Page 108 of Picture Perfect

"Hey, Addy," I call out, trying to keep my voice light, nonchalant. She doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge me at all. It stings more than I want to admit.

"Addy?" I push through the throng, slipping between a couple of freshmen to get closer. "You ready for lunch?"

She keeps moving, silent, like I'm just another whisper of wind. I frown, fall into step beside her. "Is everything okay?"

Her green eyes are fixed ahead, her lips pressed into a thin line. The vibe coming off her is Arctic, and I can't help but feel the chill seep into my bones. This isn't the Addy I've come to know—the one who, little by little, started to let me in.

"Did I do something wrong?" I probe, needing to understand. We're almost at the computer lab now, and still, she won't give me anything. It's like talking to a ghost.

"Look, if you don't want to talk about it here, we can—" My offer dies on my tongue as she strides into the lab without waiting for me. I trail after her, feeling the weight of every step.

Gone is the girl who’d begun to thaw, who'd shared laughs and secrets with me, who'd given me something precious to treasure. In her place is a fortress of ice, each brick laid back with precision since... since when? What changed?

"Addy," I say, softer now.

But she still doesn't acknowledge me, her back a silent rebuff. I watch her for a moment, the way she holds herself so rigidly, like she's bracing against a storm only she can feel. It's déjà vu, a cruel rewind to day one. A pang of something fierce and protective rises in me—I can't stand seeing her revert to the shell she was when I first met her. Not after everything.

"Fine," I mutter, mostly to myself, "we'll talk later." There's a tightness in my chest, a frustration brewing that I can't quite name. I've got to figure this out; I refuse to let us slip back into strangers.

I settle into one of the computer chairs and boot up my laptop, stealing glances at her as I pretend to focus on the screen. The memory of that night—her touch, her trust—plays in my mind like a bittersweet symphony. It was supposed to be a turning point for us, a step closer. But now there's this chasm, wide and silent between us.

"Did you regret it?" I whisper, almost hoping she doesn't hear me over the click-clack of keyboards.

It had been the most amazing thing I've ever experienced. The connection, the intimacy, I thought we'd finally cracked open something real. My feelings for her are deep, tangled roots that can't be easily unearthed. But maybe... maybe for her, it wasn't about us. Maybe I was just convenient—a warm body, an easy target when she needed to feel something other than pain. Maybe I was just the easy choice.

The door swings open and Gen strolls in, with Saint and Dre flanking her like sentinels. Their presence fills the room, Saint with his brooding intensity and Dre with his defiant edge.

"Hey, girl," Gen greets, sliding onto the couch next to Addy. She leans in, her voice a conspiratorial murmur. "You're missing all the drama outside. Lana got caught making out with Mr. Kline in the janitor's closet."

Addy barely lifts her eyes from her lap, the ghost of a shrug her only response. Gen looks at me, her expression a mix of confusion and worry, before she turns back to Addy, undeterred.

"Come on, Addy. Talk to me. To any of us." Gen's plea is soft, laced with the kind of patience born from dealing with creatures more skittish than wild deer.

But Addy's indifference is an impenetrable fortress. Even Saint's usually unreadable face creases with concern as he crosses his arms, leaning against the wall with a heavy sigh. Dre rakes a hand through his hair, the ink on his skin a stark contrast to the sterile light of the lab.

I can see his fingers itching to reach for her. He wants to haul her up and plop her back down in his lap where he can tease her, hold her close. But it's obvious she doesn't want to be touched and, for once, he's respecting that.

"Anything?" Saint asks me under his breath, his dark curls falling over his furrowed brow.

I shake my head, frustration gnawing at the edges of my resolve. We're all grappling in the dark here, trying to find the thread that will lead us back to the Addy who smiled more than she frowned, who seemed to be finding some peace in the chaos of our lives.

"Hey, Snowflake," Dre implores, his voice carrying a rare note of vulnerability.

It's torture. This is torture. She accepts the lunch Saint brought her, barely nibbling on it. She doesn't involve herself in the conversation. She doesn't answer any questions. She barely even looks at any of us.

I fucking hate it.

Gen's hand gently guides Addy out of the room near the end of the lunch period, their heads bent together. The door swings shut behind them with a soft click, and suddenly, the computer lab feels too silent, too empty.

"Guys," I start, my voice low as I turn to Saint and Dre, "I don't...how do we fix this?" My eyes flicker between their faces, searching for any hint of understanding.

Saint shrugs, the movement sending ripples through the muscle beneath his shirt. He runs his fingers through his curls as he answers. "She's retreated into herself again. Won't even talk to her usual Winthrop-approved hangers on."

"She's like ice," Dre adds, the blue of his eyes glacial with worry. He leans back in his chair, tattoos stretching over his skin like dark vines. "It's been days since she said anything to me. It's like she's ghosting us in real life."

"Maybe something happened at home?" I suggest tentatively, knowing full well the kind of emotional minefield that is the Winthrop household.

"Could be," Saint says, running a hand through his curly hair. "The problem is, she won't let us in to help. It's like we're back at square one."

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