Chapter 7 — No Contact
Riverton Central smelled like disinfectant and new paper.
The halls were too bright.
The ceiling lights made everyone’s skin look pale and slightly unreal, like we’d all been printed out of the same anxious machine.
I found my locker with shaking hands.
Three tries before the combination stopped slipping.
Around me, voices rose and fell—names shouted across corridors, laughter too loud, shoes squeaking against polished floor.
Somewhere behind that noise, my phone buzzed.
One message.
From Noah.
**At school, don’t talk to me.**
**Don’t look for me.**
**Don’t make it weird.**
Three lines.
No greeting.
No explanation.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
For a second, I wanted to type a paragraph.
I wanted to ask what I had done wrong.
I wanted to ask what was left of us if I couldn’t even say hello.
Instead I typed one word.
**Okay.**
I hit send.
Put the phone in my pocket like it was hot.
First period started.
Then second.
Then the day moved, heavy and ordinary, as if nothing in my chest was shifting.
In the cafeteria at lunch, I saw him.
Not close.
Across the room, surrounded by boys who slapped his shoulders and laughed too hard at nothing.
Noah stood with that easy posture people trusted.
Tall, calm, untouchable.
He didn’t look at me.
Even when I moved.
Even when I accidentally paused, as if my body still expected him to sense me the way he used to.
He turned slightly, just to reach for a tray.
The angle of his shoulder blocked his face from my direction.
A small motion.
A wall made out of bone.
I sat at a table by the window with two girls from my homeroom.
They talked about teachers and schedules.
I nodded at the right moments.
My appetite didn’t arrive.
Outside, the flag over the courtyard snapped in the wind.
The shadow of it slid across the pavement like a hand that couldn’t decide whether to touch or pull away.
After school, I walked out with my head down.
The buses lined up like patient animals.
Parents waited in cars.
Someone called my name, and I flinched before I recognized it wasn’t his voice.
At the curb, I stopped without meaning to.
I looked for Noah the way you look for a street sign even after you’ve already memorized the route.
He was there.
Near the bike racks.
Talking to a coach.
Laughing once—brief, bright—and I felt something in me tighten.
Then he saw me.
Not fully.
Just the outline of me.
His expression didn’t change, but his body shifted, turning half away.
A deliberate angle again.
He looked past my shoulder, as if the world behind me mattered more than I did.
I walked to the bus.
I didn’t turn around.
I told myself this was what he wanted.
I told myself I could be good at obeying.
On the ride home, my phone stayed silent.
No follow-up.
No correction.
Just the kind of quiet that felt like a door closing carefully.