The first time Tifa Lockhart talked to Cloud Strife, he was alone on the seat of a swing set. It was almost dusk, the sun beginning to descend below the large western hills.

He's always alone, she had thought, walking up to the empty seat beside him. She dropped her backpack along the metal legs holding up the swings. She took the seat before asking him if she could.

"Can I swing with you?"

He hadn't been actually swinging. He had only been gently swaying, staring at the ground in deep, faraway thoughts.

He glanced at her before looking away, his brows furrowing. "Uh…sure."

He wasn't the easiest to talk to. Fortunately, Tifa had an exceptional talent to chatter. At the age of nine, she had realized she was good at it. She talked to all her teachers. She talked to parents. She talked to kids both younger and older. She had been praised for it, so she knew it must have been something not everyone had in ample measure.

She quickly realized Cloud was not one of these kids.

She talked to him as much as she talked at him. She talked to him about his mom and his favorite color and how the leaves changed in autumn. She told him about her dad and how her mom was in heaven and how she's always wanted a dog but her dad kept telling her no because it was too much responsibility, but her dad didn't realize how responsible she could be because he's never let her have a pet in the first place.

Cloud would listen, but he didn't give much feedback. He seemed content enough to sit there and sway with her while she began to create a pendulum with her body, swinging up and up and up.

Eventually, Tifa would define them as good friends. She'd meet him at the swings. He'd smile at her and shyly ask how her day was. She'd respond in kind. They would race to see who could swing the highest and jump out of their seats, landing as far away into the dirt as their bodies would allow. They would laugh and talk about how dumb school could be and hey do you want to sit with me at lunch? I'll trade you my chips for string cheese.

It was great for a while. They spent their days acting like they were the only two who mattered in their elementary lives. When middle school hit, classes were broader with different electives and teachers, the three elementary schools that made up the town all compacted into one. Tifa met new people, made new friends, and it became harder and harder to keep up with how simple elementary used to be.

High school was even busier. Life became more dramatic. Rumors and flirtations filled the hallways—Did you see Derek with Rebecca?

Do you think he likes me?

He is so cute. When did he get so cute?

I don't know if I should ask her to the game this weekend. Do you think she'll say yes?

Studies became harder.

Friendships came and went, old relationships overshadowed by cheerleading practice or orchestra recitals, weekends either filled with sports games, competitions, or homework.

By the time Tifa entered senior year, she had thought about Cloud from time to time. She had seen him occasionally in the hallways, baggy hoodie encompassing his body like a lazy blanket. She'd hear things about him—Strife the troublemaker, lumped in with the bad kids. He'd had in school suspension before, punching some kids behind the school, vandalizing the building, even participating in smoking on the slab a few blocks away during lunch hour. She'd wondered about him, wishing she had the courage to talk to him, to somehow rekindle the lovely warmth of childhood friendship. But it was too different, now. There was an impossibly vast rift of the teenage years between any relationship they had before. And as different as she was certain he was, she was different, too. Over time, the jungle of adolescence brings out true character, once so promising in the younger years, ripening into what it's supposed to be in the later stages of life.

The first time Tifa Lockhart sees Cloud Strife her senior year, she is walking down the hallway. Cloud is up against the lockers, the meaty hand of Mitch Alexander, the star linebacker of the football team, wrapped around the collar of his black hoodie. It's emblazoned with a band name, too loose around his arms and dipping below his waist. Mitch is about three times the size of Cloud, and he is red in the face as he breathes into Cloud's neck.

Mitch is an intimidating boy, too big and powerful to be eighteen, but Cloud doesn't seem phased in the slightest. In fact, he's smirking. His body is lax against the lockers, not even attempting to fight back. His eyes are blasé, devil-may-care, and when Mitch brings his body forward and slams him into the lockers again, his expression doesn't flicker at all.

Tifa pauses her walk, her hand tightening over the strap of her backpack.

"You little shit, Strife. I know it was you. You might fool everyone else, but you don't fool me."

Mitch slams him again. At the power behind it, Tifa sees the briefest wince flash across his eyes.

"You think I give a fuck about who you like, Mitch?" Cloud says, his voice slightly breathless. "Newsflash. I don't."

Mitch's cheeks redden further. "You're going to tell Ashley you lied."

Cloud's smirk grows. "Why would I do that?"

"Because," Mitch says. "I will mess you up so bad, you won't know your head from your ass."

Cloud give a short laugh. "I'd like to see you try."

Tifa watches and listens, hesitating before taking another step. She ignores all the fights. They happen at least once a week, but she doesn't get involved. She's not supposed to, and it's not worth it. That's what her father's always said.

Let the idiots be idiots, he's told her. You can't help everyone, Tifa. You can't be friends with everyone.

Mitch lets go of Cloud, and he slides to the floor, landing on his feet. Mitch swings his thick fist at his face, but Cloud ducks. A loud bang resounds down the hallway, and Mitch makes an indentation in the metal locker, his knuckles imprinted in the door.

Cloud swings at his stomach, right below his sternum, and Mitch wheezes. Mitch swings his elbow and cuts it across Cloud's cheek, breaking the skin.

At the start of the tussle, Tifa's feet take her forward, having a mind of their own.

"Stop!" she shouts, grabbing at Mitch's shoulders. "You're both going to get in loads of trouble!"

Tifa's eyes catch Cloud's, and he immediately stills. Mitch doesn't, bringing a fist flying at Cloud's already bloody cheek. It connects in a nasty crack.

"Fuck," Cloud breathes.

"Mitch!" Tifa says.

"This ain't none of your business, Teef," Mitch says, glancing down at her. "This punk deserves what's comin' to him."

Tifa places her hands on her hips, glaring up at him. "Then I guess you deserve it, too."

Mitch scoffs, but his face softens as he looks at her. "C'mon, Tifa. We have a big game this weekend. Coach can't afford to bench me."

Tifa huffs. "Then I guess you should have thought about that before picking a fight with Cloud!"

