The Sphinx of Room 304

I'd been **running** for three months straight—ever since the incident at my old school that made "Lila" trend on Twitter for forty-eight hours. Mom said a fresh start would help. She didn't mention that fresh starts came with lunch tables that felt like minefields.

Then I saw him.

He sat alone at the corner table, hoodie pulled up, headphones in. Everyone called him **Sphinx** because nobody had actually heard him speak since he transferred last month. Not the teachers. Not the counselors. Not even the goth girls who'd tried to recruit him for their aesthetic.

I became obsessed with figuring him out. It started innocently—**spy**-ing from behind my biology textbook during study hall, noting how he always wrote in this beat-up notebook, how his fingers moved like he was composing symphonies or writing manifestos. Then came the social media deep dive. His profiles were locked down tighter than Fort Knox, which only made him more interesting.

Tuesday, disaster struck. I was working up the nerve to actually approach him, salad in hand, heart doing that awful fluttery thing. I'd rehearsed my opening line twelve times in the bathroom mirror.

"Hey."

He looked up. His eyes were actual galaxies, dark and thoughtful and way too perceptive.

"Hey," he said back. His voice was deep, quiet, and—surprise—he actually spoke.

"Mind if I—"

I never finished. Because his gaze dropped from my eyes to my mouth, and this tiny, horrified smile formed on his lips.

"You have—" He pointed.

**Spinach.** An entire forest of it, wedged between my front teeth like I was some kind of photosynthesis enthusiast. My face burned hotter than a thousand suns. I wanted to dissolve. To evaporate. To start running again and never stop.

"Oh my GOD." I covered my mouth. "This is it. This is my villain origin story."

Sphinx's shoulders started shaking. At first I thought he was laughing at me—which, fair—but then he actually laughed. Like, genuine laughter, head thrown back, notebook abandoned.

"I'm Leo, by the way," he said when he could breathe again. "And you're definitely the first person to lead with spinach as an icebreaker."

"Lila," I mumbled through my hand. "And I'm dying."

"Don't." He slid his notebook toward me. It was filled with drawings—elaborate, intricate, beautiful sketches of people in the cafeteria. Including me. I was the one looking back at him behind my bio textbook, looking equal parts terrified and curious.

"You spy too," he said. "I just use pencils instead of Instagram."

We spent the rest of lunch talking about everything and nothing. About why I'd transferred (weird circumstances, bad decisions, one viral video). About why he didn't speak much (social anxiety, preferred listening, found people exhausting but fascinating). About how maybe we'd both been running from the wrong things.

"You don't have to run anymore," Leo said as the bell rang. "There's spinach in your teeth and you're still sitting here. That's basically fearlessness."

I laughed, and it felt like the first real laugh I'd had in months.

"See you tomorrow, Sphinx?"

"Only if you bring more vegetables. They're really charming."

I walked to class with actual spring in my step, already planning tomorrow's salad strategy, already not running anymore.