Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 3

Room 109. The numbers stared back at me, metallic against chipped blue paint, as if they’d been waiting. I stood there for a beat too long, the hallway stretching behind me like a slow exhale, students slipping past with hurried footsteps and the rustle of notebooks.

I placed my palm on the cool doorknob, grounding myself. It was the first day of senior year, and everything smelled like floor polish, cheap deodorant, and nervous energy. The air carried a faint whir from the old ceiling fans above, doing their best to fight the stubborn warmth that clung to the walls.

Inside, the classroom buzzed with quiet chatter, desks scraped across the tiled floor, chairs squeaked. I stepped in slowly, clutching the straps of my backpack. The teacher at the front, a tall man with a kind, weathered face and a loosely knotted tie, turned his gaze toward me. Mr. Oxford, I remembered from the enrollment papers.

He gave me a nod. “You must be Betty Finn.”

“Yes, sir.” My voice barely carried.

“Welcome to Room 109. Come up here and introduce yourself to the class.”

Every head turned. My legs felt like jelly as I made my way to the front, the sound of my footsteps suddenly too loud. I turned to face them, all these new faces, their expressions a mix of curiosity and indifference.

“I’m Betty,” I said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “We just moved here. From the city. I… I like books. And music.”

A few polite smiles. A cough from the back.

“Thank you, Betty. You can take that empty seat beside Matt over there.” Mr. Oxford pointed to the third row, near the window.

I nodded and made my way toward the seat. The boy beside it looked up, a mop of dark curls, sleepy eyes, and a faint, reassuring smile. “Hey, I’m Matt,” he said as I sat down.

“Hi,” I said, grateful for the softness in his voice. “I’m Betty.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I caught that.”

We shared a small laugh, the kind that loosens the knots in your stomach. The rest of the class blurred into the background. I stared out the window briefly, sunlight spilled through the glass in narrow streams, painting the dusty desk surfaces gold.

Matt offered me his notes when I struggled to catch up. He leaned over and explained what the class was about so far, something about classic literature and personal essays. He had neat handwriting and a gentle tone.

By the time lunch rolled around, my stomach was knotting, not from hunger, but from nerves. The hallways had blurred past me like a dream I wasn’t invited into. Everyone here seemed to already have their people, their rhythm, their inside jokes and laughter echoing against the pale blue walls like background music I couldn’t tune into yet.

The cafeteria was no different. It buzzed, loud but distant, like I was underwater. I held my tray with both hands, gripping the edge tighter than I meant to. Rice, some kind of lumpia, a sad scoop of pancit, and iced tea that looked more sugar than tea. The kind of lunch that tasted like childhood, but didn’t make anything easier.

I scanned the room, trying not to look as lost as I felt. Every table I passed felt like it was full of stories I didn’t know how to enter. Girls laughing with their arms looped through each other’s. Boys tossing fishballs into each other’s trays. Someone had their phone propped up, playing a K-drama episode with subtitles that flickered too fast to follow. All of it was too much. Too alive. I didn’t know where I fit in.

Then I heard a voice.

"Hey...new girl, right?"

I turned, startled, and saw a girl with soft curls pinned back by sunflower clips. Her uniform was a little rumpled, but in a way that looked intentional. She had the kind of smile that made it seem like she’d seen too much to pretend, but still chose to be kind anyway.