"You should listen to her, Alexander," Cloud answers, lowering his hand from his face. "It'd be a shame if you missed your big game because a punk told Ashley what a moron you are."

Mitch fumes again. "I swear to you, Strife—"

Tifa steps in front of Mitch, not quite sure what she's doing. All she knows is that she's angry—at Mitch for being ridiculous, and Cloud for egging him on.

"Stop it, Mitch," Tifa says, her brows furrowing over her eyes. "I mean it." She turns and looks over her shoulder. "You, too, Cloud."

Cloud blinks at her, straightening in shock. The skin under his left eye is swelling up, puckering and purpling. He glances away from her, unable to maintain her stare.

This is the first time she's talked to him since…in the heat of the moment, Tifa can't remember.

Mitch begins to laugh. "What's the matter, Strife? Never talk to a cheerleader before?"

At his words, Cloud finally falters. "I—what? Of course I've talked to—" Cloud interrupts himself, scoffing. "Shut the fuck up, Mitch."

"Oh, I got it," Mitch says, crossing his arms. He's beginning to smile. "You think you're so much cooler than everyone, Strife, but you can't even talk to a girl."

Cloud's jaw bunches, and he glares daggers at Mitch. "I talked to Ashley, didn't I?"

Mitch starts laughing. "Did you wear a diaper? Because I bet you were shitting your pants!"

Tifa can see Cloud's fuse starting to shorten, burning down to the wick. His cheeks are flooding with a darkening blush.

"Mitch, stop—" she tries.

Cloud steps around her and surprises her by throwing his fist right into Mitch's face. His knuckles connect with his eye socket, and Mitch yelps, stepping back from the force.

"What the hell!" he shouts, grabbing at his face.

Tifa gasps. "Cloud! You didn't—!"

The bell rings overhead, and Tifa doesn't notice one of the teachers having been alerted to the situation. Tifa's heart sinks when she sees it's Mr. Rutledge. He is one of the most uptight professors in the school. Of course he would be the one to break up the fight.

There is a glower on his face, and Tifa pushes her nails into her palm, trying to prepare for the onslaught.

"Alright, kids, break it up. Alexander. Strife. Lockhart. What is the meaning of this?" he bellows, staring down at Cloud and Tifa, his face in line with Mitch's.

"He broke my eye!" Mitch shouts, his accusation nearly a wail.

"Your eye can't break, genius," Cloud mutters. Mr. Rutledge glares at him.

"I'm not surprised to see you in the middle of this, Mr. Strife. What is it, now? The fifth time this year?"

Cloud answers with silence.

"And Miss Lockhart, I'm very surprised to see you, here," he states. "I'm quite disappointed in all of you."

"I—I'm…" Tifa starts, not knowing what to say.

"He started it!" Mitch points, interrupting her. Cloud bristles.

"Are you serious?" he says. "You're the one who grabbed me and slammed me against the lockers."

"You're the one who stole my chance with Ashley!"

"You're the one who couldn't leave it alone," Cloud snarls.

"Enough!" Mr. Rutledge shouts, and it echoes in the hallway. Tifa freezes. The boys shift and straighten.

"All of you. I don't care who started it. I don't even care the reasoning behind it. Detention will be held after school today and will continue on for the rest of the next week. Violence will not be tolerated under my watch, nor will it be tolerated under this administration's code of ethics. You all will report to the front office once the school day ends."

"But Mr. Rutledge, I have practice after school! The team needs me!"

"Then I guess this will be a lesson for you, won't it, Mr. Alexander?" Mr. Rutledge pushes his bifocals higher up onto the bridge of his nose, glaring at all of them for one lingering glance. "Now, get to class."

With that, Mr. Rutledge leaves them to their own devices. Mitch huffs, shaking his head, and reaching forward to pick up his backpack. He slings it over his shoulder.

"This isn't over, Strife," he says. He hesitates before turning to Tifa. "Sorry, Tifa. You should have left us alone."

Tifa frowns at him, shaking her head. "Whatever, Mitch. Don't be such a bully, next time."

Cloud says nothing, merely watching Mitch disappear down the hallway. He turns, and they catch eyes again. They hold an awkward stare for a moment before he looks over her shoulder.

"You don't deserve detention," he says. "You didn't do anything."

Tifa shrugs. "I knew better, but I couldn't help myself."

"…too bad, then," Cloud trails, slouching and turning his body away from her. "See ya later."

He walks off, and Tifa stares after him.

He's so different, she thinks, and it strikes a melancholy chord inside of her. What had she expected? What did she think he'd be like?

She doesn't know. Sighing, she treks in the opposite direction, unsure how to prepare herself for the rest of the day. She's never been in detention before. She's never gotten in trouble this badly.

Senior year. She had thought she had this high school thing figured out.

Apparently not.

When Tifa arrives at the front office, she is directed to the room of incarceration, as it's called among the masses. It is simply a closed off classroom situated right beside the principal's office and down the hall from the nurse's station. There is nothing intimidating or scary about it, only that it is horridly bland, the walls plain and bare, and the chalkboard nearly pristine with its underuse.

Tifa is the first one there. She greets the supervisor who sits behind her large, weathered, and chipped wooden desk. She's an older woman, thin glasses perched on her nose and secured with a chain, her silver and gray hair twisted into a bun and held together with a wide-toothed clip. There is an eye-catching mole near her upper lip, and she seems undeniably unimpressed by Tifa's cheery greeting when she signs in. Tifa falters and takes the paper the woman gives her, listed with the instructions to write out a 500 word essay over the reason behind her presence in school purgatory and how to avoid it and repent in the future.

Tifa chooses a seat a few rows back from the front desk of the supervisor, adjacent to the door. She pulls out a pencil from her backpack and settles in, sighing as she ruminates over her beginning sentence.

'I am here because I did nothing,' won't fly. 'I'm here because I tried to be helpful, but guess what? I'll never try to break up a fight again. I've learned my lesson, Dad.'

