The Shadows In the Moon

Chapter 2

Mornings were always the hardest.
By the time I'm ready for school, I've already spent hours fighting the weight of my own body, dragging myself out of bed when it feels like gravity is trying to pull me back under the covers. It's the kind of fight that no one else sees, the one I've gotten too good at hiding.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at my reflection. My hair's still wet from the shower, curls twisting in every direction. I spend a few minutes combing them out, mechanically working through the knots. The routine is the only thing that keeps me steady—if I can just keep moving, keep doing, I won't fall apart.
Downstairs, I hear Risa moving through the kitchen. The clatter of dishes and the hum of the radio are distant, but sharp enough to make me tense. The door to my room is closed, but that familiar wave of unease still creeps in. No matter how quiet I try to be, I know I'm walking on eggshells the second I step outside this room.
You're so much like your father.
Her words still echo in my head, twisted and confusing. I used to think it was a compliment, a sign of pride that I shared something with him. But the more she says it, the more it feels like a warning. I've stopped asking her what she means. I'm not sure I want to know.
I finish getting dressed, pulling on the uniform of indifference I've perfected over the years—hoodie, jeans, earbuds ready to drown out the world. It's enough to keep everything at a distance. When I'm finally ready, I grab my backpack and head downstairs.
Mom's sitting at the kitchen table, already on her second cup of coffee. She barely looks up when I enter the room, just offers a quick, "You're running late again."
I glance at the clock. 7:25. Plenty of time if I'm taking the bus, but I know what she means. She wants me to bike. Needs me to do something that looks like exercise. I can already feel the tension curling in my stomach.
"I'll walk," I say, hoping it's a compromise she'll accept. It's not, but I've run out of the energy to argue.
Her eyes flick up to meet mine, sharp and judgmental. "You could use the exercise. You didn't work out all summer."
I clench my jaw, forcing the words back down before they can escape. There's no point in explaining, no point in reminding her that I did swim, that I used to love it before... before everything. I don't want to think about that. Not now.
"You know what?" I say, my voice tight as I head for the door. "Fine. I'll bike."
It's not what I wanted, but the weight of her expectations is crushing, and it's easier to just give in. The moment I'm outside, I shove my earbuds in, turn up the music, and try to drown out the rest of the world. The familiar knot of anxiety is twisting in my chest, and I grip the handlebars of my bike tighter than I should.
I push off the curb and pedal hard, as if I can outrun the heaviness sitting on my shoulders. The wind stings my face, but it's a welcome distraction. At least this way, I'm moving, going somewhere, not stuck in that house, in her gaze.
As I ride, my mind drifts back to water polo. It's been years since I've thought about it this much. I don't know why it's been creeping into my head lately—maybe because school sports are starting again, and everyone's talking about tryouts. It makes me ache, just a little. The longing to be part of something again, to feel the rush of competition, the water against my skin, the sense of belonging.
But then, just as quickly, the memory of what happened slams into me like a brick. The accusations. The way my friends turned on me. I swallow the lump in my throat, trying to force the thoughts away, but they linger, like an old wound that never healed right.
I could try again. I could join a team, maybe something different this time. Something safe. But the idea of walking into a locker room, of being around teammates, makes my chest tighten. What if it happens again? What if I'm betrayed all over again?
No. I can't do it. I can't risk it.
I shake my head, forcing my focus back to the road ahead. The bike tires hum along the pavement, and for a few minutes, I can almost pretend I'm okay.
By the time I reach the school, I'm a little out of breath. I spot Laura leaning against the bike rack, her arms crossed and her expression set in her usual resting scowl. She looks at me, her eyes flicking over the bike with a knowing smirk.
"Let me guess," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "what did the saint of all mothers decree this morning? Was biking your punishment or your salvation?"
I can't help but laugh, even though it's a bitter one. "Punishment, obviously."
Laura snorts, flicking her hair back. "I figured. She's predictable, at least." She raises an eyebrow. "You didn't actually want to bike, did you?"
"Not even a little," I admit, wiping a bit of sweat from my forehead.
