten, to smooth my features into something neutral, but I know I'm too slow. He sees it—the leftover hurt from class, the embarrassment I haven't managed to swallow. If anyone could recognize a crack in my expression, it would be him.

His eyes soften in a way that feels impossibly familiar, like a reflex he hasn't learned how to untrain. Something warm and unwelcome twists under my ribs. Why does he still look at me like that? And why does part of me react like it matters?

The hallway keeps moving around us—slamming lockers, shouts from across the corridor, the occasional squeak of someone's shoes—but everything between us feels strangely quiet.

He pushes off the wall without seeming to think, taking a slow, measured step toward me. His mouth parts, as if he's about to speak—something quietly urgent, something that pulls on a memory I've spent years trying to bury.