Tifa stares at the lines of the paper for so long, she can hear the clock ticking over the doorway. When Cloud finally strolls into the room, it's about five minutes past the hour. The woman, surprisingly, doesn't seem to care.

"Cloud," she says, raising a brow. "Fancy seeing you here. Again."

"I do it so I can see you, Mrs. Bouchard," Cloud answers. It's so natural and delivered with such ease, Tifa has to blink. Mrs. Bouchard shakes her head, acting off-put and exasperated, but Tifa can see her amusement.

"Sweet of you," she says. "What'd you do this time?"

Cloud lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. "A girl asked me about Mitch. I told her the truth, and he got angry."

"Hm…" she hums. "That's a very nice shiner you have."

"Fights don't happen if you don't have battle scars," he says.

Mrs. Bouchard sighs. "What did Mitch do?"

"He cheated on the midterm."

"Oh, that boy. It's all football and girls and nothing else."

Cloud takes his paper from her and turns. "Doesn't matter. His choice."

"Your choice, too, Cloud," Mrs. Bouchard calls from behind him, and her tone is lightly scolding.

Cloud grimaces, though Tifa isn't sure if it's from her words or the paper. "Another essay? Can't you come up with something more interesting?"

His eyes lock onto Tifa when he looks up. His blue eyes are much more startling when bordered with the darkened purple of the bruising on his cheek, and her heart leaps like a frog. Tifa automatically straightens. He averts his eyes and glances at all the other chairs. He shuffles in between the rows, choosing one of the furthest desks from her. Tifa fidgets in her seat, frowning as she watches him avoid everything about her.

"No," Mrs. Bouchard answers. "I enjoy how much it annoys you."

Cloud scoffs, but he glances up and gives her a little smile. He settles into his seat as if it's the most natural thing in the world, his hoodie looking too comfortable and swallowing his torso. He's wearing a baseball cap, twisted backwards on his head. It smashes down the golden locks, hardly doing its job to tame them.

"And Cloud?" Mrs. Bouchard says. He looks at her. "Use words this time? As much as I love your drawings—and I do—please complete the assignment properly so I can send in an exemplary rating to the principal. I always hate when I have to report your rebellious actions and dock you for your talents."

Tifa blinks, staring across the room at Cloud. Drawings? Talents?

She sees Cloud stiffen in the chair, his cheeks turning pink. He side glances at her and notices her gaze. He turns and shifts in his seat.

"Uh…sure thing, Mrs. Bouchard," he says, voice soft.

"Thank you, Cloud." She smiles at him, and Cloud's cheeks darken. It is overshadowed by his bruise.

He busies himself by grabbing a pencil from his backpack, and he immediately begins to scribble words onto the paper. Tifa looks on and feels a rush of envy. She can't even think of the first word to start the essay.

She taps her pencil over and over, thinking and failing. It's ten minutes after the hour before Tifa realizes Mitch is still missing.

"Um…" she starts, slowly raising her hand. "Mrs. Bouchard?"

"You don't have to raise your hand, dear," she answers, looking over her glasses at her. It makes it look like she is still, again, unimpressed. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, sorry," Tifa retracts, bringing her arm down. "I was just wondering… Mitch still isn't here."

She makes a noise. "Oh, he won't be. His coach overruled the detention."

Cloud snorts. "Because a football practice is so important."

"Cloud…" Mrs. Bouchard warns.

"That's not fair," Tifa protests, frowning. "He shouldn't get a pass. He could have really hurt Cloud."

Cloud looks at her, his eyebrows raising in surprise. His expression makes her feel as though she said something wrong.

"Fat chance," Cloud mutters. "He moves too slow."

"But he clipped your cheek," Tifa says.

Cloud scowls. "Only because you distracted me."

Tifa presses her back into the chair. "I…"

Her words fade away, because he's right. He was railroaded off his heavy track of nonchalance because she tried to stop the fight. She's suddenly struck with the thought of what would have happened had she not stepped in. This week's worth of detention might not even have come to pass.

"I'm…" she tries again.

"Okay, children," Mrs. Bouchard says. "What's done is done. Coach Wallace has assured me Mr. Alexander will get adequate treatment both today and during the game tomorrow evening."

"Yeah, right," Cloud says, crossing his arms. "He'll get to do a hundred push-ups instead of fifty or whatever, because that'll teach him how to use his brain."

Tifa bites her lip to keep from smiling.

"That's enough," Mrs. Bouchard sighs. "I know it might not seem right or fair right now, but I trust Coach Wallace."

"I don't," Cloud grouses.

Mrs. Bouchard ignores him, glancing at Tifa.

"And your coach seemed surprised, Tifa, but he didn't seem too worried about your performance suffering from missing practice."

Tifa tugs at the sleeve of her shirt. "Well, the choreography doesn't change much during the season…"

"She doesn't need to practice," Cloud states.

Tifa stares at the side of his face. "What?"

Cloud is looking intently at his paper, but he gives her a shrug. It is so blasé and apathetic. "I'm sure you'll be fine without going every single day."

Tifa isn't sure how to respond.

"Unlike Mitch," Cloud finishes, and he starts scribbling again on the paper. It doesn't look like he's writing any words, though. It looks like he's…doodling.

"Yeah…" Tifa says. "I guess so."

Cloud finishes his essay in what must be world record time. Tifa takes nearly the whole hour of detention to finish her own. Cloud pops earbuds in and Mrs. Bouchard lets him listen to music from his phone for the majority of the time. He's opened up another notebook, and Tifa thinks he must be working on another class assignment or, perhaps, drawing like Mrs. Bouchard had mentioned before. It's hard to tell from so far away.

Once Mrs. Bouchard dismisses them, Cloud leaves his earbuds in and walks out of the room. Tifa immediately starts to follow, but lead forms in her stomach as she watches him blaze a trail down the hallway.

