Willow Creek High always smelled like rain and pencil shavings on Monday mornings. The hallways echoed with sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, lockers slamming shut, and that one guy who always sang Drake off-key near the vending machines. Ava Hart slipped into her corner seat by the window—the one every quiet kid claimed and defended like sacred territory. She liked it there. The light came in soft through the blinds, hitting her notebook in long golden stripes. It made even boring mornings feel almost cinematic, like she was living in the first scene of a movie no one else had noticed yet. She pulled out her binder, flipped to her essay draft, and pretended not to hear Sophie Hale talking about prom three rows ahead. Sophie’s voice carried like a song—warm, confident, the kind of tone that made you want to follow her anywhere. “Are you seriously not going to prom?” Sophie turned halfway in her seat, her perfect curls catching the light. “Ava, it’s senior year. You can’t skip it.” Ava smiled faintly. “I can and I probably will.” “You’re hopeless,” Sophie sighed, spinning back around. “At least tell me you’ll help me pick my dress after school.” “Sure,” Ava said, even though she already had plans to work the late shift at the café. The classroom door creaked open then, and the room quieted. Mr. Dalton walked in—tall, gray-haired, the kind of teacher who treated poetry like religion