Until the bottle fell.
It hit the ground with a soft sound that somehow carried more weight than it should have. It rolled just slightly before stopping near the principal’s feet, and in the silence that followed, she bent down to pick it up, more out of reflex than intention.
She read the label.
Once.
Then again.
And everything changed.
Because the name printed there wasn’t his.
It was Maren’s.
And beneath it, in clear, clinical lettering, was the word that unraveled every assumption they had built: seizure.
The realization didn’t arrive all at once. It seeped in, slow and heavy, as the pieces rearranged themselves into something that made far more sense—and felt far worse. The timing, the urgency, the routine. The way Maren had clutched the bottle like it was the most important thing in the world.