She thinks about calling to him and catching up, but she's unsure of what she'd even say. Apologize? Ask him how he's been? If he's going to the game tomorrow evening?

He doesn't seem very interested in her. He hardly glances her way. He places forth more energy in avoiding her presence than most everything else she's witnessed from him. His earbuds are deterrent enough—nothing says don't talk to me than earbuds, a black hoodie, and zero eye contact.

Tifa sighs as he disappears around the corner of the hall toward the exit.

Tifa doesn't see Cloud at the game.

It isn't as though she can see everyone, but she faces the home crowd at all the football games. They go through their stanzas of cheers, shaking their pom poms, and making straight, fine lines with their arms.

Hold that line, blue and white! Nibel wolves are outta sight!

The wolves are back to lead the pack! Attack, attack, attack!

N-I-B-E-L, what does that spell? The wolves will send you straight to — hey!

Tifa is one of the cheerleaders they flip into the air and catch. Usually, right before the propulsion into the air, she is able to see most of the crowd all around her. Their eyes are on the field, and they don't give her any mind. They all blend into stripes of white and blue. She makes it a point to pick out a few faces, making them crystal clear before they blur into her flip.

It's become a tradition for her, now. She'll see a boy or a girl and have a memory of them, or she won't know them at all, thinking about something she's heard about them—those words in the hallways or classrooms that may or may not be true. Then she'll spin and land in the arms of her teammates, the rush and jolt from their catch never dulling. It doesn't matter how many times they do it. Her heart thuds a few rounds before it calms, she jumps out of their arms and grins, and they take their places once more to repeat the cheers.

Her eyes rove over the crowd, unconsciously looking for him. Halfway through the game, she wonders why she is. She's never looked for him so thoroughly before, but she thinks it must be how their lives have suddenly intersected again. The hallway. Detention. How Cloud said she doesn't need to practice for cheer—because that means he's come to the games before and watched her. Doesn't it? He can't believe that if he's never seen her perform.

A flare runs up into her face, and it's silly of her to feel this way. It's so abrupt and unwarranted, but it's there nonetheless.

It's how he won't look at her. That's what it is.

That's what makes her look for him.

That's why she's so disappointed when she realizes he isn't there.

On Monday, Tifa vows to herself she'll sit nearer to Cloud in detention. She will ask Cloud why he didn't go to the game. She even imagines the potential conversation of it.

Hey, Cloud, how was your weekend?

He'll look at her before looking away. Fine. Yours?

It was great, she'll say, grinning. We won the football game. Did you go?

She'll ask even though she already knows he wasn't there, but he can't know that she knows because she'll sound like a lunatic if she says she didn't see him. It'll imply that she had been looking. Then he might really avoid her.

And then he'll say…something. Anything.

But perhaps he'll put his earbuds in, turn away, write out another essay within five minutes, and ignore her completely.

Of course, like most things imagined with great hope and expectation, it doesn't go anything like she plans.

She sits smack dab in the middle of the detention classroom, forcing their distance to be cut in half as compared to last Friday. Cloud gives her a wide berth and sits in the back corner. She glances at him but can't catch his eye. Her courage dwindles. She bites her lip. She questions all of her potential conversation starters. He's so intimidating with his earbuds and the scratching of his pencil against the paper. He is precise with his movements. The resting scowl on his face is a defined barrier. It deflects smiles and doesn't care about any attempts at talking.

Tifa deflates the entire hour until they are dismissed, and Cloud shuttles out of the room like a man on a mission. She sighs and redefines her goals, settles back into resolve.

Tomorrow, she tells herself. I'll talk to him tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes and goes, and Tifa is left in that same seat in the middle of the classroom. She feels the slow settling of dread fill her throat every time she opens her mouth to say something. Just one word. Maybe two. They all curdle on her tongue. They feel inadequate as her lips form the shadow of them.

Cloud carries on as he has the previous days, scratching and scratching, writing and perhaps doodling and drawing. Tifa would know if she just asked.

The clock ticking above the doorway is too loud, and the room is too quiet. Tifa knows for a fact that Mrs. Bouchard hates her by the way she glances at her over her glasses, lips thin and puckered by the wrinkles surrounding the rim of her mouth. She will hear everything Tifa tries to ask Cloud, and something about that is strangely terrifying.

When they are dismissed, Tifa losing yet another window as Cloud disappears through the doorway, she is struck with dumb surprise when Mrs. Bouchard addresses her.

"He won't bite you," she says. "I'm sure he'll try, but it won't be enough to hurt you."

Tifa's mouth parts. She pauses, in the middle of moving her english notebook into her backpack.

"What?"

She gives Tifa a flat stare. "I wasn't born yesterday, dear. You've been struggling to talk to Cloud every day you're in here."

"I…" Tifa starts, feeling blood rush into her cheeks. "I've made it that obvious?"

"Of course you have," she answers, the words hitting Tifa's stomach like a wooden stick. "But not to Cloud. He won't know unless you tell him in layman's terms. As perceptive as he is with everything else, he is the least about girls. All boys are at this age."

At the implication, Tifa feels the need to explain. "I don't—I don't like him," she says, the words more adamant than she was expecting. "I just...we used to be friends, that's all, and I…" she sighs. "I don't know how to talk to him anymore."

Mrs. Bouchard looks her over for a moment, eyes a steely shade of old green. They look like the leaves at the beginning of fall, the color leaching out of them, dulling and fading as they cling to the branches.

"It's easy, Tifa," she states blandly. "You say hello."

The words sound like a discordant pattern on a piano, ringing into her ears. They stay with her throughout the night, at dinner, as she brushes her teeth, as she crawls into bed and tries to sleep.

It's easy, Tifa. You say hello.

They light a match in her stomach. She imagines the snarled lines around Mrs. Bouchard's mouth as she said them, and it hardens her nerves. She feels the burn of a challenge settle into her belly, and it dries out the chill of anxiety she experiences every time she thinks about being in Cloud's presence.

