Winding

There was always a rhythm to it; the way they circled each other without ever colliding.

Aren, Caelis, Mirei. Three points on the same invisible line, caught in a slow, inevitable spin. They never drifted too far apart, never crashed too hard, always close enough to feel the pull of each other’s gravity. It was unspoken, the way they existed in the same quiet orbit, but it was there, constant, inescapable.

Mirei sat with her hands in her sleeves, her fingers tracing faint patterns into the fabric. The classroom was loud, too many voices, too much laughter. The kind of noise that filled the space between people who didn’t know how to be alone with themselves.

Aren sat beside her, perfectly upright, her pen gliding across her notebook in clean, precise strokes. No notes were actually being taken, the pen was just a prop, something to keep her hands moving while her mind wandered. Mirei knew Aren well enough to notice the signs. Her foot tapped under the desk, the rhythm uneven, like her thoughts kept interrupting themselves.

Across the room, Gale leaned back in his chair, one foot hooked around the leg of his desk, balancing like it was the easiest thing in the world. He was laughing at something, one of the boys next to him said something dumb, probably, and even from here, Mirei could hear that laugh. Too loud, too easy, the kind of sound that made her chest ache in ways she didn’t have words for.

He had always been like that. Effortless. His smile could fill a room, his voice could cut through silence like it belonged there. He was light. And Mirei. Mirei had spent so long curled around her own shadows that she wasn’t sure she could even exist in that light anymore.

Aren’s foot nudged hers under the desk. Not hard, not obvious. Just a gentle push, a reminder that she was there, that she noticed.

“You should talk to him,” Aren said softly, her eyes still on her notebook.

Mirei’s stomach twisted. “Why?”

“Because you want to,” Aren said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like it was obvious.

Mirei’s pulse stuttered, her fingers curling tighter into her sleeve. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Aren said, finally glancing over, her expression as unreadable as always. “But you still want to.”

Mirei couldn’t answer that. She didn’t need to. They both knew the truth sat between them, fragile and unsaid.

Aren didn’t push - she never did - but the weight of her knowing settled over Mirei like a second skin.

Gale’s laugh rang out again, bright and careless, and Mirei’s eyes flicked toward him before she could stop herself. He didn’t notice. He never did. His world was full of people louder, brighter, easier to see. Mirei was just part of the background noise now, the silence between notes.

Aren’s foot nudged hers again, softer this time.

“You’re running out of time,” she said, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

Mirei swallowed hard. “It’s fine,” she whispered.

She didn’t believe it. Aren didn’t believe it. But neither of them said so.

They all had their roles - Aren, the observer, too scared to step out of her own orbit; Caelis, the wildcard, pretending to be weightless even with the whole world on his back; and Mirei, the girl who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly why she could never have it.

They were all so stupid.

The bell rang, and the room shifted - bodies in motion, voices rising, a hundred little universes colliding.

Mirei stayed in her seat a moment longer, her fingers tracing invisible stitches into her palm, the ghost of old thread and tighter days.

Aren stood, slinging her bag over one shoulder. She didn’t say anything else, but the nudge of her foot, the weight of her glance, stayed.

Talk to him, the silence said. Before there’s nothing left to say.

But Mirei’s feet stayed planted, and her hands stayed hidden, and her voice - the one Gale used to know - stayed locked behind her teeth.

For now.

They would keep spinning, the same three points on the same fragile line, until something, or someone, finally broke.