Chapter 2 — First Sight

Halle

The hum of the school hallways wrapped around me like static, the overlapping voices rising and falling in uneven surges. Students rushed to their next classes, shoulders brushing mine as I kept my head down, clutching my science textbook to my chest like a shield. The familiar scent of bleach and old carpet clung to the air, the fluorescent lights above glaring like an interrogation. I wove through the crowd, just another shadow slipping unnoticed.

But today, there was something different. The usual noise was undercut by a current of energy that made me hesitate as I rounded the corner to my locker. Whispers floated past me, fragments of gossip weaving together into a single thread.

“Did you hear? Alex Rivera’s back.”

“Thought he’d never show his face here again.”

“Trouble—that’s all he is.”

The name made me pause. Alex Rivera. It rang faint bells, a memory just out of reach. I didn’t stop to listen, though. Gossip wasn’t new here; it fueled the high school like an endless bonfire. But still, the name lingered, tugging at the edges of my curiosity. I vaguely remembered hearing Ryan mention Alex years ago, back when their laughter used to echo through the house. Then Alex had disappeared—gone without explanation. Ryan never said much about it.

I twisted the combination on my locker, the sharp clatter of metal grounding me. The door creaked open, and I carefully arranged my books inside, keeping my movements deliberate. Around me, the whispers swirled closer.

“He got kicked out of his last school.”

“...caught fighting, or something.”

“Ryan Emerson’s old friend, right? Figures.”

Ryan. Of course. That’s where I’d heard the name. Ryan and Alex had been inseparable a few years back, before Alex disappeared from town like a ghost. I hadn’t thought much of it then—Ryan’s world was loud and full of people, while mine was small and quiet. I doubted Alex even knew I existed.

With a deep breath, I shut my locker and merged back into the flow of students, letting the tide carry me toward the cafeteria. My lunchtime routine was predictable: pick at my food, avoid eye contact, leave as soon as possible. The cafeteria was a minefield, every table a territory I didn’t belong to.

I pushed through the doors, the clatter of trays and the mingling scents of fried food and sour milk hitting me in a familiar wave. My usual spot near the far wall was empty, but I paused, caught by the commotion near the center of the room.

Ryan stood by one of the tables, his easy grin firmly in place, but there was tension in his posture, his shoulders slightly rigid. A group of boys—football teammates—circled him, their voices low but sharp enough to cut. One of them, a tall guy with a shaved head, jabbed a finger toward Ryan’s chest. The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken challenge.

Ryan’s grin faltered, just slightly. He said something too low to hear, his hands raised in mock surrender, but the tension didn’t fade.

And then, he appeared.

Alex Rivera.

He was leaning casually against the edge of the table, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he surveyed the scene. He didn’t speak at first, just watched, his presence sharp and magnetic. The black leather jacket he wore was slightly scuffed, and the edge of a tattoo curled out from under his sleeve, stark against his pale skin. Everything about him seemed deliberately out of place—the worn boots, the disheveled ease in a room full of polished varsity jackets. He looked like he belonged to another world entirely, one the rest of us could only glimpse.

When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the tension like a knife, low and edged with dry humor. “So, you done posturing, or should I grab popcorn?”

The silence stretched for a beat, and then the tension broke—not with violence, but with laughter. It rolled through the group, easing the sharp edges of the moment. Ryan clapped Alex on the shoulder, his grin snapping back into place. The boy with the shaved head muttered something under his breath and backed off, shaking his head.

Alex’s gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing. For a moment, his gray eyes landed on me.

I froze.

His gaze was piercing, like it could peel back layers I didn’t even know I had. My chest tightened, and I quickly looked away, my cheeks burning. I busied myself with unwrapping my sandwich, but my hands trembled slightly. What was that? Did I imagine it? People didn’t look at me—not really. I wasn’t used to being noticed, and the weight of his attention was like a spotlight I didn’t know how to stand under.