Sure, it's easy. She'll show her how easy. She'll talk to him like she wants. She'll smile at him like she's been attempting. She'll sit in the seat right next to him. She'll ask about the band logo on his hoodie, and she'll ask him why he didn't go to the game when everyone goes to the game. She won't care about the silence. She'll ignore the clock, and she'll persevere through his bite.

Tomorrow.

Wednesdays are good for two things.

One is cross country practice. Waking up an hour before dawn is not a good thing, but the reason behind it is. It's the morning they perform their time trial runs. It is about pacing and longevity. It is about outlasting. Cloud likes this part about running the most, because he is competing against himself and himself only. It is how his heart throbs by the end, how it squeezes everything its got to keep him going. It's about when he looks up at the hill he's running over, watching the sun climb itself out of the night and create the spill of morning.

The second is dinner. His mother makes lasagna. It is cheesy and rich and meaty, and it sticks to his ribcage with decadent fullness. It's his reward if he improves on his time trial, and it is his consolation if he doesn't.

But to get there, he has to survive yet another detention with Tifa Lockhart.

To say he was shocked at her appearance in the hallway that previous Friday would be an understatement. He hadn't interacted with her in about five years, nor had he truly come face to face with her in all that time. Her suddenly standing in front of him with her eyes pinched and worried, trying to shield him from Mitch Alexander? Out of absolutely nowhere?

He didn't believe it happened when it was happening, and he still didn't believe it by the time he got to the detention classroom. He only believed it when he caught eyes with her, looking up from Mrs. Bouchard's assignment sheet. She had been sitting innocently in one of the side desks. Her hair was long and straight as it had been forever, falling down to her lower back. She was wearing a soft smile, as if she was unsure how else to react to him being there.

He knew how he was going to react. He was going to stay as far away from her at all possible, taking the seat on the opposite side of the room. He ignored her, put his earbuds in, and finished homework. He scribbled little doodles when he got bored with the work or when a song entered his ears that demanded he listen and take a break from logical thinking.

He glanced at her occasionally because he couldn't help it, or when he thought she might be looking at him. When he did, her eyebrows had been furrowed in concentration as she stared at the paper in front of her, her pencil moving slowly along the designated lines for the essay. She'd bite her lip, then she'd smash her cheek into one of her palms, looking undeniably frustrated at the assignment.

He knew she couldn't be used to assignments like this—short essays about the consequences of her actions. He doubted she'd ever gotten in trouble in her life.

As he heads back to the classroom that Wednesday after school, Cloud holds onto the relief of only having two more days of completely explicit torture. Only two more days. Two more days, and he'll have his normal life back. He'll stop being dragged over the sharp edges of old, once forgotten memories. He'll stop being tormented by her presence. She's already on the edge of his periphery. It seems as though she always has been. She even lives in the adjacent house from his own. She is literally the girl next door. He can see her house from his bedroom window.

Not that he's stared at it. Or waited for her to appear in her window after school at night, when he's drawing at his desk. That would be…weird.

He closes his blinds from now on. It's only happened once in a blue moon.

If that.

He gets there before Tifa for the first time. Mrs. Bouchard silently hands him the assignment, which reads: "Describe two instances of failure and how you overcame them."

Cloud sneers at the prompt. Last time it had been, "Discuss one instance of reaching a goal and how it made you feel." That one was easy to bullshit.

"Failures?" he asks her.

"I know you believe yourself to be immune to such things," she answers, words dripping with her usual sarcasm. It's one reason he likes her so much. "But I'm sure you have some."

"I'll have to dig deep," he replies, just as dryly. She glances up at him with a small smile. He's noticed that, too. She gives him smiles when she gives others brittle and dissatisfied frowns. Cloud fills with pride when he receives them.

Tifa arrives shortly after, and Cloud is already seated and mulling over past failures and disappointments and how there are too many to choose from. Her appearance makes him break the lead on his mechanical pencil, and he hurriedly pushes out more.

He can write about her. She isn't the failure, but what happened between them feels like one. It's always felt like that. She was his first friend in Nibelheim, lost in the tides of new people and experiences and other friendships. Cloud could have tried harder, but he didn't. He passively let her be taken by the pull of more exciting ventures, and he ignored the yawning distance created between them. He'd been too uncertain about how to manage it. He'd been too scared. He'd felt the distance like an impasse, just like the broken, rickety bridge to Mt. Nibel.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she apologizes to Mrs. Bouchard. Mrs. Bouchard merely raises an eyebrow and hands her the paper. Tifa falters but takes it, glancing over it and frowning. She turns and looks up, immediately finding Cloud and catching his eye. The smile wavers on her face when she tries to make one, and Cloud turns his stare back to the paper.

With mild horror, he realizes he's written Tifa as the first word of his miniature essay. He vigorously erases it.

"May I sit here?"

Cloud startles, his knee smacking against the bottom of the desk. He looks up to see Tifa standing to his right beside the desk. She's thumbing the bottom lip of her shirt.

"Uh…" he says. "If you want."

"Um, okay," she answers, slipping into the chair. "Thanks."

She takes out a pencil from her backpack before resting it on the leg of the desk. She stares at the paper and twists the pencil in her hands. When it looks as though she is about to begin, poising her pencil over the lines, she stops and turns to him.

He blinks at the sudden and direct attention, and his heart rate immediately ramps up. He feels his neck prickling, because he'd been staring at her and hadn't even realized. He shifts in his seat, breaking their eye contact.

"I hate these essays," she whispers. "They take me forever."

This makes Cloud smirk.

"Why?" he asks. "Because you've never had to write them before?"

"I…" Tifa trails. "I write essays for other classes, but they aren't as hard as these."

"These aren't hard," Cloud says, glancing up at her before looking back at his paper. "They don't have to be true. Just make it up."

He sees her body turn a little out of the corner of his eye. "Is that how you're able to write them so fast? You make up stuff?"

