I stare at the photograph for a full minute, my feet rooted to the library floor.
"Golden Hour," by Sophia Winters.
The school roof. Sunset. Her favorite place. Her sacred space. I thought it had become our space, a place born out of the forty-seven days of our first cycle. But it was hers long before it was ours. The photograph is proof. She's been drawn to that exact spot, that exact time of day, all on her own.
It's not just a place. It's a part of who she is. Our connection didn't lead us there randomly. It led us to a place she already belonged.
Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place, sharp and clear. This whole thing—the loop, the entanglement, whatever it is—it's not just about me and my memories. It's built around the architecture of her soul. I'm the one who's looping through time, but she's the one who is the constant, the fixed point around which everything revolves.
The photo is dated from last spring. Long before I ever moved to this town. Long before our worlds ever collided. And yet, looking at the lonely silhouette against the burning sky, I feel a pang of recognition so sharp it's like a physical blow. It feels like looking at a picture of a past life.
A librarian clears her throat nearby, giving me a pointed look that says, "This is not a museum, kid. Move along."
I shake myself out of my trance and leave the library, my new plan solidifying in my mind.
My role is not to be a disruptor. Not to be a mystery. My role is to be a quiet constant. A gravitational body that doesn't force a collision, but just… exists. In a predictable orbit.
For the rest of the week, I execute my new plan with the discipline of a monk.
On Thursday, I am a ghost again. I walk the halls with my head down, a book clutched in my hand like a shield. I feel her presence like a hum in the background, a silent awareness that follows me, but I never look up. I give her the entire day to not see me, to let the intense weirdness of the art room encounter fade into a less threatening memory.
I see her and Iris at lunch from across the cafeteria. Sophia isn't drawing. She's just picking at a salad, a distant, thoughtful look on her face. Iris is talking animatedly, as usual, but Sophia seems miles away. I wonder what she's thinking. I wonder if the silence of my absence is louder than the confusion of my presence.
On Friday, it's back to art class.
The tension as I walk into Room 214 is so thick I could cut it with a palette knife. She's already there, in her corner, her fortress. But this time, her sketchbook is closed. It sits on the table beside her, a silent, black-clad witness.
I take my seat behind her, my heart performing a nervous drum solo. I don't say hello. I just get out my own supplies, my movements slow and deliberate. Predictable. Safe.
Today's assignment is still-life. Mrs. Gable has arranged a collection of objects on a central table—a wine bottle, a skull, a wilted bouquet of flowers, a draping piece of velvet. Standard art class stuff. Profoundly boring.
For the first twenty minutes, the only sounds in the room are the scratch of charcoal on paper and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. I focus on my drawing with an intensity that's entirely feigned. I am acutely aware of every subtle shift in the chair in front of me, every quiet breath she takes. The space between us is a loaded weapon.
Then, about halfway through the class, I hear a small, frustrated sigh from her table. It's followed by the soft sound of a pencil being set down.
I wait. One beat. Two beats.
"You're doing it wrong."
Her voice is so quiet, so close, it makes me jump. It's not aimed at anyone in particular, but I know it's meant for me.
I stop drawing. I turn my head slightly. "Doing what wrong?" I ask, my own voice low.
"The bottle," she says, still not looking at me. She's staring at my paper from the corner of her eye. "The curve. It's not a perfect arc. It's an ellipse. You're drawing what you think a bottle looks like, not what's actually there. You're not looking."
Her tone isn't mean. It's not even annoyed. It's… clinical. Factual. It's the voice of an artist giving a critique.
It's an opening. A truce.
"I suck at still-life," I admit, turning to face her more directly. "I have a deep-seated philosophical opposition to drawing fruit that will never be eaten."
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of her lips. It's there and gone in a flash, but I see it. It's a victory. "Deep," she says, her voice laced with the faintest hint of her old sarcasm. "So what do you draw?"
"Words, mostly," I say. "Things that are already flat."
"You're a writer?" The question is genuine. Her guard is down, just a fraction of an inch, but it's down.
"I'm a seventeen-year-old with a laptop and a lot of feelings," I correct her. "I'm not sure that qualifies me as a writer."
"It's a start," she says. The corner of her mouth twitches again.
We're talking. We're actually talking. About art. About writing. It's normal. It's a normal, awkward, high-school-art-class conversation. And it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
"Your… your drawings," I say, taking a risk, my voice dropping. "They're not like that. You're not drawing what you see. You're drawing what you feel."
Her reaction is immediate. The smile vanishes. The wall goes back up, but not all the way. It's more like a translucent curtain this time. I can still see the vulnerable person standing behind it.
She's silent for a long moment, her gaze dropping to the closed sketchbook on her table.
"Yeah, well," she says softly, finally looking back at me. Her gray eyes are clear, searching. "Lately, I've been feeling some pretty weird things."
It's not a confession. It's not an accusation. It's a statement of fact. A shared observation about the strange weather system that seems to exist only around the two of us.
"Me too," I say, holding her gaze.
We just look at each other as the classroom buzzes around us, an entire universe of meaning passing between us in a few seconds of charged silence.
It feels like a treaty. A non-aggression pact of mutual weirdness. An unspoken agreement to just… exist in this strange space together, without needing to label it, without needing to run from it.
For now, that's more than enough. It's everything.