The shift did not happen loudly.
It happened in inches.
In chairs that were no longer pulled out for her.
In pauses where laughter used to include her name.
In glances that lasted a second too long—then snapped away.
Elara noticed by the third morning.
Not because someone said something.
Because no one did.
The hallway felt wider.
Colder.
As though space had been deliberately carved around her.
She walked past the lockers where she once stood between Lucia and Martina, sharing notes and mock complaints about professors.
Today—
Lucia smiled at her from a distance.
Too bright.
Too brief.
Then turned away mid-sentence when Elara approached.
Martina pretended not to see her at all.
Tsk.
What the hell.
Elara slowed.
"Lucia?" she called softly.
Lucia stopped.
Half-turned.
"Oh—Elara. I didn't—sorry, I'm late."
For what?
It was eight in the morning.
Lucia was never late.
Elara searched her face.
Found nervousness.
Guilt.
Fear.
