Seven Years Ago

Coincidences?

Was that what it was?

After that day on the roof, I couldn't help myself. My eyes naturally gravitated toward him, drawn to his presence in a way that unsettled me.

Before, he had been invisible—just another face in the sea of students I passed every day. But after that incident, it was as if my senses had been rewired. Suddenly, I noticed him everywhere.

In the courtyard, where he played basketball. In the parking lot, waiting for Charlie. In the cafeteria, always sitting at the same table. In chemistry class, where he barely paid attention yet never seemed to struggle.

I was aware of him—too aware—so much so that it consumed me.

Even now, as I stood at my locker, my gaze kept drifting toward him. He looked as indifferent as ever, barely engaging while Charlie and Jamie made a racket beside him.

He always had that expression—bored, unaffected, like nothing in the world could touch him.

That intrigued me. It pulled me in.

His life seemed perfect, a sharp, cold contrast to my own miserable existence.

Mr. Winkleberg was on his daily rant about how unfit we all were and how he'd make us run laps around the school, but I tuned him out. My focus was solely on Mark—his mannerisms, his expressions.

I liked watching him. The same way someone liked watching their pet or their favorite movie.

Jamie's eyes caught mine, and I forced myself to look away at the last second.

Why did Jamie have to be best friends with Mark's brother? It made getting close to Mark impossible.

That sick bastard had already made it clear I had to stay away from him at school. Like I'd ever willingly be within a foot of him.

Jamie and Charlie headed for the showers, leaving Mark alone. He was staring at something on his phone, completely absorbed.

What had his attention so intensely?

The locker room was rowdy with the others, but I barely registered them. I pretended to rummage through my locker, keeping my movements slow and calculated as I stole glances in his direction.

Mark dropped his phone into his locker, then reached for the hem of his shirt.

And pulled it over his head.

I swallowed, suddenly unable to look away.

The way his muscles flexed with the movement—the smooth ripple of his abs, the defined lines of his chest—it was mesmerizing. His skin was pale under the fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to the dark strands of hair that now hung in his face. He shook his hair slightly, ruffling it with his fingers, and for a second, it fell over his eyes before he pushed it back. The whole motion was effortless, unintentional, yet it made my throat dry.

Then, he looked at me.

I snapped my gaze away so fast my head spun, my hands gripping the inside of my locker as if I actually had something to do.

My heart was racing. My fingers trembled.

There had been moments before—times when our eyes met, and he simply stared at me with that same unreadable, indifferent expression before looking away.

He never called me out for it. I wasn't even sure he cared enough to.

I kept my head down, pretending to dig through my locker until I heard the sound of his closing. His footsteps faded, and I let out a slow breath.

Finally.

I was about to change when I noticed something.

His locker had swung open again.

Did he forget to close it?

I hesitated. Should I help him shut it?

Pulling my shirt back down, I stepped forward cautiously, peering inside.

His phone was still there.

Something in me twisted, recalling the way he had been so completely engrossed in it just minutes ago.

This was wrong. I knew that.

But my fingers moved before my mind could stop them.

I picked it up.

The screen lit up as soon as I touched it. No passcode.

I smirked. Of course, he wouldn't bother with one. It seemed like too much of a hassle for someone like him.

Swiping through, I frowned.

There was nothing.

No pictures. No files. No social media. No games.

Nothing at all.

It was practically a blank slate, used only for calls and text messages.

Then what the hell had he been looking at? Why had he been so absorbed?

"What are you doing?"

Jamie's voice startled me.

I clutch Mark's phone in my hand, my pulse hammering.

Without thinking, I slip it into my pocket.

"I was just going to close it," I say quickly.

I push his locker shut and turn away, the weight of his phone pressing against my thigh with every step.

How the hell do I return it now?

I keep my expression neutral as I head back to my own locker, pulling it open as if nothing is wrong. But Jamie follows.

He leans against the locker beside mine, one leg bent, arms folded over his chest.

"I told you to stay away from me, you freak."

"You're the one standing next to me, Jamie."

His jaw tightens. "Don't get smart with me."

I ignore him, tugging my shirt over my head. But when I glance up, his eyes are on me, raking over my torso. My stomach churns with disgust.

"Marco's throwing a party tonight," he says, voice low. "Meet me there. Make sure no one sees you when you arrive."

I hate this.

I hate the way my silence makes me complicit. But speaking up never changes anything.

"Whatever."

Jamie's smirk sharpens. "You've been really feisty lately."

Before I can react, he grabs my arm and shoves me against the lockers. I flinch, bracing for the hit—

But voices echo down the hallway.

Jamie jerks back, his eyes flashing with fury.

This isn't over.

I know he'll make me pay for it later.

Without another word, he strides away, rejoining Charlie, who has just emerged from the showers. I watch as they change, my stomach twisting when Mark joins them.

Shit.

His phone.

I still have it.

But he doesn't seem to notice yet.

Panic prickles up my spine. Should I give it to Mr. Winkleberg and say I found it? Or should I return it to Mark directly?

I hesitate too long. The three of them head out together, leaving me alone in the locker room.

And then, as if fate is mocking me, I glance back at his locker—

It's still open.

A sharp ping vibrates in my pocket. I pull out his phone, and my breath hitches when I see the notification.

Tiana: Hey Mark! You coming to the party?

Tiana.

I think she has a crush on him.

I feel something dark coil inside me. The texts are painfully one-sided—short, clipped responses from Mark, if he even bothers replying at all. But still...

She exists to him.

She gets acknowledged.

And I... don't.

My fingers tighten around the phone before I force myself to shove it back into his locker.

That's when I see it.

His jersey. The one he just took off.

Without thinking, I reach for it. Just a quick sniff.

His cologne lingers in the fabric—

It's suffocating.

It's euphoric.

It drags something twisted, something wrong to the surface.

I don't realize how lost I am in it until a voice cuts through the haze.

"Uh... I don't want to interrupt, but what are you doing?"

My blood turns to ice.

Shit.

Authors note:
What do we think of Mark and Josh's recollection of that day 👀
Word count: 1275