Cloud shrugs. He thinks about how to answer. Truthfully, he can write them so fast because he's done the same variation of them over the past few years. He has several responses lined up for these kind of assignments.

"Sorta," he says, deciding to remain vague. "I take from experiences and…expand."

She tilts her head, and when he dares to look up, she's smiling at him.

"Okay, good idea. I'll try that," she says. "What are you going to write about?"

He panics momentarily, and his eyes find the erased indentations of her name on his paper.

"Uh…" he says. "Don't know yet."

Tifa gently taps her eraser on the desk. Eventually, she whispers under her breath, "I don't like thinking about my failures."

Cloud glances up at Mrs. Bouchard, but she doesn't seem to be paying them any mind. She has a book open, in the middle of flipping a page.

"They find the most uncomfortable topics to make us write about," he says. "They think it'll make us grow."

Tifa gives a soft chuckle. "Mrs. Bouchard really loves her essays."

Cloud nods, clicking out an unnecessary amount of lead from his pencil. "At least we only have two more days of this."

"Yeah…" Tifa mumbles. She taps her pencil a few more times. "Hey, um…"

She looks at him. He braves her stare, and he sees her cheeks begin to pink.

"Your, um, your bruise is getting better."

Cloud unconsciously reaches a hand up to touch the skin around his left eye. "It's fine."

"Mitch is, um, still pretty banged up," she says, smiling a little. "I hear him talk about you at least once a day."

"He's pathetic," Cloud mutters.

Tifa sighs, shaking her head. "He's alright. He's just a bit…"

"Thick?" Cloud suggests.

"I was going to say shortsighted, but…that works, too." She gives him an amused look, and Cloud has to suddenly reposition his cap to avoid fidgeting in his seat.

"I am sorry about last Friday, though," she continues. "You were right. If I had just minded my business, you wouldn't be in this mess in the first place."

"I would have landed myself here some other way," he says. "Doesn't matter."

Tifa tugs at the end of her hair. "You never know. You might not have—"

Mrs. Bouchard loudly clears her throat, glaring at both of them. "This is detention, not social hour. I have not seen either of you write one word. You will have plenty of time to talk later. For now, I request silence and writing," she says, her words hard and final.

Tifa blushes, turning in her seat quickly and ducking her head. "Sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be," Cloud mutters.

After several minutes of half-hearted scribbling, Tifa leans over and places a folded piece of paper on his desk. Cloud blinks at it and looks at her, but she's busy writing lines.

He unfolds the paper.

Mrs. Bouchard hates my guts.

Cloud smirks. He writes back.

No, she doesn't. She's always like this.

He glances up at Mrs. Bouchard, and he places the paper back on Tifa's desk as she turns a page. Tifa writes her response quickly.

She likes you, though. She SMILES at you. I didn't think she could smile until I saw it.

Cloud minutely shakes his head.

Only because I've hung out with her in detention for years.

Tifa makes a chuffing noise at his answer.

Maybe. But I think she actually likes you.

I don't know if that's a good thing.

It's always a good thing when someone likes you.

As Cloud's thinking of how to respond, Mrs. Bouchard clears her throat loudly again.

"I appreciate you two following my directions of silence and writing, but I cannot have you two passing notes in detention. You only have twenty more minutes. I'm sure you can wait to flirt until you're outside of this classroom."

Cloud makes a low choking noise in the back of his throat. His entire body tenses at Mrs. Bouchard's words, and when he looks up to scowl at her, he's surprised to find her giving them both a smile. When he glances at Tifa, she's looking down at her paper, her hair shielding her face from him.

Cloud wants to protest, but the words fail him. Tifa says nothing, either.

Instead, he tries to go back to his assignment on the sheet. He has his second failure left to write, and he glances at Tifa's hair before looking back at the note she sent him, her handwriting loopy, filled with flowing curves. It is half cursive and half print. The words on her last response prickle at his chest.

Tifa Lockhart, he writes, inspired by their fleeting interaction. When I first moved to Nibelheim, she became my first friend. She sat beside me on the old swings across the street from our houses. She didn't care that I was new. She allowed me to feel like it wasn't the end of the world. She made me feel like I could belong if I wanted to. She helped me survive elementary school.

But she's easy to like. She made new friends in middle school, and before I knew it, we lost touch in high school. We went our separate ways and followed our different interests. We don't have any classes together, and we haven't had classes together for years. Childhood was such a long time ago, anyway, so it shouldn't feel like it matters. It really doesn't matter, but it's still a failure. I failed at staying her friend. I failed at keeping up.

Now, she sits beside me in detention, and I wonder if this will be the beginning of overcoming the failure from childhood.

Cloud stares at what he's written. It's the most un-half-assed thing he's written for a detention prompt in a long time. He has the urge to crumple up the paper and rip it up. It's…embarrassing. Mrs. Bouchard might not even accept it. It doesn't even give a true resolution. He flips his pencil over, letting the eraser hover over the last line. It's so stupid. Does he really believe that? The beginning of overcoming the failure. He's such a joke. Life doesn't work this way. It never has. Why would it, now?

Because Tifa sat by him again? Because she talked to him and sent him a note?

He sneers at himself. The eraser continues to hover. He glances over at her, still hidden by the dark blanket of her hair.

Finally, he sighs. He flips his pencil back so that his lead touches the paper.

I want it to be, he writes. I want it to be another beginning.

Cloud looks over his words and tries not to think about them too hard. Nothing like detention and ruminating over failures to really pull out his true feelings. He scoffs and stands, going to hand in his paper.

"Thank you, Cloud," Mrs. Bouchard says, taking it from him.

"Yep," he mutters, turning back to go to his seat. Tifa is standing, looking over her paper, too. Her lips are turned into a deeper frown, and when she looks up at him, her cheeks become pink again.

