Slow Burn

Chapter Four

The thing about school is that it never changes. The same fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the same sticky floors trap the soles of my shoes, the same people drift past me like extras in some terribly low-budget teen drama. And yet somehow, today feels heavier than yesterday.

I leave my house later than usual because Lila insists on making me breakfast. She doesn’t ask anymore if I want it; she just makes it. Pancakes, which I eat out of obligation, not hunger. She hums while I scrape syrup off the plate with my fork. I wonder if she realizes that I’m pretending to swallow life the way people pretend to chew gum properly.

“You look tired,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say, which is true in the same way that the sun is sometimes hot. I don’t want to explain the layers. She doesn’t want to hear them. That’s fine.

When I arrive at Higgs — the Highgate Institute of Global Humanities and Science — the halls are already littered with bodies. Teenagers shuffle with tired expressions, glued to phones, laptops, and the occasional friend who might actually care. I take my usual path, avoiding eye contact, as if the sheer weight of my indifference can make me invisible.

Natalie spots me immediately. Her energy is impossible to ignore. It’s like walking into a storm made of confetti and caffeine.

“Ashley!” she calls, flinging her bag onto the floor next to mine. “You will not believe what happened last night.”

I shrug, because that’s what I do. My face probably looks like I just consumed something unpleasant, which is close enough.

“Tell me you checked the new blog post!” she continues. Her hair is perfectly arranged, which is cruel, because how does someone maintain hair like that without stealing hours from the universe?

“I glanced,” I say. Which is true. But only in the way that lying half the time feels like a courtesy.

Natalie sits beside me in the common room, as if she owns this tiny corner of the universe. She talks, and I let the words wash over me without fully absorbing them. She’s recounting a fight between some senior students over a cafeteria sandwich, which is a plot I could not care less about, but she’s too excited for me to interrupt.

Elsie and Becca — the other two in my little circle of “good people” — are already engaged in a debate about some actor from an obscure indie film. I nod occasionally, because the act of nodding makes me feel like I belong here without actually being part of anything.

Then, as if on cue, Ethan walks past.

I see him before he notices me. Not because I care to, but because it’s hard not to notice someone who seems to exist with a gravitational pull I cannot escape. His black backpack swings lazily over one shoulder. His eyes flicker in my direction, and there’s something there — recognition, familiarity, maybe even curiosity.

He walks on, but I feel the tug in my chest anyway.

Natalie notices my pause. “He’s staring at you again,” she says casually, as if this is normal behavior and not terrifyingly intimate.

I do not reply.

I do not want to reply.

I do not want to exist in this space where he is.

But, of course, he chooses this moment to reappear. As if the universe is both cruel and poetic, he stops at our corner.

“Hey,” he says, eyes focused on me.

“Hi,” I mumble.

He tilts his head, almost like a question mark made of flesh. “Do you… remember me?”

I freeze. Not because I don’t remember, but because I do, and it’s confusing. Flashes of a library, a post-it note, a hallway full of strangers.

“I… don’t think so,” I admit. And immediately regret it.

“Right,” he says. His voice doesn’t change, but his lips curve ever so slightly. “It’s fine. I remember enough for both of us.”

I want to say something clever. I want to say something witty, something that proves I’m not entirely emotionless. But I don’t. Because I can’t.

Instead, I shift my backpack to my lap, feeling the weight anchor me to the spot.

“Are you going to the library later?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, which is true. But I also know that I will.

Natalie nudges me. “Go talk to him, Ashley! Please! Just say hi properly!”

I do not move.

He shrugs and turns away. But not before giving me a look — the kind of look that says he knows I’m pretending not to care.

⸻

Lunch is mostly uneventful. I eat a sandwich that tastes like cardboard, sip on lukewarm tea, and stare at the window. The sky is gray, the clouds stacked like unwashed laundry. The students around me are still… students. People with legs and mouths and social media addictions, but not people I particularly wish to engage with.

Natalie chimes in repeatedly, her words spilling out like sugar over the edges of a cup. Elsie and Becca contribute occasionally, but mostly they let Natalie drive the conversation. I nod, smile faintly, and make mental notes about how normal life continues without my permission.

My phone buzzes.

A new message.

From an unknown number.

“You didn’t see me coming, did you?”

I throw my phone onto the table. Natalie gasps. “That’s creepy.”

“I know,” I say. Not because it’s scary — more because it’s true.

“Should we tell someone?” Elsie asks.

“Someone?” I repeat. “Who? Security? The principal? Ghostbusters?”

They laugh, which is probably their first mistake.

I ignore the message, because acknowledging it would make it real. And real is dangerous.

By the time classes are over, I’ve stopped pretending that I could get through another period without wanting to sleep. My body moves mechanically through the halls, through the crowded exit, through the scattered bikes and parents.

And then I see Ethan again. Of course.

This time he’s sitting on the library steps, legs crossed like he owns the universe. I hesitate. Should I approach? Should I ignore? Should I… what?

He notices me before I do anything. “Hey,” he says. Not loud. Just enough.

“Hi,” I reply.

He shifts slightly. “You look… tired. Everything okay?”

I snort quietly. “Do you want the full, detailed version, or the short one that ends with me crying into my hoodie?”

He chuckles. Just a little. It’s not much, but it’s more than most people do.

“Short version,” he says. “I think I prefer to imagine it as dramatic, anyway.”

I don’t respond.

stare at the ground. It’s cracked. Uneven. Ugly. Safe.

“You blog, right?” he asks suddenly.

I glance at him. Narrow my eyes. “I might,” I say.

“I read it,” he says. “The… Solivage one.”

I freeze. My stomach flips. I want to disappear.

“You do?” I manage. “But… you’re real. You’re not anonymous. That’s… weird.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But I like it. Your… honesty. And sarcasm. And how you… exist on the edge of being mad at everyone.”

I stare at him, blinking. He doesn’t look like he’s joking. And yet, he doesn’t seem like the type to be this unnervingly honest.

“Why do you care?” I ask finally.

“I don’t know,” he says. And that’s it. Honest, simple, no explanations.

I should probably be annoyed, or scared, or flustered.

But I’m not.

I just sit there. Waiting for him to leave.

He doesn’t.

Instead, we sit.

And the sky continues to be gray.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, it feels like maybe someone notices me.

Not my blog. Not my laptop. Not my sister. Me.

And that’s… something.