The hallway between the library and the gym was always a little quieter than the rest of the school. It smelled faintly of floor polish, the kind that clung to your clothes if you stayed too long. The vending machines hummed at either end, and from far off, you could hear the dull, rhythmic thud of a ball against wood — the sound of practice winding down.

You'd just finished re-shelving a cart of books and were heading back to the library office, your arms stacked with a few strays you still needed to log. The corridor ahead was empty. Peaceful.

Until something rolled into your path and bumped against your shoe.

A soccer ball.

You bent down, fingers brushing over the worn synthetic leather. When you straightened, she was already there.

Emma.

Her dark curls were damp from the shower, stray tendrils clinging to her jaw and the curve of her neck. Her jacket was the school's green-and-gold — the kind you only got if you earned it — with her name stitched along the sleeve in looping gold thread. Her skin still had that faint post-practice glow, and her eyes — green with a halo of amber — caught the corridor's weak light and seemed to hold it.

"Sorry," she said, the word a little breathless but tinged with an effortless confidence. Her voice had a low rasp to it, the kind that made even apologies sound deliberate.

You passed her the ball, trying to keep your gaze steady. "It's fine."

She smiled — quick, almost sly — before jogging off. But not without glancing over her shoulder once, as if checking that you were still looking.

The second time you saw her up close, it was in the library. The afternoon light was slanting through the tall windows, turning dust motes into drifting flecks of gold. You were shelving returns in the sports section when you noticed her — sitting cross-legged on the floor, a thick, battered book open in her lap.

"Didn't think the team captain was a regular here," you said without thinking, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Her eyes lifted, sharp but amused. "Don't tell anyone," she murmured, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. "I've got a reputation to keep."

You leaned a little on the shelving cart. "Your secret's safe."

Somehow, the conversation drifted — from soccer drills to playlists, from which teachers graded hardest to which hallway lockers had the squeakiest hinges. You didn't notice the clock until the librarian flicked the overhead lights to signal closing.

That night, her voice lingered in your head, playing over in pieces like an unfinished song.

After that, she started showing up more.

Passing by your locker between classes even when her next period was in the opposite direction.

Leaning in the doorway of the library, pretending to browse until you noticed her.

Catching your eye across the cafeteria while her friends chattered around her.

One afternoon after practice, you found her lying flat on her back at center court in the empty gym, earbuds in, the air still carrying the faint tang of sweat and floor polish.

"You always here this late?" she asked when you wandered closer.

"Sometimes," you said, and without really thinking, you sat beside her. You stayed until the overhead lights clicked off, the quiet between you oddly comfortable.

It became a habit neither of you talked about.

It happened on a rainy Thursday.

You were alone on the bleachers, the sound of rain on the roof turning the gym into something softer, more private. Emma was the last one on the court, gathering stray balls, her hair curling at the edges from the damp. She came over, stopping in front of you, one hand gripping the strap of her sports bag.

"You're the only person I don't have to pretend with," she said suddenly, as if the thought had been building for a while.

Before you could answer, she leaned down and kissed you. Quick. Hesitant. But there was nothing unsure about the way her fingertips brushed your jaw before she pulled back.

You didn't say anything. You just watched her walk away, heart thudding hard enough to drown out the rain.

From then on, you were together — but only in secret. To everyone else, she was still the golden girl of the soccer team, the one everyone wanted to be around. No one knew she was slipping into the library after hours, or leaning too close in the quiet corners of the hallway when no one was looking.

And then came Friday.

You spotted her between classes, moving quickly through the crowded hall. Her curls were slightly mussed from practice, her jersey peeking out from under her jacket. She slowed at your locker, her back to the passing students, and in one swift, practiced motion, slid something through the vent.

Her eyes darted left, then right — scanning for anyone who might've seen. Satisfied, she turned and melted back into the stream of green-and-gold jerseys.

It wasn't until the end of the day, when you came back to grab a couple of books, that you found it. As you pulled them free, a folded piece of paper slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

You bent to pick it up, tucking your books under one arm. The handwriting was unmistakably hers — confident, slightly slanted, written in pink Sharpie.

meet me under the bleachers, xo – Emma

Your pulse stuttered. The words seemed to hum against your skin.

You read them again, as if they might somehow change, but they didn't. And the smile tugging at your mouth was impossible to hide.