But something’s different today.

I notice it in the way Henry looks at me when I walk out, the way he flinches as I draw near. It’s such an odd sight I’m almost convinced I’ve imagined it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Henry Li flinch before.

Yet even odder is the expression that settles over his features like a shadow:

Concern.

Concern for me, because... I was hyperventilating during our test just now? Because it’s clear I’ve been crying? Because he overheard my conversation with Mr. Murphy?

There are so many possibilities. All of them make me want to run far away in the opposite direction.

But before I can turn around, he steps toward me.

“You forgot about the test,” he says. Not are you okay? or how did it go? or do you want to talk about it? Maybe he isn’t that concerned after all.

I run my tongue over the sharp edges of my teeth. “Yeah, I know. And I swear, if you’re going to rub it in—”

“No,” he says. Quickly. “That was not my intention.”

And even though it’s the last thing I’d expect myself to do, especially when I still feel like my world is about to end, I can’t help it: I snort.

He frowns. “Is something funny?”

“No, no, nothing,” I say, shaking my head—then stop abruptly, when the motion makes pain spike through my skull. At this rate, I can’t even tell if the migraine is from sleep deprivation or from bawling my eyes out.

Henry says nothing, but his frown deepens.

“Okay, fine, you really want to know? It’s just—you just sound so posh all the time, oh my god.” I straighten my posture to match his and mimic him with an exaggerated British accent. “That was not my intention.”

“I do not sound like that,” he says, affronted.

“You’re right. You sound even posher. Why are you still here, anyway?” I ask, looking over his shoulder to scan the emptying hall. “Shouldn’t we be getting to class or—”

“English is canceled for the day. Mr. Chen was invited to deliver a lecture at Peking University.” He hesitates. “The email came a few minutes ago, when you were...”

When I was having a mental breakdown.

“Ah,” I say, suddenly far too aware of the damp patches on my blazer from when I used it to wipe my face. The puffiness in my lips and cheeks. The dry, uncomfortable ache in my eyes. I turn my head, feigning interest in the glass display to my left. Glossy certificates catch the artificial light of the hall, the golden, italicized text gleaming like magic: Rachel Kim: First Place in IGCSE History. Patricia Chao: Best All-Rounder Award. Isabella Lee: Perfect Score in IB Geography.

All legends. All names that continue to adorn our halls, remind us of their greatness, long after the students themselves have graduated.

The sound of crinkling paper pulls me from my thoughts. I glance back to see Henry reaching for something in his bag. “Do you want—”