Page 51 of Seven Lost Summers
I swallow hard and give a small nod. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to tell her I’ll try.
Her smile spreads, and her hand slips into mine. Fingers lace tight, claiming. She’s mine. I’m hers.
We move. Step after step through the chaos of this place, through every stare waiting to rip us apart.
Behind us, Quinn says something as she falls in beside Nate. Their words trade back and forth in an easy rhythm, too casual for how heavy the air feels.
The stares hit before we even reach the steps.
Heads turn. Eyes lock on us. Whispers crawl up my spine. Every glance lands like a shove, judgment cutting into my skin.
I tense, my grip tightening. Part of me waits for her to pull away.
But she doesn’t. She leans in, her breath brushing my jaw.
“Let them watch,” she says. “Let them judge. Fuck what they think. That’s their problem, not ours.”
We step into the hall, and everything in me coils tight. My chest locks, heartbeat pounding louder than it should.
The hallway swallows us whole.
I used to keep my head down. Today there’s no hood to drag low, nothing to shield me from the stares that always find me. I feel exposed. Skinned alive.
The noise crashes over me. Locker doors slam, the echoes rattling down the corridor. Shouts bounce off the walls, voices overlapping, every word scraping across my ears.
A textbook drops somewhere behind us, followed by a burst of laughter. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzz and flicker, throwing everything off.
Each step seems too heavy, too exposed.
Reflex has me squeezing Bianca’s hand harder than I should, desperate to anchor myself in her skin.
Everything around us moves in slow motion. Groups crowd the lockers, eyes dragging over us. Conversations cut off, mouths frozen mid-sentence. Heat crawls up the back of my neck.
Someone’s backpack brushes my side and I flinch.
Every glance seems targeted.
Every laugh seems meant for me.
A girl with blonde braids watches from the water fountain, her eyes flicking to our joined hands before her lips curl.
Further down, the jocks sprawl against the walls, shoving each other just enough to show off. Shoulders broad, voices raised louder than needed. Alpha bullshit. Their stares crawl over my skin, dragging nails I can’t shake.
They don’t need to say a word. They’ve said it all before.
Psycho. Fuck-up. Freak.
They decided who I was in this hall a long time ago. Shoved me into a box I never asked for, branded by wisecracks and cheap shots in the middle of crowds. Sideways looks that said more than words ever could. Their laughter always carried loud enough for me to hear—because that was the point. They wanted me to.
I heard it all.
Every name.
Every word.
And now I’m walking straight into their line of fire with no armor.
My grip tightens.
