The Weight of Whispers
The morning light slanted through the tall windows of Westbrook High, catching dust motes that drifted lazily above the crowded hallway. Mia Johnson walked through the front doors with a spring in her step she hadn't felt in weeks, the kind of buoyancy that came from finally, finally being done with something enormous. The Regional History Symposium project—three months of late nights, color-coded note cards, and a bibliography so meticulous her AP History teacher had actually laughed out loud when she'd turned it in—was finished. Submitted. Behind her.
She'd earned this feeling of lightness, and she intended to enjoy it.
Her sneakers squeaked against the polished linoleum as she made her way toward her locker, backpack slung over one shoulder, a half-eaten granola bar in her free hand. The hallway buzzed with its usual Monday chaos: lockers slamming, someone's laughter echoing off the ceiling tiles, the low hum of two hundred conversations blending into a single indistinct wall of sound. Ordinary. Comforting, even.
She spotted Lila by the water fountain, phone in hand, thumb scrolling with the kind of intensity that meant either a juicy text thread or a Twitter spiral. Mia…
