Frayed Edges

Aren already knew.

They were too alike, two girls living with their hands clenched around invisible threads, unraveling at the edges where no one could see. Aren would press her lips into a thin, tight line, pretend it was none of her business, and then quietly sit beside Mirei at lunch, her presence a silent offer.

The day bled on, the sun filtering through dirty windows, washing their classroom in an afternoon haze. Gale sat where he always did. Too far to touch, close enough to tug at the seams of Mirei’s composure. His laugh - loud, careless, always a beat too late to be funny - still landed perfectly, like his world was charmed.

His world was larger than theirs. It stretched beyond test scores, far past whispered secrets and the heavy weight of trying to be enough. Mirei hated how easy it seemed for him, hated how much she still missed being part of it, even if her place had only ever been a joke name and a ball of red yarn.

The bell rang, peeling the moment apart. Students spilled into the hall, all overlapping laughter, scuffed shoes, and gossip bubbling up like carbonated water. Mirei stayed behind, her pace deliberately slower, her bag heavier than it needed to be. She could feel Aren’s gaze brush her back, not pushing, not prying, just there. Aren always noticed the cracks, the fresh bandaids across Mirei’s knuckles, the untouched lunch trays, the way Mirei’s eyes tracked Gale like a needle pulled toward a magnet.

In the hall, Caelis was propped against the windowsill, scrolling through his phone, his hair permanently disheveled. His tie was missing, his shirt untucked, and yet he was still the second-tallest boy in class, second only to Gale. Then again the boys in her class are pretty short, the taller ones are all in the other class.But Mirei’s stomach twisted at the thought. She didn’t need more reasons to compare them.

Caelis glanced up. “You’re brooding again.”

Mirei exhaled slowly. “I’m existing.”

“Same thing with you.” His grin was the usual lopsided, inviting either laughter or violence. Mirei did neither. She leaned against the wall beside him, tugging her sleeve lower over her wrist.

He didn’t ask why. He never did. That silence was why she could stand there, breathing beside him, without choking on it.

“Where’s Aren?” Mirei asked.

Caelis’s eyes flicked toward the stairwell. “Classroom, probably. She said she wanted to finish something.”

Mirei’s fingers curled into her sleeve, catching on the frayed threads. Aren never needed to say when something was weighing on her, she carried it in her posture, in the sharpness of her handwriting, in the way her focus sharpened to a point when the rest of her life felt out of control.

“Should we check on her?” Mirei asked.

“Nah.” Caelis stretched, arms over his head, his yawn lazy and exaggerated. “She’ll come find you when she’s ready.”

It was always like this: a quiet rotation, three people orbiting each other’s gravity, never too close, never too far. Aren, with her fragile pride and relentless drive; Caelis, with his easy smile and unsaid things; and Mirei, stitched together by silence and secrets, always with Gale as the pull she couldn’t resist.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Gale’s. Mirei’s breath caught, her shoulders stiffening just enough for Caelis to notice, though he didn’t turn. His smile tilted slightly, knowing without needing to ask.

“You’re staring again,” he said.

“Shut up.”

But even as she said it, her gaze followed Gale’s back until he disappeared around the corner, taking some small, frayed piece of her with him.