He chooses a different aisle to walk back to his seat, allowing her space between them to reach Mrs. Bouchard without awkward maneuvering around one another. He takes his seat and pulls out his earbuds. They only have a few more minutes, but he feels too vulnerable after that paper to merely sit and do nothing. He sinks into his desk, plugs in his earbuds to his phone and picks out a song. By the time Tifa arrives back to her seat, he's closed his eyes and swiveled his cap around to shadow his face. He crosses his arms over his chest and pretends to feel unbothered by everything.

Three songs pass through his ears before there is a light tapping against his shoulder. He shifts and opens his eyes, tipping up the lid of his cap. Tifa is sitting on the edge of her chair, one of the straps of her backpack slung over her shoulder. He pulls out his earbuds and glances at the clock, seeing that it's a minute after 5:00 pm. Mrs. Bouchard is standing up from her desk, shuffling papers together and placing them into her tote bag.

"Detention is over," Tifa tells him. Cloud nods at her and shoves the cord of his earbuds into his pack, slipping his phone into his pocket.

"Thanks," he says, standing. She stands, too.

"Sure," she answers, shrugging the other strap across her shoulder. She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "Um…"

Cloud raises his brows. He realizes she's actually going to talk to him. More. With more words. He stares at her. She shifts her weight.

"Do you, uh, still live on Brockmore Street?" she asks.

A slow build of panic starts climbing up his throat. "Yeah."

Tifa brightens substantially at this. She grins. "Would you like to walk home together? I live just across the alley."

I know, he almost says, biting his tongue.

"Uh…" Cloud stutters, glancing around the room for some kind of excuse to avoid the question. He can't think of anything to get out of saying yes. He could easily say no, I don't want to walk home with you, but he can't imagine telling her something so negative and so bluntly. She would think he hates her, just like she thinks Mrs. Bouchard hates her—when she clearly doesn't. Mrs. Bouchard doesn't truly hate any of the kids. In fact, Cloud's of the opinion that she might care the most.

Cloud catches Mrs. Bouchard's eye before she turns to leave the classroom. She gives him a wink and a smile before she steps out into the hallway. Cloud swallows as she does, because now they're too alone. There isn't even a picture on the walls to keep them company.

"…okay," he mumbles, giving a half-shrug. Her reaction is at least three levels too happy for the simple prospect of it. His palms are already beginning to sweat.

"Great," she says, straightening. "Let's go."

Cloud follows her out of the room before they begin to walk side by side down the hall and out the side doors of the school. Their neighborhood is only about five blocks away, and it's a fifteen minute walk. He tends to take his bike, but he jogged this morning as a warm-up before the time trial.

What a chance happening this turned out to be. Cloud hates how he's starting to sweat underneath his hoodie. It's late October, autumn maturing swiftly over the mountain town. Breezes are becoming crisp with gentle, chilly bites against his cheeks, but Cloud doesn't feel any of it. He feels like it's eighty degrees with a dewy pall of humidity.

"So what did you write about, today?" she asks once they're on the sidewalk outside, winding their way down the path of the school zone.

A lump immediately forms in his throat. He clears it.

"I wrote about failing to teach Mitch a lesson," he states. It's not untrue. That was the first failure he wrote about. It was mostly facetious and one he thought Mrs. Bouchard would appreciate.

Tifa rounds her head on him, blinking in surprise. "What? Really?"

Cloud can't help the smug smirk that curls on his face. "Yeah. I wasn't very serious about it."

Tifa shakes her head at him. "Will Mrs. Bouchard accept it?"

"She's accepted everything I've turned in so far," he says, shrugging, though he thinks about his last submission with an ounce of discomfort. "She has a sense of humor about most of it."

"That surprises me," Tifa admits. "She doesn't seem very laid back. She's so serious."

"She tries to be," Cloud says. "Don't let her scare you. She's nice."

Tifa hums at that before she begins to smile. "You know that…how? From all your years of experience with her and detention?"

Cloud looks at the ground, eyes catching on the unpredictable cracks in the sidewalk. "Yeah. She's been the supervisor for detention for as long as I can remember."

"Is there a limit to the amount of detentions you can get?" Tifa asks. "Will they be on your school record?"

"I dunno," Cloud answers honestly. He's never thought about it. He's never actually cared to think about it. "I hope not," he says after a pause. "That would suck."

A quiet, short laugh expels from her lips, and Cloud nearly trips at the unexpected sound.

"Yes, that would suck," she says.

They are silent for another block. Tifa sighs a small, little breath before she asks, "Did you go to the game on Friday?"

"Nah," he says. "Not my thing."

"Oh…" she says. "We won. You probably knew, but…"

Cloud glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She's tugging at her shirt again.

"You'll be pleased to know that Mitch missed two tackles that allowed the other team to score," she says.

Both of Cloud's eyebrows raise. "Mitch missed tackles?"

Tifa nods. "He did. He blamed it on his "broken eye"."

Cloud gives a brief smile. "I'm sure that's exactly what it was. Maybe he was thinking about Ashley, too. She was probably unimpressed."

Tifa laughs again. "She was. We didn't hear the end of it 'til the game was over."

"Sounds like her," Cloud mutters.

"How did that all go down, anyway?" Tifa asks, turning to look at him. "Ashley told me she asked you about Mitch, but she didn't say anything else." She pauses. "I mean, if you want to tell me. You don't have to."

Cloud looks at her and glances away. "Doesn't matter to me," he says. "Mitch and I have Government and Economics together. He told half the class he had access to the master key for the test and asked who wanted in. Most of them are on the football team." He shrugs. "He'd been bragging all week about how he aced it. I asked him whose ass I had to kiss to fix my scores for a scholarship."

Tifa's mouth parts. "Cloud! You didn't say that!"

At her tone, he nearly hunches in on himself. "Uh…yeah, I did."

"That's…you're crazy," she says, but her words are negated by the smile of disbelief on her face. "Now I get why he doesn't like you."

Cloud tuts. "He's always been so…entitled, I guess. Besides, he does it to himself."

Tifa sighs, but she acquiesces. "He is pretty full of himself, isn't he?" She glances at him. "Did Ashley come up to you after that?"

