She barely looked up. “Finally. I’ve been waiting forever.”

Same sharp tone I remembered.

And something in me knew the only way I’d get through this was if she never realized who I was.

It should’ve been easy.

Back then, Margaret was the kind of girl everyone feared. She ruled the school halls with perfect hair, perfect clothes, and a perfect life.

Meanwhile, I was the girl who kept her head down and her books close. My mother cleaned houses. My father left when I was ten. I wore thrift-store sweaters, sensible shoes, and got free lunch at school.

People like her usually forget people like me.

But people like me remember everything.

She used to hide my backpack, spread rumors, and make cutting remarks just loud enough for others to hear.

“Did you buy that shirt in the dark?”

“You’re so quiet. It’s creepy.”

“Can somebody tell Lena not to stand so close? She smells like an old library.”

People started avoiding me because of the way she described me. I remember eating lunch in the bathroom just to get through the day.

And now she was here, under my care.

I checked her IV pump, asked about her pain, and took her vitals.

She answered in clipped responses, like every word cost her something. I kept my voice even and my hands steady.

I started to think maybe it would be okay.

But by the third day, she began watching me closely.

I was scanning her meds one afternoon when she looked at me a little longer than usual.

“Wait,” she said with a smile. “Do I know you?”

My stomach dropped.