Page 127 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

So here I am, serving a month of after-school detention while the rest of them go on like nothing happened. Maybe I was stupid for doing it, but at least they’re all off the hook. That’s what the “responsible” ones do, right? They take the hit so everyone else walks free.

I turned around to see if there was anyone else in detention. There wasn't. Not even the detention teacher. I must’ve lost track of time, gnawing into that new alchemy book—half distracted, half obsessed. Again.

By the time I left the room, the sky had dimmed into a shade that looked like it couldn’t make up its mind—somewhere between purple bruises and a dying orange glow.

The janitor didn’t even bother pretending to mop anymore; he just gave me a look that said “Again?” and shook his head. I didn’t explain. I never did.

So, I walk over the slightly damp floor, and he shot me an annoyed look—a mix of “what the hell?” and “why do I evenbother?” The mop just hangs there in his hand like a prop in a play he’d long since stopped acting in.

I give him a nod. Like an apology.

He sighed through his nose, muttering something that sounded like my name but drowned in sarcasm, and turned back to his bucket.

I kept walking. Head down. Hands in my pockets.

The truth? I didn’t have to stay after detention. Most of the assignments I was "catching up on" were already done. But lately, drowning in work felt safer than surfacing for air. Safer than facing my thoughts. Safer than… facing him.

I trudged toward the parking lot, muscles stiff from too many hours hunched over a desk. The school was mostly empty by now—just a few scattered voices echoing down the halls, probably a drama club rehearsal or some overly enthusiastic debate kids. The usual.

Then I saw him.

Ethan.

Standing at the far edge of the parking lot, framed by the soft hum of the parking lights. Leaning on his new car, chatting with Max. Like his entire existence wasn’t currently rotting the edges of my mind.

My stomach clenched, but I didn’t stop walking.

I didn’t wave.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t look too long.

Because looking meant acknowledging. And acknowledging meant caring. And caring was a luxury I could no longer afford.

He was the reason I stayed behind every day, the reason my fingers ached from typing essays that didn’t need to exist, the reason I buried myself in numbers and pages and rules—things that made sense.

Because he didn’t make sense.

Not anymore.

I kept my eyes fixed on the sidewalk, focusing on the sound of my own footsteps, the scuff of rubber soles against old concrete, the scratch of my bag zipper tapping against my side. All very mundane. All very manageable.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps. Behind me.

I didn’t look. Of course I didn’t. Why would I? I already knew who it was.

Ethan.

He knew I was ignoring him. He knew I didn't want to talk to him. He knew I didn't even want to see him.

I rolled my eyes and kept walking.

“Go away,” I muttered under my breath. Not loud enough for anyone to hear. Not even myself.

But the footsteps didn’t stop.

---