"Of course not," she says with mock sympathy, placing a hand on my shoulder dramatically. "Riding for exercise in this economy? What a nightmare."
She doesn't let me linger in the weight of it all for long, and that's what I like about her. She can turn the worst mornings into something close to manageable. With Laura, it's not about glossing over things, but calling them out—snarky comment by snarky comment.
"She's still on you about not working out?" Laura asks as we start walking toward the school entrance. "Honestly, with everything else, she should be sending you to therapy, not training camp."
"Tell me about it." I shove my hands in my pockets, trying not to let the irritation seep through. It's easier to pretend it's all a joke when Laura's around.
"Well," Laura says, bumping her shoulder against mine, "you've got me to keep you sane. Or as sane as you can get under these circumstances."
I chuckle, but my mind drifts back to water polo again. It's a familiar ache by now, the way my heart pulls in two directions—missing the sport and hating what it's become in my head.
"What about you?" Laura asks, cutting into my thoughts. "You ever gonna try out for anything this year? Or has Queen Mom killed off all your dreams?"
The words hit a little too close to home, but I try to shrug it off. "Haven't decided yet."
"Well, don't let her ruin it for you," Laura says, her voice a little softer now. "She already takes enough."
I just nod, not trusting myself to respond. I don't know if I could do it again—if I could handle the risk of getting hurt like that. Not just physically, but in all the ways that left scars no one else could see.
We walk through the front doors of Centennial High, and the familiar smell of cheap disinfectant and stale cafeteria food hits me like a wave. The hallways are mostly empty, save for a few early risers scattered here and there. It's not even 7:45 yet, and the first bell won't ring for almost two hours.
Laura glances at me. "You're way too early. What are you even gonna do until class?"
I shrug. "Same thing I always do. Pretend to study and hope I don't run into anyone who wants to talk about last year."
She gives me a knowing look but doesn't push it. "Well, lucky for you, I have to be at band practice. Not that I'd hang around with you in this dump otherwise."
"Thanks for the support," I say, rolling my eyes, though the banter is enough to make the knot in my chest loosen a little.
Laura smirks and adjusts her bag. "You know me, always a ray of sunshine. See you at lunch?"
"Yep."
"Don't go disappearing into one of your existential crises without me. Save some for later."
"I'll do my best," I reply, flashing a weak smile as she gives me a mock salute and heads down the hall toward the music wing.
Alone now, the silence feels heavier. I slide my earbuds back in, letting the music fill the gaps around me. I head toward the library, not because I want to study, but because it's the quietest place I can think of. My footsteps echo in the empty halls, the only sound besides the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Once inside the library, I settle into my usual corner, far from the windows. I pull out my biology notebook and flip it open, not really reading. My thoughts keep drifting back to the conversation with Laura—about trying out for something, about water polo, about Risa.
No matter how hard I try, my brain won't stay quiet.
I glance around the library. It's still deserted, the only company being rows of outdated encyclopedias and a sleepy librarian at the front desk. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, trying to focus on the music. The sounds wrap around me, providing a momentary barrier between myself and everything else.
As I sit there, I can't help but think about how much I hate this feeling—the waiting. It's always been like this. Hours before school starts, I show up just to avoid being home. Just to avoid another conversation with Risa, another comment about how I'm wasting potential or not trying hard enough. Or worse, another backhanded compliment that digs under my skin and stays there for days.
Maybe Laura's right. Maybe I should just pick something and try again. But every time I think about it—about joining a team, about putting myself out there again—it's like a vise tightens around my chest.
I look at the time. Still over an hour before my first class. Biology. The one subject I'm supposed to love. But even that feels like a chore now, like I'm just going through the motions. I think back to last year, to the start of the year when I was still excited about it all. Back when it wasn't so overwhelming. But somewhere along the line, everything started to blur, and now I can barely keep up.
And then there's Ayla. The girl with the electric-blue hair and noise-canceling headphones. We sit next to each other in class, and she always has this way of making herself seem distant, like she's not really there. But at the same time, there's something about her that feels... different. It's like she's there to blend in, but you can't help noticing her anyway.
I haven't talked to her much. Honestly, I wouldn't even know what to say.
