Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 3: Table for Two

Skylane

I picked up my bag from the floor—the same one that had slipped when Blaise shouldered past me earlier—and brushed grit from the corner where leather had scuffed against tile. The lab smelled like cold ash and old experiments, and even though the blinds were slatted shut, light found a way in, slicing the room into pale ribs. I looked around once more, cataloguing beakers with hairline cracks, a burn mark spidering up the back wall, the stool I'd once stood on to grab a box of test tubes that weren't there. As much as possible, I never wanted to come back here again.

The door clicked softly behind me. I chose the elevator over the stairs because my legs still felt wrong, like I'd been running in a dream and hadn't convinced my body we'd stopped. In the mirrored panel, my face looked too careful. I smoothed my ribbon, pressed my shoulders back, practiced neutral.

By the time I crossed the glass causeway to the northern wing, the building had fully woken. You could hear Crystal Academy breathing through the windows—distant whistles from the field, a basketball thudding somewhere in rhythmic threes, the far-off squeal of a violin in a practice room. The cafeteria occupied the northern corner like a bright-mouth river delta, all light and noise and sharp smells. It was unusually packed. Most days, people scattered to the campus restaurants—the ramen shop with the mosaic counter, the pastel bakery with cream puffs stacked like clouds, the coffee place where the barista had memorized half the senior class's orders. But today the ground floor cafeteria buzzed like a hive and the upstairs Blue Bloods' dining room—polished wood, soft lighting, soundproof doors—was empty enough to hear a fork drop.

We still ate here. Out of habit. Out of history. Back when we were a we, Blaise hated being around upperclassmen who tried to make their laughter sound expensive. He said the cafeteria felt honest—the clatter, the line, the stainless-steel shine that didn't pretend to be silver. So we chose this room with its wobbly tables and its sticky trays that smelled like dish soap and garlic. We kept choosing it even after the we broke in half.

The second I stepped in, heads turned like I'd stepped on a stage that didn't want me. I felt the eyes like pricks along my arms and forced my mouth to do the thing that made people relax—a quick smile, a tilt of the chin, a silent go back to your fries, please. They did. Relief slid across my shoulders like a shawl.

I scanned the sea of tables for Ryder. The noise layered—metal against metal, the soft hiss of the coffee machine steaming milk, a burst of laughter that rose and dropped like a gull. It took longer than usual to find him. Everyone was doing that thing they do when they think they're being subtle and absolutely aren't: looking while pretending not to.

"Sky!"

I froze.

That voice didn't live in the present; it lived in the part of my brain that houses firsts. The first laugh he pulled out of me. The first time we lost a card game on purpose so the other wouldn't have to pretend to be okay with losing. The first time I realized my name sounded different in his mouth.

I turned slowly.

And there he was.

"B-Blaise?" The word snagged on my teeth.

He smiled like it cost nothing. He stood and waved me over with his familiar two-finger beckon. "Hey! Come on!"

He reached for my hand and the world inched back into an old track, the beat familiar, the pace already in my bones. He led me to our usual table under the window where a small sliver of shade kept the sun from turning our tray into a mirror. We sat. A plate of carbonara steamed between us, the sauce silky and the bacon bits appeasingly crisp. A hamburger sat on the other tray, the bun glossy, the patty bleeding a little juice. Condensation gathered on plastic cups and dripped, leaving rings like pale moons.