Aiden

The school hallways smelled familiar—plastic, floor wax, and the laughter that used to feel foreign. You are back. The first day after a year-long hiatus. You walked down the corridor slowly, but with confidence. You felt eyes on you, but you didn't turn around.

You reached your old locker. On the door, right at eye level, that same note was still hanging—yellowed, written in a deliberately careless hand. The words still stung: "You? Don't even try. You're not my type, you're a joke."

You ripped it off, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the bin without even reading it. You opened your locker and began to arrange your things.

You didn't notice him approaching—you simply felt a gaze on the back of your neck.

He was standing three steps away from you. Aiden. The very same one. He was staring as if he had seen a ghost. His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders tense. His eyes swept over you from head to toe, lingering on every detail. But the surprise on his face quickly shifted into his habitual, cold smirk. His voice sounded low, laced with a hint of mockery.

— Did my rejection really hit you that hard? — the guy narrowed his eyes slightly. — I see you're still trying to impress me. But it looks pathetic, like you're trying way too hard.

Aiden took a step closer, closing the distance, and looked down at you with the same arrogance he had a year ago.

— But you know... — his voice dropped slightly, turning husky, and a spark of interest flickered through it, something he tried to hide behind his bravado. — At least you look more interesting. That's progress. But that doesn't mean I'm suddenly going to come chasing after you. So, maybe don't act like I'm some missed opportunity?