“Hi,” I say. Or I attempt to say, the effort of that single word exhausting. My whole body is numb. The moment doesn’t seem real, but I can feel moisture gathering over the bare nape of my neck.

I like to consider myself a reasonably amiable person. I’ve never gotten into a heated argument or physical altercation with anyone before. I have a healthy number of friends, and though we’re not exactly drive-across-the-country-at-midnight-to-help-you close the way I wish to be, at least we’re you-can-borrow-my-sunglasses close. And I might dislike a number of people, or disagree with them on multiple points, but I don’t hate anybody—

Except for the boy sitting down beside me.

Cyrus Sui.

* * *

Ever since I was a child, I’ve had abnormally vivid nightmares. They’re so believable that in those moments when I wake up in a cold sweat, I’m convinced that my life is what I experienced when I was asleep, and everything else is an illusion. I have nightmares about everything: About doing a shoot in the middle of Grand Park only to discover halfway through that I wasn’t dressed. About the sky falling, about my parents turning into flesh-eating aliens, about my parents growing old, which was even more terrifying. And without fail, starting from the day of the Incident, I’ve had nightmares about Cyrus Sui.

Nightmares where he joined the other kids at my previous schools in making my life miserable, shrinking away dramatically every time I walked close in the corridors, flinging the ball across the court a little too hard in gym so it would hit me. Where he kept spreading rumors about the Incident, following me from school to school and shouting about it through a speaker before I could even introduce myself. Where he openly gloated about ruining my life when I was fifteen, an arsonist grinning up at the flames while I choked on the smoke.

Even though it’s been two years since the Incident itself, my grudge hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s only festered. Strengthened like wine, grown so potent that one small taste of it is enough to cloud your head.

My part-time friend and full-time classmate, Cate Addison, accused me once of holding grudges too easily. I’ve been holding a grudge against her for that as well.

“Remember me?” Cyrus asks, tipping his chin up a few degrees, as if he isn’t the reason my school records are permanently stained. The reason I went through hell.

My throat closes. My fists clench. How I wish this were another nightmare. “I—”

“I’m sure you do,” he says. He picks up one of the chocolates using two fingers but doesn’t unwrap it. Just tosses it in the air. Catches it without looking. “I remember you very well, Leah. Nobody else has left such a strong impression.”

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, my initial shock wearing off.