Ella Sullivan is an 18-year-old high school senior with a sharp wit and a penchant for sarcasm. Her life revolves around her close-knit group of friends and the love for her dog. But her world is thrown into disarray when she encounters Ms. Catherin...
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———༺✵༻——— POV Catherine ———༺✵༻———
The shrill ring of the school bell cuts through the heavy silence, announcing the end of another day. I exhale a breath I hadn't even realized I was holding, the sound a quiet release in the empty classroom. For a moment, I just sit there, listening to the distant chatter of students in the hallway, their footsteps fading as they leave for the day. The room is still now, save for the papers scattered across desks, forgotten pencils rolling toward the edges, and the faint traces of teenage energy that always seem to linger in the air long after they're gone.
I push back from my desk, the familiar weariness settling deep into my bones as I stand. It's Thursday. Not quite the end of the week, but close enough to taste it. Close enough that I can almost see the promise of the weekend, though right now, Friday feels like an eternity away.
I grab the stack of ungraded papers, shoving them into my bag with more force than necessary, already mentally mapping out the evening. I had planned on heading home, getting some last-minute work done, before spending the rest of the night with Ella. A quiet evening together would be a welcome distraction after this long day. But before I can even zip my bag, the door creaks open.
I don't need to look up to know who it is. That familiar feeling of tension crawls up my spine, turning my muscles rigid as I hear his footsteps.
Mathew.
Great.
"I don't have time for this, Mathew," I say without turning, the words sharper than I intended. I focus on my bag, closing it with a firm yank. "I need to leave."
Even without looking, I can feel the weight of his presence filling the room, thickening the air. I've been avoiding him for weeks—months, really. Ever since we agreed to stop pretending things between us were salvageable. And now, just when I was so close to escaping for the day, here he is.
"It's about the Italy trip," he says, his voice calm, like we're having a casual conversation and not one laced with unspoken history.
I freeze mid-motion, fingers still wrapped around the strap of my bag. Of course, it's about that. I glance up reluctantly, meeting his gaze. The same eyes that once softened at the sight of me are now steady, unreadable. "You've got two minutes."
Mathew steps further into the room, his posture relaxed in a way that always irks me. He acts like none of it—none of us—matters anymore. Like we didn't just unravel years of... whatever it was. But for him, pretending is easier. Always has been.
He shakes his head, smiling in that easy way that used to charm me. "I'm gonna need more than that."
I grip my bag tighter, standing straighter, trying to hold on to the shred of distance I've managed to create between us. "I really don't have time," I say again, the exhaustion from the week creeping into my voice. I throw my bag over my shoulder, ready to walk out.