The bell rings, and a few more students trickle into the library, pulling me out of my thoughts. I sigh and close my notebook, gathering my things. I might as well head to class early. It's not like I have anything better to do.
I walk slowly toward the science wing, the halls still quiet, but filling up little by little. I glance at my phone as I walk down the steps toward the basement—or what everyone calls "the dungeon." It's only 8:00. Just over an hour before class starts. I take a deep breath and push open the door to the basement level, where the air feels a little heavier, like the weight of the school is pressing down from above. The dungeon is where they stash all the science labs—windowless and dimly lit, the perfect place for students to disappear before the bell rings.
The hallway is mostly empty, just a few students lingering around, leaning against lockers or scrolling through their phones. I head to the classroom at the very end of the hall, the one with the peeling paint on the door and a faint smell of chemicals hanging in the air. Biology.
I push open the door and find the classroom mostly empty, save for a few students who had the same idea as me—escape the crowd and get to class early.
I head to my usual seat by the window, slipping my earbuds back in as I wait for the room to fill up. I glance at the door occasionally, half-wondering when Ayla will show up, but not wanting to admit I'm curious. She's the type that keeps to herself, and for some reason, I respect that.
As I wait, I think about drama class coming up after bio. At least drama's different. It's the one place where I can actually let go, even if just for an hour. The movement, the freedom—it feels like a break from the constant pressure. It's weird that a class about acting has become the one place I can be myself, but it works. It's not just acting either; the teacher always lets us dive into deep discussions, the kind that turn into philosophy debates. It's the closest thing I have to therapy without actually going to therapy.
I lean back in my chair, watching as more students start to file in. My earbuds are still in, the music muffling the sounds around me. But the silence in my head is short-lived. The memories of water polo creep in again, uninvited, along with the bitterness of betrayal that follows them. I force the thoughts away and focus on the window instead, watching the clouds shift in the early morning light.
At least it's something.
I glance toward the front of the class and notice Ayla Carel sitting across the room, in her usual spot by the wall. She's already here, leaning back in her chair with her noise-canceling headphones on, her eyes focused on something invisible, like she's not really in the room at all.
I don't know why I keep noticing her. She's quiet, never causing any trouble, never drawing attention to herself. But there's something about her presence that pulls me in. Maybe it's the way she seems distant, like she's on the outside of everything, watching it all from a safe distance. I get that. I feel that too.
I look down at my notebook, trying not to stare, but my mind keeps drifting back to her. I wonder what her voice sounds like. We've never talked—hell, we've barely even made eye contact—but there's a part of me that wants to know more. I just don't know how to break the silence.
I fidget with my pen, tapping it lightly against the desk. The room's filling up now, more students filing in, filling the space with idle chatter. But the noise doesn't reach me—not really. The music and the weight of my own thoughts keep everything muffled, distant.
At some point, I glance up again, and she's right there. Ayla. Standing in front of me, her headphones pulled down around her neck. I freeze, caught off guard, my mind scrambling to catch up with what's happening.
She's looking at me, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I wonder if I'm imagining it, if she's actually standing there. My mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. What would I even say?
And then, just as quickly as she appeared, she walks past me, her eyes fixed straight ahead. I exhale, realizing I'd been holding my breath.
What just happened?
I don't look back, but I can still feel the echo of her presence, like a ripple left behind in the room. I wonder if she'll sit next to me, if maybe she'll say something, but instead, she takes her usual seat on the far side of the room.
I turn my attention back to my notebook, but it's impossible to focus. My thoughts keep drifting to her, to the way she stood in front of me for just a second, almost like she was going to say something, but then didn't.
Maybe she noticed me staring. Or maybe... I don't know.
The teacher walks in, breaking the spell, and the class shuffles into their seats. The lesson begins, but I'm barely paying attention. It's all just white noise in the background, words drifting in and out of my awareness.
I steal another glance at Ayla. She's in her own world again, her headphones back in place, her gaze distant. For a second, I think about what it would be like to cross the room, sit next to her, and say something—anything. But my body stays rooted in place, like there's an invisible barrier between us that I can't seem to cross.
