Silvia

I walked beside Dane and Aiden in sombre silence, our footsteps echoing through the empty hallway like a soundtrack to our collective misery. The air felt unnaturally still, as though the entire school were holding its breath, bracing itself for whatever calamity might come next.

Aiden's gaze darted between our bruises and scrapes. "What the hell happened?" he asked, his voice so loud it startled a passing janitor into dropping his mop with a clatter.

"They punched Silus for ditching them," Dane replied, his sigh so heavy you'd think he'd aged a decade in the last hour.

Aiden clicked his tongue. "Silus still manages to stir up trouble, huh?"

"He already feels bad enough," Dane replied, shooting me a quick look. "Let's not kick the remorse horse while it's down."

I said nothing. The punch itself didn't bother me anymore—it wasn't my first, and I was under no illusion that it would be my last. What lingered, though, was the guilt. Dane had gotten hurt because of me, and that weighed on me far more than any bruise ever could. I stared at the linoleum beneath my feet as if it held the solution to my perpetual knack for creating messes.

When I finally looked up, I caught Aiden watching me out of the corner of his eye. His expression, somewhere between curiosity and mild suspicion, suggested he viewed me as a walking catastrophe waiting for the perfect moment to unravel.

The school bell chose that exact moment to ring.

Aiden, naturally the only one to emerge from the cafeteria chaos without so much as a hair out of place, stretched like he didn't have a care in the world. "I'm off to class before I end up with another detention," he said breezily. "Good luck patching yourselves up."

He sauntered down the hallway, hands stuffed into his pockets, his unbothered stride practically mocking my entire existence. Dane and I exchanged a glance before pushing open the door to the infirmary. Unsurprisingly, it was empty. The school nurse, it seemed, had taken a break longer than a snail crossing a highway.

As we rummaged around for first-aid supplies, the silence between us grew heavy.

Finally, Dane muttered, "Sorry." His voice was quiet, his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. "For not stopping that punch to your face."

I waved off his apology with a flick of my hand. "There's nothing to apologise for. Look at yourself—you're practically a walking advertisement for a boxing match, and I've only got a split lip. If anything, I'm underperforming."

"But still..." His voice trailed off as he stared absently around the room.

"Is it because I'm the epitome of femininity in our dynamic duo?" I teased, trying to ease the tension.

His head snapped up, and he finally looked at me. "I don't know...maybe?"

"Thanks for being my chaos sidekick. Not everyone's brave enough to ride the rollercoaster that is my life."

He eventually located a first-aid kit from one of the cabinets. It was stocked with band-aids, ointment, and enough cotton buds to patch up an entire football team. Gathering the supplies, he walked over to me. "Sit down," he said, as though channelling his inner Florence Nightingale.

Reluctantly, I perched on the edge of the bed, hands folded primly in my lap. "I can manage this myself, you know," I insisted, because pride, as always, refused to sit quietly in the corner.

He scoffed. "Sure you can. And I bet you also knit your own socks and build furniture blindfolded?"

"I'll have you know...guilty as charged."

Dane set to work, carefully squeezing ointment onto a cotton swab. He leaned in close, his forearm flexing against the mattress with unnecessary flair.

I sat perfectly still, trying not to move—or worse, breathe—as he dabbed the ointment on my split lip. His gaze lingered a moment too long on my mouth, as though silently contemplating some mystery—possibly my choice of lip balm.

"Ow!" I winced, the sting of the ointment taking me by surprise.

Dane jolted out of his trance, his eyes widening before he swiftly covered his handiwork with a band-aid. He stood up and retreated two steps, leaning one hand against the wall. His gaze dropped to the floor in what appeared to be deep contemplation. If I had to guess, he was probably recalibrating his brain after encountering the potency of my lip care regimen.

"Let me return the favour and tend to your battle wounds," I offered, trying to regain some control over the situation.

He smirked. "Deal." Without hesitation, he loosened his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt.