"Yeah," he says, nearly rolling his eyes at the memory. "She came up to me because she was mad at my accusation. She asked me how I knew he cheated. I told her to look in his backpack, and I guess she did."

"Oh, I see," she says softly. "She's been…very dramatic lately."

It's an understatement, but Tifa's never been mean or judgmental toward anyone, no matter who they are. Her mild agreements with him are shocking, and they send small bouts of warmth through him. He blinks and shakes his head, scowling.

"Yeah. Dramatic."

They turn onto his street not a minute later, trekking up to his house in no time at all. Cloud expels a breath of relief. It was nowhere near as terrible as he thought it might be.

"Thanks for telling me," Tifa says. She smiles at him, and Cloud averts his eyes, shrugging.

"Sure."

"And, um, for walking with me."

She toes at the curb of his walkway. Cloud shifts his backpack along his shoulder.

"Uh, yeah," he says, grasping for something else to say. "Maybe tomorrow's essay won't be as annoying."

She smiles. "Yeah, hopefully not."

They look at each other.

"Well…" he mumbles.

"I…" she says, both of them talking at the same time. She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. You go."

He readjusts his cap, shifting his weight.

"N-nothing, just uh, guess I'll see you later," he finishes, and he wants to wince at how lame it sounds as he says it.

She doesn't seem to notice, smiling at him all the while. "Yeah. Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then." She waves. "Bye, Cloud."

She turns to follow the sidewalk cutting between the rows of houses, following the trail toward her house. Cloud watches her until she's out of sight, unlocking his front door and entering.

His mother immediately greets him, a bemused smile on her face as she fills up a pot of water at the kitchen sink, scents of the lasagna dinner already permeating the air.

"Hi, sweetheart. Was that Tifa Lockhart I saw just now?" she asks, gesturing toward the window looking out to the pathway. "Wow, I haven't seen her in so long! I didn't think you two talked anymore."

"We don't," he says, slipping around the open kitchen to the staircase along the side of the hall. "Just…ran into each other."

"Hm, I see. How has she been?"

"Uh, fine," he says, trudging up the stairs and hoping his mom will stop asking questions.

"How was your run?" she calls as he disappears to his room. "Did you beat your time?"

"Not today," he says. "I'll do better next week!"

He closes his door and sits at his desk. He pulls out his drawing notebook from his backpack and grabs a few of his shading pencils. They cost a small fortune, and he was floored when his mother bought them for his last birthday. It was the best present he had gotten in a long time—even though it isn't very hard to beat the dull excitement of opening up new socks and underwear every year.

"You're so good at drawing, Cloud. It always makes you so happy. I want you to follow that happiness," his mother had told him. He had been speechless. His mother had laughed. "Where's your clever comeback?"

Cloud had taken a deep breath. "I…don't have one." He looked up at her, holding the package close to his chest. "Thank you, Mom."

She merely smiled before tugging him into a hug. "Of course, darling."

Nearly every day since he received them, he's drawn something as soon as he gets home. It's never anything big. There are no earth shattering endeavors. It's just something he's imagined or seen, like a scene at school or a person's expression or even a feeling.

It's his own type of journal. He documents his life with different types of lines and squiggles and drawings. Once, he'd been ashamed of it. He hid it from his mother. He'd never take his notebook to classes, anymore, for fear he'd be caught with it. He'd only draw in the depths of night, when no other soul could be awake or around or ask him what he was doing.

Now, he doesn't mind as much. He avoids people when he takes it out at school, if the itch is too intense or beguiling. He doesn't care if they see him in the action of drawing, but he does care if they make fun of him. There was a time when he couldn't handle it. Some of the other boys would jeer at him or tear his journal away and look at his once mediocre and painfully crafted drawings, determining with their sharp fourteen-year-old eyes and fully fleshed out judgment of art that his were no good pieces of trash. Quit while you're ahead, Strife!

It didn't help that Cloud wasn't well-liked. It also didn't help that Cloud was still skinny and short, easily towered over by the other boys and pitied for having interests outside the realm of sports. His inability to communicate with others was another nail in the coffin, and he decided early on that the effort to make friends wasn't worth the exhaustion or the disappointment when they failed.

After Tifa had entered into a path he couldn't follow, he had tried to find his own.

And he did. He learned how to stand up for himself. He learned how to tell kids to back the fuck off when they couldn't fathom trying to understand him. Kids were vicious and mean, especially the ones who had never been challenged a day in their life. Especially when personalities didn't align.

Cliques formed, as they always did. Goth and jock, preppies and the rich and the poor. The gangs. The theater kids. The band kids. The nerds. The Student Council. Wutai Club.

Cloud hopped around, but nothing really seemed to stick. Then he realized he was content without being part of stereotypes or a group that defined him. He was simply Cloud, and he liked art and running and music, and he didn't care for getting to know anyone because they didn't care about getting to know him.

This seemed to place him with the other outcasts, but it didn't bother him. He did his own thing and didn't have to care about the feelings of others. He could go where he wanted and do what he wanted, and he was perfect with that.

As he sits at his desk, he labels a clean sheet of paper with the date. Oct. 16, 0004, he writes in the top corner. He stares at the pristine, unblemished white of the sheet, and it is hard for him to explain how he is always excited by the prospect of something new to be created. His fingers burn with readiness, and they become restless with the itch to make.

He thinks about what he wants to draw. He imagines the past day, thinking about the run in the morning and thinking about Tifa in the afternoon.

He takes a breath and releases it, choosing a pencil. He cuts the paper in half with a line, utilizing a ruler for precision.

On the left, he draws a feeling. He draws a lump in a throat and x's for eyes and cuts in the palms of the hands. At the top, he writes Expectation.

On the right, he draws the same throat with the same lump, but he draws sweating palms and bright, clear eyes. He labels this one Reality.

In the bottom corner, he titles it Walking Home.

By the time he finishes, his mother calls him downstairs for dinner.