Lena’s POV
At lunch, I sit at my usual corner table and stab a romaine leaf with my plastic fork until it splits down the middle, wishing salad could bleed out debt the way my bank account can't.
I force myself to eat because skipping meals leads to headaches I can't afford, but each bite tastes like cardboard and guilt mixed together. I'm unsure if I regret what I just signed up for—the profile that exists now in some server somewhere with my real name and my real email and my real desperation coded into every field I filled out.
The uncertainty sits in my stomach heavier than the food.
The cafeteria buzzes with its usual chaos around me. Conversations overlap, trays clatter, someone's playing music from their phone despite the no-speakers rule.
But I exist in a bubble of gray noise, all of it muffled and distant, like I'm underwater watching life happen on the surface. I pick at my salad without tasting it, my mind replaying that notification over and over. DONE. Such a small word for such a massive choice.
A tray thumps down across from me with enough force to make my water bottle wobble. I look up, startled, and find Evan Mercer sliding into the seat like he belongs there, like sitting with me is something he does every day instead of twice in his entire life.
His smile is there, that easy charm that makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine ad, but it's dulled somehow by something that looks like genuine concern.
“Hey," he says, leaning forward slightly. "You okay? You looked kind of intense there, murdering that lettuce."
I offer the standard response that's become automatic over the years, the one designed to deflect and dismiss.
"I'm fine." But the words come out brittle as hard candy, the kind that shatters if you bite down wrong, and I can tell from his expression that he doesn't believe me for a second.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, the vibration sharp against my thigh. My hand moves before I can think, grabbing it and angling the screen away from Evan in one smooth motion born of paranoia and necessity.
The notification glows on my lock screen: New message from Virgin Exchange.
My heart stops, then kicks into overdrive. I swipe it away quickly, shoving the phone back into my pocket before Evan can see the sender, before he can ask questions I have no way of answering without lying or revealing everything.
But surprisingly, he doesn't pry. He doesn't ask who texted me or why I looked like I'd seen a ghost.
Instead, he angles in sideways, his forearms resting on the table, his voice dropping to something more private, more real.
"You know, some days I feel like I'm onstage all the time and nobody's actually watching—not the real stuff, anyway. Just the highlight reel. The version of me that scores touchdowns and smiles for team photos and says the right things in class." He pauses, looking down at his hands. "Kinda makes you want to disappear sometimes. Just be nobody for a while."
The admission disarms me completely. I look up at him properly for the first time since he sat down, really look at him, and I see what I missed before—the tiredness behind the charm, the way his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders that says he's carrying weight he doesn't show anyone.
He's not just the beautiful boy with the movie-star face and the perfect life. He's someone who understands the exhaustion of performing, of maintaining an image that everyone expects but nobody actually sees through.
"Yeah," I say quietly, and the word comes out softer than I mean it to, more honest than I usually allow myself to be. "I know that feeling."
The words loosen something in my chest, some knot of tension I didn't know I was carrying.
For a moment we just sit there, two people who exist on completely different rungs of the social ladder, recognizing something shared in each other's exhaustion.
Seeing the shift, sensing that the moment could tip into something too heavy or too raw, Evan deliberately lightens the mood.
He leans back in his chair and launches into a story about bombing a class presentation last year, complete with mortifying hand gestures and descriptions of a tragic poster board that caught on a desk and tore in half.
"And then," he says, his hands miming the catastrophe, "I tried to tape it back together while still talking, and I accidentally taped my sleeve to the board. I had to present the rest with one arm stuck like this."
He demonstrates, holding his arm at an awkward angle, and despite everything, despite the weight of what I did this morning, my mouth twitches.
He moves seamlessly into reenacting Coach's pregame pep talk, channeling the man's booming voice and dramatic pauses like he's performing a Shakespearean aside.
"Gentlemen," he intones, deepening his voice to an absurd degree, "this is not just about football. This is about CHARACTER. This is about LEGACY. This is about—" he breaks character, grinning, "—honestly I stopped listening after that because I was trying not to laugh."
Then he starts guessing what various teachers are eating for lunch based on what he's observed over the years, and when he gets to Mr. Calder, he leans in conspiratorially.
"Damp turkey sandwich. Always damp turkey. I don't know how he does it, but that sandwich looks like it's been through a storm every single day."
The accuracy is alarming and hilarious, and my mouth fully opens into an actual laugh, the sound surprising me as much as it probably surprises him.
The cafeteria brightens a notch, or maybe that's just my perception shifting, the gray noise receding enough to let color and sound back in.
For five minutes, I forget about the acceptance letter sitting on my bedspread at home. I forget about the impossible numbers and the budget that won't stretch.
I forget about Trent's voice in the hallway and the laughter that followed. I forget about the profile I created and the email waiting in my inbox. I just exist here, in this moment, listening to Evan Mercer make terrible jokes and tell embarrassing stories, and I let myself imagine a world where a boy like him might choose my table on purpose, not out of pity or a dare but because he actually wants to be here.
The bell rings too soon, sharp and insistent, breaking the spell. The cafeteria erupts into motion, everyone gathering trays and bags and heading toward their next classes.
I stand up, shouldering my backpack, and turn to Evan with something that feels dangerously close to gratitude.
“Thanks," I say, and my smile is warm and unguarded in a way I usually keep locked down. "You helped. More than you know."
He lifts two fingers in a small salute, his grin back to full wattage. "Anytime, Lena. See you around."
Then he's jogging off toward the hallway, disappearing into the crowd with that same easy confidence he carries everywhere. But the warmth he left behind doesn't disappear with him.
It follows me down the hall like a hand on my back, steady and reassuring, and for the first time since I opened that acceptance letter, I feel like maybe I'm not completely alone in this impossible situation.
Maybe there are still good things happening, even in the middle of everything falling apart.