“Here’s some scissors.” Someone hands me a pair of kid’s scissors with bright blue and white striped handles. 
 “Thanks.” I hastily stuff them into the pocket of my pants, along with a pointy red colored pencil. I can hear the thumping of footsteps down the hall, like a stray dog bolting through the streets of a city. I glance at the posters in our classroom, pictures of human bodies and encouraging quotes. Obviously biology class. 
The patter of footsteps stops in front of our closed classroom door. Even though I’m behind the teacher’s desk, I suck in a breath and shiver, and the little hairs on my arms and legs stick straight as someone begins to pound on the door. Each rhythmic knock sends my mind back to pedaling through the streets on my bike, my friends and I watching the sun peek above the mountains, shedding warmth all over my body. I wish I could be there, instead of here, in the dark, under a desk, listening to the shallow breathing of my best friend.  
A crash brings me back to reality and I tense. My hands are blanched from gripping the scissors, and my heart beats through my ears. My friend grabs my hand and draws a finger to her lips. I nod. The footsteps echo off of the anatomy posters in our once happy classroom. I peek around the side of the desk and gasp as the boy slowly surveys the room. I don’t know if he’s seen me, but his crazed eyes hover on each desk as if recalling an old memory. 
A series of recollections course through my head like electricity. It was junior year and we had been dating for months. I can still smell the musky odor of his cologne and the way his glossy brown hair used to fall over one of his long-lashed blue eyes. Biology was the only class that he and I had together, which only brought us closer. As we sat in the back of the classroom, his hand always found its way to mine and I was reassured that my life couldn’t get any better. I was too happy to notice that something was seriously wrong.  
The first time he asked me, “Would you rather die by being stabbed or shot?” I hesitated, unsure of what to say. The next day, he trudged into our classroom with dark circles under his eyes. With each passing day, I noticed the changes: He began to part his hair differently, lost all of his friends, and became uninterested in everything except me. He grew into an unrecognizable version of himself, one that never left my side and became angry if I didn’t call every night for hours. I considered going to the counseling center for help, but I didn’t want to risk losing him. My dilemma grew until it felt like there were perpetual waves crashing over my head, drowning out all my thoughts. The day that I broke up with him, when I saw his heartbroken face, I realized I made a mistake. 
The familiar squeak of his combat boots on the linoleum floors jolts me back into the present, as he suddenly turns around and walks out of the room.
I turn back around and stretch my legs in front of me for a few seconds since we have been sitting in the same position for hours. 
“Hey come here, I need your help!” 
My friend’s voice trembles as she whispers to me. She’s squatting by the window, trying to pry open the rusted metal frame that holds it shut.
 “Three, two, one, push!” 
Our combined effort makes the frame squeak, like a mouse running from a cat. I grunt from the effort and the sound, but we can’t stop now. The window is already halfway open and I can feel the cold, fall wind blowing into our humid classroom. Our peers surround us, frantically pushing towards the open window. Finally, there are only two people left in the classroom, my best friend and I. We can see all of our classmates sprinting into the red and orange trees in the distance. 
A familiar spiced scent washes over me and that’s when I know he’s there. A cold sweat breaks out all over my tense body. 
“Where are my scissors? Damn it. I left them under the table!” I whisper. 
Each footfall is like nails hammering into every inch of my body. I hear my friend screaming, but everything around me is like the roar of a midnight blue ocean, except for him. 
“I did this,” I tell her, “I’ll be okay.”  Her hand grips mine, but I push her towards the open window as I turn to face him. He cocks his gun and I can feel his hot, horrible breath on my face. His hands shake and we both sob. His ocean eyes cloud up as he whispers my name. 
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
I try again, “If this is because of me, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” 
All I feel is shame dragging me down into a bottomless sea. 
“Just go.” He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his tattered black sweatshirt, the one I gave him months ago. 
“I can’t let you do this. This is my fault.” 
“You left me when I needed you.” He laughs bitterly, “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He takes a shuddering breath and raises the matte black gun to my forehead. The last few cold tears trickle down my cheeks as I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating a sound every millennial knows: a gunshot.