So, I stay where I am, keeping my distance, wondering what she's thinking. Wondering if she even knows I exist
Before I can get too lost in my thoughts, the overhead speakers crackle to life. The opening notes of "O Canada" flood the classroom, and everyone grudgingly rises to their feet. We do this every single day—stand, listen, wait for the anthem to drag on. They've tried to switch it up over the years. Sometimes it's classical, sometimes it's remixed with some weird techno vibe, but at the end of the day, it's the same song. The same notes I've heard every morning since kindergarten.
I stand because I have to. Not because I care.
As the last chord plays, I slump back into my chair. It's almost like the anthem drains the energy out of me. By the time the announcements are done and the teacher starts talking, I already feel exhausted.
The class drones on, the teacher's voice melting into the background. The familiar, suffocating routine of note-taking, trying to stay ahead, makes my head feel heavy. I tap my pen against my notebook, filling the page with meaningless doodles. The usual pressure of being ahead in class feels like a weight today, dragging me down, not lifting me up like it's supposed to.
It's stupid how much I care about someone I haven't even spoken to. I don't even know her name, but she's there, always, on the edge of my thoughts.
The teacher moves on to something about ATP, but I'm not listening. I'm tired. So tired.
Then, out of nowhere, I feel it. That inexplicable pull. I look up.
She's looking right at me.
I freeze, unsure if I imagined it. It was so brief, so quick, that it feels impossible to know if it actually happened or if it's just another trick of my mind. But my pulse races, and the quiet hum of the class fades. I can't tell if her expression meant something, or if she was simply glancing in my direction because I happened to be in her line of sight. I try to shake off the moment, force myself to focus again, but I can't.
The lesson drags on, something about cellular respiration, but my brain refuses to engage. I try to force myself to take notes, scribbling half-hearted phrases in my notebook, but they don't make sense. The words blur together. I catch a few students snickering quietly in the back of the room, probably laughing at some TikTok video they're secretly passing around. I don't care. I keep my head down and press the pen harder against the paper, carving out words I won't remember later.
I glance at Ayla again. She hasn't moved an inch, still locked in her own world. Part of me wonders if she's even listening to the lesson. Maybe she's like me—just here, physically present but mentally somewhere else. Or maybe she's got it all together. There's something so composed about her, like nothing rattles her.
I wish I had that kind of control.
The teacher starts pacing in front of the whiteboard, his voice a monotonous drone, explaining the intricate process of ATP production. The class, as usual, is half-asleep, and I'm barely holding on. My mind is a whirl of distractions—what Risa said this morning, the unease still clinging to me from Laura's snarky comment, and the strange pull I feel whenever Ayla is in the same room.
My hand tightens around my pen, and I press the point into my palm, letting the brief sting snap me back to reality. I need to focus. The teacher's droning on about mitochondria, and I realize with a jolt that there's a quiz next week. My grades can't afford to slip—not again.
But even as I try to force myself into paying attention, I can feel my thoughts wandering. The classroom feels too small, like the air's too thick, pressing in around me. I try to shake it off, but the feeling lingers, crawling under my skin.
Suddenly, there's a flicker of movement. I look up, and Ayla's staring right at me. My stomach twists. It's so quick that I almost convince myself it didn't happen, but no—she was definitely looking. Just for a second. Her dark brown eyes met mine, and there was something there—curiosity, maybe, or recognition.
Before I can react, she's already looking away, her gaze drifting back toward the front of the class. My heart's racing, and I don't even know why. It's not like she said anything.
But still, the fact that she noticed me, even for just a moment, sets my mind spinning.
The bell rings, cutting through my thoughts. Class is over, and the sound of shuffling chairs and backpacks zipping up fills the room. I grab my things quickly, slipping my notebook into my bag and standing up to leave. The hallway will be crowded soon, and I need to get out before the flood of students traps me in the crush.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and make my way toward the door, but I hesitate for a moment, glancing back at Ayla. She's still sitting there, slow to pack up, taking her time like she's in no rush to get to the next class. I almost want to stay, to wait for her, but the thought feels ridiculous. I barely know her.