I froze, heat prickling up the back of my neck. I slapped a hand over my eyes, though I couldn't stop myself from peeking through the gaps between my fingers. Curiosity—or perhaps something less virtuous—got the better of me. "What are you doing?!" I squeaked, my voice leaping an octave higher than I intended.

"You said you'd help me," he replied, far too casually for someone halfway through undressing. "My back feels like I've been bench-pressing grand pianos."

"At least give me a warning before you start...stripping!" I stammered.

He chuckled. "Didn't think I'd fluster you so easily."

Before I could deliver a scathing comeback—or demand he stop shedding layers in front of me—the door swung open. Dane froze mid-motion, while I snapped upright, hands flying to my sides as if I'd been caught committing a crime.

The nurse had returned from what must have been the world's most leisurely break. She surveyed the scene—Dane's halfway unbuttoned shirt, my suspiciously flustered expression, and the general aura of poor decisions lingering in the air.

"I heard about your little escapade," she said, her eyes narrowing as they landed on me. "Since you appear to be in one piece, Silus, you can hobble your way back to class. I'll deal with Dane's injuries—clearly, they require a professional touch."

Seizing the lifeline she'd unknowingly offered, I shot out of the infirmary, leaving Dane to fend for himself. As I glanced back from the doorway, his smirk had vanished, replaced with a look of sheer horror as he fully grasped the price of his teasing. He was now left in the clutches of a middle-aged woman who appeared far too enthusiastic about her first-aid duties.

I slipped into art class fashionably late, earning a dramatic pause as every head in the room turned towards me. Despite my grand entrance, Mrs Lynne greeted me with her usual warmth, like my tardiness was nothing more than a charming brushstroke on the canvas of her day.

I shuffled up to her desk, my hands awkwardly clasped together. "Sorry for being late, Miss," I mumbled. "I had to get this cut checked—didn't want it turning into a permanent piercing."

Mrs Lynne, ever the embodiment of patience and understanding, offered me a knowing smile. Her eyes twinkled with the wisdom of someone who had heard every excuse in the book and decided long ago that getting worked up wasn't worth the energy. "I know," she said simply. "Just take your seat, Silus."

I turned and made my way to my desk, my expression neutral despite the collective curiosity rippling through the room. Whispers flitted around me like restless butterflies, their wings carrying questions I didn't particularly want to hear.

"Is that blood?"

"What happened to him?"

"I heard he got into a fight."

Their stares followed me all the way to my seat, brimming with judgment. I resisted the urge to slump over my desk, opting instead to fixate on the wood grain. Breathe in, breathe out, I reminded myself. Let them whisper. Let them stare. I'd weathered storms like this before—perhaps not with elegance, but certainly with stubborn silence.

Mrs Lynne, proving once again she was a mind reader in disguise, cleared her throat. It wasn't sharp or scolding—no, it was dignified and composed, resonating through the room like the chime of a gentle bell. "If everyone could kindly return to their creative endeavours," she said, her voice warm and reassuring, "that would be splendid."

Her words worked like magic, soothing the restless hum of whispers into a hushed calm. It was as if her presence wrapped the class in a soft, comforting blanket, nudging everyone back to their sketches and paintings—and mercifully away from me.

As I picked up my pencil, I risked a glance at her and offered a small, grateful smile. She met it with the faintest nod, a silent reassurance that I was fine, that this moment, like so many others, would pass.

It struck me then—Mrs Lynne was likely one of the few reasons Silus hadn't completely unravelled at Winterwood High. Her grace, her unfailing kindness, and her quiet belief in his potential were a refuge in a school that often felt more like a minefield.

Once school ended, I began the slow trudge home, my backpack seemingly determined to destroy both my spine and spirit. It didn't just hold textbooks—no, it carried the cumulative weight of tedious lectures, daunting assignments, and painfully awkward moments.

I was fully immersed in the existential dread of a teenager who simply could not catch a break when I saw Mila barrelling towards me at full speed. Judging by her breathless state, whatever had spurred her into motion had to be something earth-shattering—either a genuine emergency or the discovery of free ice cream in the cafeteria. Knowing her, my money was on the latter.

