Edward
I came to School wanting to talk with Casey today. But the day started off bad with Jack and Casey arguing in the hallway as I climbed up the stairs.
Break time, twelve-to-one, began with the sound of chairs scraping against tiled floors and doors swinging open all at once. The corridor outside my classroom filled fast, shoes tapping in uneven rhythms. I stayed seated for a moment longer than usual, eyes drifting to the window as students poured out.
The argument between Jack and Casey had happened before nine in the morning.
I had meant to talk with Casey before classes, but I couldn't. That thought had followed me since morning, lingering like unfinished work. But she hadn't been there. Not in the corridor. Not near the stairs. Not even near the lockers where she sometimes stopped. So when the bell rang, I stood and stepped into the hallway.
The main building had four floors of classrooms stacked neatly above the ground level. I started by checking the second floor, where both Casey's classroom and mine were. She wasn't here. Then I went to the ground floor. The ground floor smelled faintly of old paper and disinfectant, teachers' voices drifting from behind half-open staff room doors. I passed through it quickly, scanning faces without really seeing them, then moved up the stairs two at a time.
The first floor was louder. Groups clustered near classroom doors, laughter echoing off the walls. I checked the corner near the staff rooms where students sometimes lingered, pretending not to wait for anyone in particular. She wasn't there. I kept moving.
As I looked for her thoughts like — is she okay? Is she hurt? — clouded my mind. My only intention, at this moment, was to make sure she was okay.
Once again, I came to check the second floor, it opened into a wider hallway, sunlight spilling in through tall windows. The playground was visible from here, students scattered across the concrete, some sitting on the low boundary walls, others pacing with phones in their hands. I stopped at the railing, scanning the ground below. Still nothing.
The third floor was quieter. The washrooms were here, doors opening and closing in measured intervals. I slowed, checking the corridor, the small alcove near the water cooler, even the benches by the windows. The air smelled faintly of soap and cold tile. She wasn't there either.
I went up to the fourth floor next. Fewer students came this high during breaks. The music rooms lined one side, muted sounds of piano keys and violin strings leaking through closed doors. I paused, listening for a moment, then moved on.
By then, I had already checked the playground, the canteen near the side building, even the shaded area behind the auditorium where some students escaped to during longer breaks. Every place felt briefly occupied, then empty again.
There was only one place left.
The door to the rooftop was unlocked, as it often was despite the rules. I pushed it open and stepped out into the wind. The air up there was colder, sharper. Spring hadn't fully settled yet. The sky was a dull blue-grey, clouds gathering in uneven layers, as if the day couldn't decide what it wanted to be. From the edge, the city stretched out below, traffic moving steadily, distant horns softened by height.
She stood near the railing.
Her back was to me, honey-red hair caught by the breeze, lifting and settling against her shoulders. It wasn't fully straight, not fully wavy either, moving in loose, natural lines. For a moment, I stayed where I was, unsure if I should step closer.
I called her name, she turned.
Her eyes met mine, dark brown, steady but unfocused, like she had been looking past the city and into something else entirely. I noticed, then, how still she was—not tense, just quiet.
We spoke.
I asked why she was up there. She answered without looking away from the horizon. Her voice was calm, but thin, like it had been stretched too far already. I listened more than I spoke, letting the wind fill the pauses between us.
The clouds thickened overhead, the light dimming slightly. Her hair kept shifting with every breeze, brushing her cheek, and I realized I was watching it more than I should have been.
When she spoke about what had happened earlier, she didn't give details. She didn't need to. The way her hands folded and unfolded against the railing said enough.
I told her things would be okay. I wasn't sure if I believed it, but I meant it in the moment.
When she started shaking—not visibly, but in the way someone goes still before they break—I reached out without thinking. My fingers closed around her hands. They were cold.
She froze. So did I.
We stayed like that for a second too long, the city humming below us, the wind brushing past as if it didn't notice. Her eyes lifted to mine. Close enough that I could see the slight crease between her brows, the faint reflection of the clouds above.
Then we stepped back, almost at the same time.
The awkwardness settled in quietly, not sharp, just unfamiliar. We spoke again, slower this time, as if careful not to disturb whatever had passed between us.
When we turned to leave the rooftop, Jack was there. The stairwell door stood open behind him. His expression shifted the moment he saw us together. The air tightened, words followed. Too many, too sharp.
I stepped in before I fully decided to.
Jack's voice rose. Casey didn't answer. She stood there, eyes wide, tears gathering but not falling, like her body had forgotten how to move. He kept talking anyway.
I told him to stop.
That was when it turned into an argument. Not loud enough to draw attention. Just enough to hurt. Jack said things he couldn't take back. I saw it register on her face, each word landing heavier than the last.
When he finally turned away and left, the stairwell swallowed his footsteps.
I stayed.
She didn't speak. She didn't cry. She just stood there, frozen, tears slipping down without sound. Seeing her like that hurt more than I expected. But I wasn't in any position to console her.
I walked her downstairs, one step at a time, past classrooms and windows and students who didn't notice. Our classroom was on the second floor. I stopped at the door. "Take care," I said. She nodded and went in through the side entrance by the windows.
As I left her there, Jack was already sitting at his place, watching us.
I went back to my classroom alone. I had wanted to talk to her today. Not like this. Not because something had broken first.