Instead, I pull my earbuds out and step into the hallway, the music still playing softly in my ears as I navigate through the dungeon's dim corridors. I've got drama next—a class I usually look forward to, but today the weight of everything feels heavier than usual.
The stairs leading up from the dungeon are packed with students, and I push through, trying to ignore the way my chest tightens as bodies press in around me. I'm halfway up when someone bumps into me, their arm grazing mine.
I freeze for a second, a jolt of panic shooting through me. My throat tightens, but I push it down. Just keep walking. One foot in front of the other. You're almost there.
When I finally reach the top of the stairs, I take a deep breath, feeling the air loosen its grip around me. The main hall is already crowded, but I weave through the groups of students easily enough. Drama class is in the north wing, tucked away from the main crush of people. I can already feel the relief of stepping into that space, of being able to move freely, to escape the feeling of being trapped.
As I walk, I can't help but think of Ayla again. Her gaze lingers in my mind, like a thread that's pulling me back. I don't know why, but something about her makes me want to know more. Not just her name or the way she carries herself, but what's going on inside her head. What she's hiding behind those headphones. What it's like to be her.
But for now, all I have is the glimpse we shared in the dungeon, and the echo of my own thoughts chasing me through the halls.
By the time I make it to my locker, the hallways are just starting to fill up with people. I move quickly, blending into the crowd without really interacting with anyone. I open my locker, stashing my biology notebook, and glance at my schedule. Drama is next, and I can already feel a small spark of anticipation in my chest. It's the only class that lets me shake off the heaviness I carry around all day, a way to be someone else, if only for an hour. Plus, the physicality of it is freeing. Moving, acting, feeling—it all gives me a reason to stay grounded.
I slam my locker shut, swinging my backpack onto my shoulder, and start heading toward the drama room, the one place in this school that doesn't feel like it's swallowing me whole.
The hallway noise rises around me—people laughing, lockers slamming, shoes squeaking against the tile floors. I try to tune it out, weaving my way through the maze of bodies. As I pass by the music room, I catch a glimpse of Laura through the small window in the door. She's practicing with the rest of the band, her face tight with concentration. For a second, I consider going in, maybe hanging around until class starts, but the thought vanishes as quickly as it came. She's in her own world right now, and I don't feel like intruding. Besides, I don't feel like talking to anyone.
Drama is calling me anyway. My escape.
I push open the door to the drama room and immediately have to sidestep the mountain of shoes piled near the entrance. It's an unspoken rule in here—everyone takes off their shoes before stepping in, no exceptions. The pile is chaotic and mismatched, a tangle of sneakers, boots, and sandals in every size and color, just part of the room's charm.
Inside, the atmosphere is alive. Everyone's milling around, talking, laughing, roughhousing in the corners. Some people are practicing a scene they did last year, their voices rising and falling in dramatic flair, while others are sitting on the floor in small groups, lost in their own conversations. It's a mess of energy, but in a way that feels comforting, like a controlled chaos where everyone's free to just be themselves.
There's something about this room, about the people in it, that makes it feel different from everywhere else in the school. It's like a bubble—once you're inside, the rest of the world doesn't matter as much. No one cares how you dress, what you say, or how weird you might seem in any other context. In here, you can be whoever or whatever you want. It's the one place where I feel... safe. Where I don't have to be perfect or have it all together. I can be messy, loud, quiet, awkward—whatever I am that day.
I drop my bag in the corner and stretch my arms over my head, feeling the stiffness in my muscles start to fade. Drama has always been more about the movement for me than the acting itself. I like how my body feels when it moves, how the strain and pull of my muscles somehow quiet the noise in my mind.
My favorite part about drama is the unpredictability. It's a break from the rigid structure of everything else—the monotony of waking up, the never-ending responsibilities, the weight of trying to stay ahead of everything. Here, nothing is scripted, even if the lines are written down. The scene can go anywhere. I can be anyone. It's a kind of freedom I can't get anywhere else.
"Alright, everyone, circle up!" The teacher's voice cuts through the chatter. She's always loud and full of energy, with this huge smile that never seems to fade. It's contagious, and I can't help but grin a little as I walk over and join the circle forming in the middle of the room.