She skidded to a stop in front of me, her eyes locking onto my swollen cheek and bandaged lip. "I can't...believe...they did that...to you!" she gasped, bent over and clutching her knees as though her lungs had forgotten how to function.

"Calm down, Mila, and quit monopolising the oxygen," I said, trying to soothe her before she burst a blood vessel. "I heard they got suspended, anyway."

My attempt at reason didn't work—if anything, it made her angrier. "That's not good enough!" she fumed, fists clenched. "How dare they touch your beautiful face? I swear, the next time I see them, I'll rearrange their faces with my fists!"

I blinked. "Mila, you're five-foot-four."

"And?"

"And I'm not sure your rearranging skills extend beyond furniture."

"Oh, trust me. Their noses will find out just how talented I am."

Before I could remind her physical assault wasn't exactly a productive solution, Dane appeared on my other side. He slid into the conversation with the casual confidence of someone blissfully unaware he'd strolled into enemy territory.

Mila's distaste for his presence hit like an arctic gust, chilling the atmosphere in seconds. "What do you think you're doing here?" she snapped, glaring at him.

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "Can't I crash the party without being interrogated?"

"Jared isn't here," she retorted, crossing her arms. "We're perfectly fine without you."

He grinned. "Come on, aren't we best friends by now?"

She squinted at him, scrutinising his every move. "You're up to something, aren't you?"

Just like that, his entire demeanour shifted. He stopped abruptly, his grin faltering, and for a fleeting moment, he looked oddly...vulnerable. Mila and I exchanged a quick glance, silently wondering if we were about to witness an existential crisis unfold before us.

Dane lowered his head, his voice unusually quiet. "Be honest. Am I...annoying to be around?"

"Yes," Mila replied without hesitation.

I, however, opted for diplomacy. "No," I said, though something stirred in the back of my mind—the troublemakers' earlier jab about Silus calling Dane annoying. "Don't tell me..."

He glanced up, the spark in his eyes dimmed. "Did Silus really throw me under the bus like that? Is that why he's ghosting our friendship for them? Man, we've been tight since pre-k. I thought we had history."

I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't buy into anything those guys say. Even if Silus did say that, do you honestly think he meant it? The boy's got more issues than a magazine subscription. Trust me, don't sweat it."

Mila glanced between us. "What are you guys even talking about?"

Deciding the mood could use a little levity, I grinned. "Dane's just being a drama queen."

That was all the invitation Mila needed. Her face lit up instantly, like a child discovering an unsupervised dessert table. "Oh, is this the moment I've been waiting for? Are we finally roasting Dane? Hold on—let me pull up my phone notes. I've been saving these, and let me tell you, my roast list is hotter than a jalapeno."

Dane sighed, dragging a hand through his hair like a man resigned to his fate. "Put your phone away, Camila."

"No, wait," I said, leaning in with genuine interest. "I need to hear these."

Mila cleared her throat. "Alright, first up: Dane's jokes are like calculus—nobody likes them, and half the time they don't even make sense."

He clutched his heart in mock pain. "Ouch. Starting strong, huh?"

Her expression remained deadly serious. "Dane, your selfies are like microwave meals—always a bit disappointing and worse than what was promised on the packaging."

He tugged at his collar, his chuckle less confident this time. "Alright, we've heard enough—"

She ignored him completely, clearly warming up to her performance. "And your fashion sense? So tragic that even scarecrows envy your ability to scare birds away without lifting a finger."

Dane's survival instincts finally kicked in. He snatched the phone from Mila's grasp before bolting down the path like his life depended on it. Her protests echoed behind him as she sprinted after him. I followed at a more leisurely pace, watching their antics unfold like a spectator at a comedy show.

Despite the mayhem—or perhaps because of it—I found myself smiling. There was something oddly comforting about the unpredictability of this group. For better or worse, they were my chaos, my distraction, my peculiar version of normal.