The whispers around me didn’t help.

“Did you see him? He looks—”

“—exactly the same. Like trouble.”

“Ryan seems fine with him, though.”

I risked another glance toward their table. Alex sat now, leaning back in his chair with an air of ease that didn’t quite match the tension he carried into the room. Ryan was talking animatedly, his hands moving as he gestured about something, but Alex’s attention wandered. He seemed to take in everything without truly focusing on any of it.

Including me.

Our eyes met again, and for a split second, the cafeteria faded into the background. My breath caught. This time, there was no mistaking it—he was looking at me. His gaze wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t soft, either. It was curious, as if he were trying to figure me out. Embarrassed, I tore my eyes away, staring down at my sandwich like it held the answers to the universe. My thoughts raced. Why had he looked at me like that? What was he trying to see?

The moment lingered, like the echo of a thunderclap. When I glanced back, his attention was already elsewhere. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my thoughts a tangled mess of curiosity and unease. He didn’t know me. He probably didn’t even notice me, not really. I was just another face in the cafeteria crowd.

Still, the intensity of that look stayed with me, like the afterimage of lightning burned into my vision.

---

The rest of the afternoon blurred by in fragments. Numbers and words on the chalkboard melted into meaningless shapes, my focus elsewhere. I couldn’t stop replaying the moment Alex’s gaze had met mine, wondering how someone like him could make me feel so exposed. I wasn’t sure if I felt seen or just… scrutinized. Either way, it left a ripple I couldn’t smooth over.

By the time the final bell rang, I was ready to retreat home, to bury the day in the quiet refuge of my room and my journal. The thought of writing—a safe outlet for the storm of unfamiliar emotions inside me—was the only thing grounding me.

The parking lot was chaotic, students spilling out of the building in noisy clusters. The sky hung low and gray, heavy with the promise of rain. The air smelled damp, earthy. I tightened the straps of my bag and wove through the chaos toward the cracked sidewalk leading home.

And then I saw him again.

Alex leaned against a black motorcycle near the edge of the lot, arms crossed over his chest. The bike, sleek and slightly scratched, gleamed under the dim light. His presence seemed to draw the eye, the way dark clouds pull your attention before a storm. He was talking to Ryan, his voice too low for me to hear, but there was something animated in the way he gestured, his sharp features softened by the faint tilt of a smile.

My steps faltered, and I glanced down, trying to avoid drawing attention. But it was too late.

“Halle!” Ryan’s voice cut through the noise. I turned reluctantly, my stomach twisting.

“Hey!” he called, waving me over. “You walking home?”

I nodded, my throat tight. Ryan jogged over, his grin easy as always. “You should’ve told me. I’d have driven you.”

“It’s fine,” I muttered, shifting slightly under Alex’s gaze. He was watching us, his expression unreadable. His presence felt like static against my skin, a pressure I couldn’t quite explain.

“Well, next time, just let me know,” Ryan said, the words casual but tinged with something softer. “I’ll drive you.”

As he turned back toward Alex, he gestured casually. “Anyway, this is Alex. Remember him?”

My heart raced as Ryan introduced us. Alex straightened, his hands sliding into the pockets of his jacket, and gave me a slow, appraising look.

“Hey,” he said simply, his voice calm but laced with something sharp, almost teasing.

“Hi,” I managed, though it came out barely louder than a whisper.

Alex’s lips quirked into a faint smile, more amused than warm. “You’re quieter than your brother. Interesting.”

And just like that, he turned back to Ryan, their conversation resuming as if I’d never been there. I lingered for a moment, Alex’s words circling in my mind, before walking away.

The rain started as I reached the edge of the lot, cool drops brushing against my skin. I pulled my hoodie tighter around me, my thoughts a tangled mess. I didn’t know what to make of Alex Rivera, but one thing was certain:

Trouble, they called him.

And maybe, just maybe, they were right. But why did I feel like trouble had already found me?