As we shuffle into place, I feel the familiar excitement bubbling up. My body wakes up in this class in a way it never does anywhere else. The way we use space, the way we breathe together as a group—it feels almost meditative. A release. Even on my worst days, drama manages to pull me out of my head for a while.
The teacher launches us into warm-ups, simple games to get our bodies moving. We stretch and shake out our limbs, waking up our muscles. The tension in my shoulders eases with each movement, the tightness in my chest loosening, little by little. We're running in place now, shaking out our hands, laughing together as we stretch into exaggerated motions. It's impossible to stay tense in this space, with everyone being ridiculous together, no one caring how they look.
The warm-up transitions into improv exercises. Today, we're practicing 'Yes, and...'—the golden rule of improvisation. The goal is to build on whatever your partner gives you, no matter how ridiculous or unexpected. You don't reject anything; you go with it and make it better.
It's one of my favorite exercises because it forces you to stop overthinking. You have to just accept whatever's thrown at you and respond. There's no time for second-guessing or wondering if you're doing it right. You just... do. And I love that. I need that.
The first few rounds are goofy—people throwing out ridiculous scenarios and building on them in the weirdest, most unexpected ways. I watch as a pirate battle morphs into a courtroom drama, and a simple bakery scene turns into an alien invasion. The room fills with laughter, loud and unrestrained, and for the first time all day, I feel a genuine smile stretch across my face.
Then it's my turn.
My heart pounds as I step into the middle of the circle, my mind racing for a split second. But then, like always, I take a breath and let myself go. My partner throws out the prompt—a detective interrogating a suspect—and I immediately dive in, leaning into the role without thinking too much about it. I feel my body shift as I move through the scene, my voice taking on the tough, exaggerated tone of an old-school detective.
It's clunky at first—too many thoughts competing for attention—but then, something clicks. The familiar rhythm of improv takes over, and I just... go with it. My partner responds, feeding me lines, and I throw them right back. We're laughing, everyone's laughing, but it's not the kind of laughter that makes you feel like a joke. It's the kind that feels good, the kind that makes you feel like you belong.
When it's over, I'm out of breath but smiling. The applause rings in my ears, and for the first time today, I feel like maybe I can handle the rest of the day
After the improv, we move on to blocking for a scene we'll be performing later in the semester. The teacher hands out scripts, and we're all still high on the laughter from earlier. The energy is light, almost buzzing. Shoes shuffle across the floor, some of us barefoot or in socks, as we get into positions.
I take my place at the front of the room, feeling the familiar jolt of adrenaline. It's strange how acting can be both an escape and a confrontation. I'm not really being me, but I'm also tapping into parts of myself that I usually try to ignore—the anger, the fear, the loneliness. Drama has a way of making all those emotions feel safe, like they belong to the characters, not me. But really, I think that's why I love it so much. I can let myself feel without anyone knowing what's actually mine.
"Okay, let's start by blocking this scene," the teacher announces.
I glance at the script in my hands. We're diving into a new scene, and while I've read through it, I don't have the lines memorized yet. The script is a jumble of new words and emotions, and it feels both exciting and overwhelming. I fumble through the pages, trying to get a sense of my character, but it's hard to piece everything together in the moment.
The scene starts, and I'm supposed to be the antagonist—a strict, unyielding authority figure standing in the way of the main character's dreams. It's ironic, really, playing the role of the obstacle, the thing that crushes hope. I know that feeling too well.
My voice comes out tentative at first, trying to match the character's harshness, but without the lines fully memorized, I stumble over words. The character is powerful, but I struggle to make her come alive without the comfort of familiar dialogue. It's not perfect, and I can feel the frustration building as I try to get it right.
The teacher moves around the room, offering guidance and corrections. I catch glimpses of the other groups, each with their own challenges, and it's oddly reassuring. I'm not alone in this struggle, even if it feels like I am.
The scene finally wraps up, and there's a moment of quiet before the class erupts into applause. I can feel the tension still buzzing under my skin, but the applause pulls me out of it, back into the moment. My heart is racing, but it's the good kind of rush—the kind that reminds me why I love this class, even when it pushes me.
