Ava sat alone at the edge of the cafeteria, hands wrapped tightly around a plastic spoon, the white knuckles of her grip the only thing holding her still. Around her, the noise was deafening—cliques forming, trays clattering, laughter piercing the air like tiny knives.
“This is still the worst place in the whole damn building,” Ava muttered under her breath as she slid into the corner of the cafeteria, head low, tray in hand.
No one looked. No one needed to. This room already knew her.
She settled into her seat, pressing her legs together, shrinking in on herself. The noise was loud—plastic chairs scraping, trays slamming, laughter in every corner—but all she heard was the past screaming beneath it.
The sideways glances. The whispers. The moments that seemed like nothing to everyone else but had carved themselves into her like knives.
Her tray sat in front of her, barely touched. She stared at the pudding cup in the corner, the foil lid catching the light as it wobbled with every shake of the table.
“You always get pudding?” a voice said suddenly. It was Diana again, sliding into the seat across from her like it was no big deal.
Ava blinked. “What?”
Diana nodded at the cup. “You never eat it. But it’s always there.”
Ava looked down, poking the foil with her spoon. “I don’t even like pudding.”
Diana tilted her head. “Then why take it?”
Ava hesitated. Swallowed hard. “Habit, I guess. There were days when… when food was the only thing that didn’t hurt.”
The words came out softer than she meant them to. Diana didn’t laugh. She didn’t say sorry either.
Just leaned back in her chair and said, “Well… keep taking it. Even if you don’t eat it. Screw everyone else.”
And for the first time that day, Ava smiled. Just a little.
The sound of sneakers squeaking on linoleum made her stomach tighten. The hairs on her arms stood up.
Ava didn’t need to look up. She knew the voice too well. Her torturer, her nightmare, her Jace.
“Still eating your feelings, I see,” he said, flicking her pudding cup so hard it flipped over and landed with a wet plop onto the center of her tray, splattering mashed potatoes and mystery meat.
The laughter exploded instantly. Too loud. Too fast. Like a scene on repeat.
The table to her right leaned in to watch. Someone elbowed a friend and whispered, “He’s so savage.”
Ava didn’t move. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a war drum. The voices around her blurred into static. But her hands didn’t shake.
Not this time. Slowly, she looked up. And their eyes met.
Jace’s smirk stayed glued to his face, but it didn’t feel whole. Not like it used to. It faltered—just slightly. Enough for her to see it.
Something in his eyes didn’t match the grin.
He blinked, caught off guard for a second, as if she was the one staring through him.
She said nothing. Just stared. Her jaw was tight. Her chest is burning. Her past and present colliding in the worst possible way.
He turned away first. And the moment passed. But something inside her had shifted. She didn’t cry. She didn’t run.
She sat in the silence that followed, surrounded by echoes of her teenage self. And when the bell rang, she stood, dumped her tray, and walked out of the cafeteria like she had every right to breathe.
Later that afternoon, as she unpacked her old backpack in her bedroom—her high school bedroom—she found something wedged deep inside one of the front pockets.
A folded piece of notebook paper.
Worn. Smudged at the corners.
She opened it slowly, her breath catching when she saw what it was. A sketch of Jace.
Drawn in pencil with sharp strokes and shadows. His eyes focused, his jaw tight, the version of him she used to watch when he wasn’t looking.
She remembered the exact day she’d drawn it—alone in the library, hiding in the back corner because she didn’t want anyone to see. She had studied him from memory, capturing the way he leaned against his locker like the world owed him something.
And she had meant to throw it away. She thought she had. Ava stared at the drawing, her fingers tightening around the edges. She wanted to rip it in half. She should have.
But something in her stilled.
Instead of tearing it, she folded it carefully and slid it back into the pocket. She didn’t understand why.
That night, the wind picked up outside her window. Leaves rustled. Her old curtains danced with the draft. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart still carrying pieces of the cafeteria in it.
She didn’t know what was happening—why she was here, what she was supposed to fix, or how this story was hers to rewrite.
Tap.
She sat up. Another tap. It was soft. Barely audible. She turned toward the window. The curtains swayed like someone had brushed past them.
Cautiously, she walked over, heart thudding harder with each step. Her fingers curled around the curtain fabric and pulled it aside.
The night stared back at her—quiet, still. There was no one there. No shadow. No figure. No sound. Just the whisper of wind and the faint glow of streetlights.
But her breath hitched as her eyes dropped to the glass.
There—right at eye level—etched into the window with the faintest scratch, barely noticeable unless the light hit it just right…
One word. ‘Sorry’.