Page 15 of Until Forever Falls

While we work, he’s unexpectedly attentive, offering small but clear directions, guiding me with a natural fluidity that makes it easy to follow along. We start laughing at random little things—the shadow my hand casts when I try to cover the sun, the ridiculous angle he contorts into while lying on the floor to capture it just right.

The minutes slip by, and for a while, I almost forget we’re in a classroom. It’s rare, this kind of focus, the kind that makes time stretch and compress all at once. But then the bell cuts through it, snapping everything back into place.

I blink, momentarily disoriented, like I’ve surfaced too fast from deep water. The room rushes back in, and I reach for my bag just as my stomach twists in on itself—an uncomfortable reminder that I skipped breakfast this morning. I press a hand to my stomach, willing it to stay quiet, but Brooks glances over anyway.

I brace for a comment, for some teasing remark, but he just tilts his head, considering me.

“What class do you have next?”

“Uh…chemistry.” I pull my schedule from my binder, falling into step next to him and double-checking the room number as if it might’ve changed in the last hour.

“Oh. Really? Me too.” He tilts his head slightly, sneaking a glance at the paper. “Hey, maybe we’ll be partners again.”

“Or…maybe they’ll split us up and make us meet new people,” I counter.

“Who needs new people when you’ve got me?” he quips, one brow arching in a playful challenge.

I huff a laugh, sliding my schedule back into place. “Touché.”

We walk in sync, and Brooks lifts a hand, exchanging a few waves with other students as we make our way to the other side of the building. Then he looks over, the humor slipping from his voice.

“So, you and your mom don’t get along, huh?”

I feel myself retreat, instinct kicking in before I can stop it. That brief crack in my defenses seals itself shut. “It’s complicated.”

Brooks seems to catch on, and his expression grows regretful. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s fine. We just don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.”

His face relaxes, his features gentler now. “Parents are so out of touch sometimes.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

Just before we reach the classroom, Brooks angles toward me. “So, what’s your plan for lunch?”

“Uh, I hadn’t really thought about it. The cafeteria?”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

“Oh yeah?” I counter. “And what’s that?”

“You’ll see,” he flicks the edge of my notebook with his fingers, a casual que for me to follow. “I’ll take you somewhere after class.”

7

Brooks

Then

Chemistry drags. I should be paying attention, but the words on the board blur together, my mind stuck replaying last period. I don’t know why, but taking pictures of Dylan was the most fun I’ve had in that class all year. It wasn’t just the project—it was her. The way she moved without thinking, how the light caught in her hair, the way her eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, she made the whole thing easy. Natural. And the pictures? They turned out incredible. I don’t say that lightly. I’ve taken plenty of portraits before, but there was something mesmerizing about these—about her.

I have to physically stop myself from glancing her way. It’s impossible not to notice her. She sits a few rows over, scribbling notes, her black curls spilling past her shoulders—several strands slipping forward as she leans in, completely absorbed. Like she doesn’t realize half the room is only pretending to pay attention, counting down the minutes until lunch. I wonder if she’s always like that—lost in her own world.

Before I can stop myself, I shift in my seat, resting my elbow on the desk angling just enough to steal another glance.

A silver butterfly necklace rests against her collarbone, shifting subtly with each of her movements. Her maroon cardigan drapes off one shoulder, like it’s in the middle of a dance with gravity. She tugs it up absentmindedly, but it finds its way back down a few minutes later—like it’s meant to be there.

I force my eyes back to the front of the room, tapping my pen against my notebook, trying to ignore…whatever this is I’m feeling. She’s just a girl. It’s not that deep.

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