It was a regular morning.
The classroom buzzed softly with the rustle of pages and the low hum of conversation. Sunlight filtered in through half-open blinds, casting long stripes across desks and backpacks. Someone laughed near the back. Someone else yawned.
Ronell sat near the window, angled toward the breeze. Her friends leaned in at her table, giggling about weekend plans and crumpled notes passed during math. She smiled at them—gentle, attentive—but her gaze drifted now and then.
The feeling had been there all week. A presence just outside her field of focus.
Today, she let herself look.
Two rows behind her, near the wall, sat a girl Ronell hadn't noticed before—not really. She was quiet, scribbling notes in a narrow, deliberate hand. Her hair fell in black waves across her shoulders. Neat. Unassuming. Her uniform perfectly in place. Nothing unusual.
Except her eyes.
Ronell stilled.
Golden. Sharp. Unblinking. The moment their gazes locked, the world seemed to hush around them.
Just for a heartbeat.
The girl hadn't meant to be seen. That much was clear in the subtle shift of her posture. A hesitation in her hand, just before she lowered her eyes again.
Ronell blinked, suddenly aware of the coolness in her chest. The whisper of something out of place.
Those eyes…
They were unmistakable.
A voice pulled her back—one of her friends, nudging her gently. "Earth to Ronell? You spaced out."
She turned, offered a soft laugh. "Sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew."
But her fingers curled slightly on the desk.
The moment was gone, but the feeling wasn't.
There was something familiar about the girl.
Something that clung to her thoughts like sunlight through mist.
---
The hallway was half-empty by the time Moore left class. His steps were slow, deliberate. The chatter of students echoed faintly behind him—doors closing, lockers slamming, footsteps fading into corners.
He preferred it this way. Quiet. Open space to think.
The fluorescent lights overhead flickered softly. Outside, clouds dragged across the sky, muting the afternoon sun.
Moore turned a corner.
Then stopped.
At the far end of the corridor, framed by the sunlight pouring through a tall window, sat a small black cat.
Still.
Perfectly still.
It perched on the sill like it belonged there—like it had always been there. Its fur sleek, its posture composed. Its yellow eyes met his without flinching.
Something tightened in his chest.
He blinked.
It didn't vanish.
The cat didn't move. Didn't lower its gaze. Just… watched him.
Not like an animal.
Like something that knew him.
He looked around. The hallway was otherwise empty.
For a brief second, Moore considered calling out. Or maybe walking the other way.
But something kept him frozen.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Those eyes.
The air felt heavier than it should've.
Then—sound returned.
The murmur of students behind a classroom door. A janitor's cart squeaking somewhere down another corridor. Moore blinked again and the cat was gone.
Just the window now. Just light and dust and nothing else.
He exhaled slowly, like it might release the tension from his ribs.
And walked on.
But his fingers curled in the fabric of his sleeve.
---
It was noisier than usual in the cafeteria. Laughter bounced off the walls, trays clinked, chairs scraped against linoleum floors. Outside the wide windows, early autumn leaves twisted in the breeze — gold and red, still clinging to summer's warmth.
Moore sat at the end of a cafeteria table, his tray untouched for a while. Ronell sat beside him — and across from them, three of her friends.
They'd apologized at first. Quietly. Saying they didn't mean to intrude, that they could sit elsewhere.
But Moore had only shrugged, expression unreadable. He hadn't objected.
They stayed.
The conversation floated past him like drifting leaves. Ronell laughed now and then — politely, a little distracted. One of the girls told a story about her clumsy dog chasing a squirrel. Another chimed in about an upcoming class project. Moore didn't join in, but he listened. It didn't feel... bad. Not exactly.
But Ronell's eyes kept drifting.
A few tables down, the girl with the dark hair sat alone. Her notebook open beside a tray of untouched food. She held a pen between her fingers but wasn't writing. Wasn't eating. Just... glancing.
Barely perceptible turns of her head. Quick flicks of her gaze.
Always toward them.
Ronell noticed. And for the first time in a long time, she felt... watched. In a way that made her stomach knot.
"Something wrong?" her friend asked gently, catching the falter in her smile.
Ronell blinked. "No. Just... tired."
The girl at the other table looked away quickly — too quickly.
Moore followed Ronell's line of sight and frowned, unsure why her posture had stiffened.
When they finished eating, Ronell stood first. She thanked her friends with a soft smile, brushing hair behind her ear.
"I'll catch up later," she said.
They nodded, not questioning it.
Moore stood too, grabbing his tray without a word. He could feel something shifting in her — like the way clouds build on a humid afternoon, heavy with something they won't say.
Outside, in the quiet hallway just beyond the cafeteria's hum, Ronell finally stopped walking. She turned toward him.
Moore tilted his head slightly. "What?"
She didn't answer right away. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve.
"I don't know," she finally murmured. "I just..."
She looked over her shoulder, back toward the cafeteria doors. Then forward again.
"There's this girl," she said. "I keep seeing her. At school. In class. Just now. She's always... looking. At us. At you."
Moore's brow creased. "Who?"
"I don't know her name. She was sitting alone. Black hair. Kinda quiet."
He thought for a moment.
Then: "…You think she's watching me?"
"I don't know," Ronell admitted. "It just felt... strange."
Moore shifted his weight, glancing down the corridor.
He didn't say it aloud, but a quiet echo stirred in him.A black cat. Yellow eyes. The weight of a gaze that never blinked.
"…You're probably just tired," he said.
Ronell gave a small nod.
But they both knew — whatever it was, neither of them was imagining it anymore.