The Person You Choose
I'd learned this language at my last school, after my father's diagnosis, when I'd become invisible to survive.
I was good at invisible. Dante wanted me to be seen.
I found 247. Opened it—empty, waiting. I was arranging books when I felt it.
The shift in current. The sudden attention of a room adjusting to new gravity.
I didn't turn. Kept arranging, spine straight, heart accelerating in ways I hated. I knew who it was before I saw him. Felt it in the way the hallway's frequency changed, the way sound compressed, focused.
He walked past. Close enough that I smelled him—mint, something sharper underneath, the metallic edge of confidence that didn't ask permission. Number twelve. Grayson Hayes.
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