We break off into smaller groups after that, working on different scenes and exercises. The room is alive again, voices bouncing off the walls, shoes still scattered by the door like a badge of honor. I sit down with my group, taking a few minutes to catch my breath before we dive into a new exercise.
This is what I live for. The moments when everything outside the drama room fades away, and I'm just here, in this space, with these people. It's not perfect, but it's the closest thing to freedom I've got.
Eventually, the class winds down, and the teacher calls us all back together. There's a final round of warm-down stretches, everyone moving slower now, the energy fading but in a good way. I can feel the weight of the day creeping back in as the minutes tick by, but I try to hold onto the feeling from earlier. The lightness. The escape.
When the bell finally rings, signaling the end of the period, I grab my bag, slipping back into my shoes as the rest of the class shuffles out. The halls are crowded again, loud and overwhelming, but for now, the drama room has done its job. I feel more like myself, or at least a version of myself I can handle.
As I step out into the hallway, I take a deep breath. Lunch is next, but I don't really feel like eating. My mind is still buzzing from class, replaying the scene, the lines, the energy. Maybe I'll find a quiet corner to sit in, somewhere I can keep this feeling going just a little bit longer before the rest of the day drags me back under.
I pull my earbuds out of my bag and slip them in, letting the music drown out the chaos around me. It's not much, but it helps. It keeps me steady, even when everything else feels like it's slipping away.
With that, I head toward my locker, ready to face the rest of the day.
I weave through the hallways, music blaring in my ears, blocking out the noise and chatter around me. I'm trying to hold onto the high from drama class, the sense of freedom I felt just minutes ago, but it's already slipping away as I get closer to the main area of the school.
My locker is in one of the busiest spots in the building. It's wedged between two of the largest stairwells, right next to the cafeteria entrance, which means it's always packed with people during lunch. The noise level here is overwhelming, even with my earbuds in. It's like a constant wave crashing over me—loud, suffocating, and inescapable.
I avoid looking at anyone directly as I unlock my locker. I can feel the familiar tightness creeping into my chest, the one that comes from being around so many people, the one that makes me want to turn around and disappear.
There's no point in trying to go to the cafeteria. I don't have an appetite anyway, and the idea of sitting in a crowded room, pretending everything's fine, just feels unbearable right now.
I grab my French textbook and a notebook, deciding that maybe I'll find a quiet corner in the library. It's better than standing here, feeling like the walls are closing in on me.
As I start heading toward the library, I spot a group of kids from my bio class heading the same way. Ayla isn't with them, but I can't help but wonder where she is. I still don't know much about her, but I keep thinking about the way she looked at me in class, even though it was just for a second.
I shake the thought out of my head. It's not like we're going to magically become friends just because we exchanged glances. Besides, I've got enough going on without adding another layer of complication to my life.
The library is quieter than I expected when I get there. It's not empty, but it's a lot less chaotic than the rest of the school. I find a spot near the back, by the windows, and sit down, pulling out my notebook.
I flip through the pages, pretending like I'm going to study, but my mind keeps drifting. The scene from drama class, the look Ayla gave me, the way I froze when Risa confronted me this morning—it all swirls together in a messy blur. I try to shake it off, to focus on anything else, but the weight of it all is still pressing down on me, like it's never going to let up.
I open my notebook and start sketching. I'm not really thinking about what I'm drawing, just letting the pen move across the paper. It's easier than trying to force myself to focus on French conjugations or biology notes.
I draw for a while, losing track of time. The steady rhythm of pen on paper calms me down, at least a little. It's not much, but it's enough to keep me grounded.
Eventually, the bell rings, pulling me back to reality. I pack up my things and head to French class. It's supposed to be my easiest subject—my first language and all—but today, even the thought of conjugating verbs feels like a mountain I'm not ready to climb.
As I walk through the crowded hallways, I realize I still don't know what I'm going to do about tonight. The thought of going home feels like a weight, heavier with each step I take. I know it's not a question of whether Risa will find something to criticize—she always does—it's just a matter of what it will be today.
And whether I'll be able to hold it together long enough to make it through dinner