(AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN…) EMMA BARNES

Taylor noticed Emma before Emma noticed her.

That alone was wrong enough to make her slow her steps.

Emma Barnes had never been the kind of person you spotted first. She had always arranged things so that people noticed her on her terms, turning heads without ever seeming to try, and controlling the moment simply by existing in it. Even at Winslow, where everything felt worn down and second-rate, Emma had carried herself like she belonged at the top.

The girl standing near the lockers ahead of her did not.

For a moment, Taylor thought she had the wrong person. Then Emma shifted slightly, and the angle of her face caught the light, and recognition settled in whether Taylor wanted it to or not.

Emma looked… wrong.

Her hair, once carefully arranged, hung in matted strands that looked like they had not seen a brush in days. Her clothes were rumpled in a way that went beyond carelessness, like they had been thrown on without thought. There was a slight hunch to her back that had never been there before, her shoulders pulled inward instead of back, as though she were trying to make herself smaller without realizing it.

Even from a distance, Taylor could see the shadows beneath her eyes.

For a few seconds, she simply stood there, watching.

This was not the Emma she remembered, who had stood over her in the hallway, smiling like she knew exactly how far she could push things without consequence. This was not the girl who had spoken about strength and survival and how Taylor lacked both.

This was someone else.

Emma noticed her then.

The change was immediate, though not in the way Taylor expected. There was no sickly-sweet smile or hint of triumph at the opportunity. Instead, Emma’s head lifted too quickly, her eyes locking onto Taylor with a kind of intensity that felt decidedly unstable.

She pushed herself off the lockers and walked forward.

Taylor did not move. A part of her registered that she should, that this was the moment where she turned away or braced herself or did something, but the thought never translated into action. She remained where she was, watching as Emma closed the distance between them.

Up close, the difference was worse.

There was a certain faint smell that clung to her. Her breathing was ragged, and her gaze kept darting to the side, as if she could not quite settle on where to look.

“Taylor,” Emma said.

Her voice was rough. It didn't sound weak, but it was definitely stripped of something it had once carried so easily. The confidence was still there, or at least the remnants of it was, but it sat wrong in her mouth, like she was forcing it into place.

Emma’s expression tightened at the lack of response, and for a moment something uncertain passed across her face before it was smoothed away.

“I was wondering when I’d run into you,” she continued, her tone picking up speed, words coming a little too quickly now. “You’ve been… busy.”

Taylor still did not answer. She found herself watching the way Emma’s hands moved instead, the restless motion of her fingers where they hovered near her sides, like she did not know what to do with them.

“You think you’ve changed things,” Emma went on. “That what happened makes you…” She hesitated, just for a second, before pushing through it. “Better.”

There it was.

That old spite. 

“I’m still here,” Emma said, more forcefully now, as if that alone proved her point. “I made it through. I always do. That’s what a survivor is.”

Taylor heard them, understood them, and felt nothing in response.

Her attention had already drifted elsewhere.

Emma’s sleeve had ridden up slightly as she gestured, exposing a thin wrist that looked more fragile than Taylor remembered. There were marks there, some more faded than others, but all bearing the same white, sunken, and thin look.  

Emma seemed to notice where she was looking and tugged the sleeve back down too quickly.

“I don’t need them,” she said suddenly, the words coming out of nowhere, her voice catching in a way that did not match the conviction she was trying to project. “I never did. They just… they made things easier, that’s all.”

She stopped.

For a second, it looked like she had more to say, like the words were still there, pressing up against the inside of her throat.

“They’re not even here anymore,” she added, almost under her breath. “And it’s still… it’s still the same.”

The last part slipped out before she could stop it.

Emma froze.

Taylor felt something bloom within her.

It was not forgiveness, understanding, sympathy, or something simple enough to name. It was the sudden, uncomfortable awareness that whatever Emma had built herself around had cracked, and that there was nothing underneath it to hold her up.

Emma straightened abruptly, as if trying to pull herself back together.

“You wouldn’t get it,” she said quickly, too quickly. “You never did.”

The words were audible, but they felt distant, drowned out by the image in front of her that refused to align with anything she remembered.

This was the girl who had locked her in a locker. This was the girl who had laughed. This was the girl who had told her, over and over again, that she was weak. And now she stood there, a shell of her former self.

Taylor took a step forward before she realized she was moving.

Emma took a half step back.

The closing distance seemed to throw her off more than anything else had, her expression becoming uncertain, almost wary. She opened her mouth, perhaps to speak again, to reassert something, or to push the moment back into something familiar.

Taylor did not give her the chance. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her.

Emma went rigid in her grip, her breath catching sharply as though she had forgotten how to react. And Taylor felt the faint tremor Emma tried and failed to suppress, and the way her hands hovered uncertainly before settling on either side, neither returning the embrace nor pushing her away either.

It did not matter.

Or maybe it did, and she simply did not care enough to stop.

There was no rush of anger and no resurgence of old hurt. Those things were still there, somewhere beneath everything else, but they felt distant, dulled by everything that had come after.

What remained was something simpler.

Recognition that the person in her arms was not the same one who had hurt her, and that whatever she had become, it was not something stable.

Emma made a small sound.

It was not quite a sob, not quite anything at all, more a break in her breathing than an intentional expression of emotion, but it was enough to make something tighten briefly in Taylor’s chest.

She did not pull away.

And as time passed by, they simply stood there, locked in something neither of them seemed to fully understand.