Cut

The morning felt sharp. Not cold, just sharp, like the air itself was honed to a fine edge, slicing into Mirei’s skin every time she stepped into the hallway. Everything seemed louder than usual: lockers slamming shut, footsteps scuffing against old tile, voices tumbling over each other with too much force. It all grated against her nerves, leaving her raw and exposed.

She hadn’t slept.

The stitches from last night had faded into faint pink lines by the time the sun rose, but the ones inside her - the invisible seams holding her together - felt dangerously close to snapping.

Aren was already at her desk when Mirei walked in, her hands folded neatly on top of her notebook, her expression unreadable. There was a thinness to her smile, though too perfect, like a thread pulled too tight.

“Morning,” Mirei said, voice low.

Aren didn’t reply right away. She was staring at her hands, fingers pressed together so tightly they turned white. Something was wrong. Mirei could feel it, the way you feel a splinter under your skin before you even see it.

Caelis slid into his usual seat a few rows back, late, as always. His hair stuck up in uneven spikes, and there was a faint shadow under his eyes that Mirei hadn’t noticed before. Their eyes met, just for a second, and there was something there, a quiet question, maybe. But neither of them said anything.

The lesson started, but Mirei’s mind drifted, unraveling into too many loose ends.

She was tired of this.

Tired of pretending she didn’t care. Tired of watching Gale from across the room, pretending her heart didn’t catch every time his laugh cut through the air. Tired of the constant pull between wanting to reach out and knowing it would hurt more if she did.

And worse - she was tired of herself.

At lunch, she excused herself early, slipping out into the back courtyard where the air was quieter and the world felt just a little further away. The metal benches were cold under her hands, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the surface, trying to ground herself.

She remembered the red yarn, the stupid necklace she made for him, the way he laughed and wore it anyway. She remembered how easy it was to talk back then, how none of her words got caught in her throat, how his voice didn’t make her chest ache.

What happened to them?

That thread, the one that tied them together, had frayed for so long, she hadn’t even realized when it finally snapped.

“Hey.”

Mirei’s head jerked up. Gale stood a few feet away, one hand buried in his pocket, the other holding a half-empty can of soda. His tie was crooked, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, like always. He looked like every version of him she used to know, and yet at the same time, he didn’t.

She froze. For one awful second, she thought he was going to say her name. Call her Dora. Make a joke like nothing had ever changed.

But he didn’t.

“Do you know if we have practice later?” he asked, voice easy, casual - like she was just anyone. Practise for that drama due next week. He could've asked anyone else.

Mirei’s stomach twisted.

“Uh - I don’t think so,” she said, hating how her voice caught on the first word.

“Cool. Thanks.” He gave her a brief smile, polite, distant, before turning away.

That was it.

The thread was cut.

Not with scissors, not with a clean slice, but worn down, threadbare, until it simply gave way under its own weight.

Mirei sat there for a long time after Gale left, hands clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. She wanted to scream. To cry. To do something. But all she did was sit there, staring at her hands like they were someone else’s.

By the time the bell rang, her fingers were trembling, and she couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from everything she was trying not to feel.