AVA'S POV
I stare at the book in my hands, my legs resting against the wall as I flip through the pages absentmindedly. Nishimura Riki. The name repeats in my head like a song I can't get out, even though it's not one I asked to hear. I glance at the neat handwriting, wondering why this matters at all. It's just a name—just another person in the sea of faces at this school. Another insignificant detail in the mess of a life that I've been trying to avoid thinking about.
Yet something about it sticks.
My fingers graze over the pages, feeling the delicate weight of his words, like somehow touching this book will make me understand more about him—about why he's so guarded, so... intense. I close it abruptly, the soft thud of the cover snapping shut echoes louder than it should.
Tossing it aside, I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes, trying to push away the odd pang of guilt that claws at my chest. It's stupid. I shouldn't feel bad about teasing him. I do that all the time and I don't give a fuck about it. I mean, he's just some random guy who clearly has no interest in being part of the world I live in. But maybe that's the part that irritates me—he's the only one who doesn't care. Doesn't try to fit in, doesn't play the game.
And that, somehow, makes him stand out.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking the silence. I pull it out, glancing at the screen. Mom. I groan, already knowing what it'll say before I even open the message. Don't forget about the charity gala tonight. Dress sharp.
Of course. Another event to parade around in, pretending like my life is anything but a mess. I stuff my phone back into my pocket, the familiar wave of exhaustion hitting me. The same people, the same fake conversations, the same hollow compliments about how perfect everything looks.
A few hours later, I'm dressed in a designer dress that Mom had picked specifically for this occasion. I wonder how much it cost her, but then again, I've never really worried about money. Not because I don't care, but because it's never been my problem. It's always been there, like the air I breathe, like the ground beneath my feet.
The dress is perfect. Of course, it is. It hugs my body in all the right places, the shimmering fabric catching the light as I move, reflecting back the image of someone I barely recognize. I look at myself in the mirror, my face painted to perfection, my hair styled just the way Mom likes it. I look flawless. I force a smile, the kind that stretches my lips but never quite reaches my eyes. It's all part of the performance, part of the show. And I've gotten so good at it that sometimes I almost believe it myself. Almost.
"Ava, darling, you look stunning," Mom gushes as I walk downstairs, her eyes scanning me from head to toe, approving. Always approving. It's as if I'm one of her prized possessions, another piece of art to show off to her friends. She glances at her watch, not even bothering to ask how I'm feeling. "We're leaving right now. Come on, your dad will be there before us."
Dad is always present for such events, but his presence for a mean at home seems to be the last thing on his mind. He shows up for the cameras, for the business deals, for the perfectly curated image of a happy, successful family. But at home? At home, he's a ghost. I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because if I do, I might say something I'll regret. Something real.
"Remember, Ava," Mom says, her voice cutting through the silence, "tonight is important. Smile, be gracious, and for God's sake, don't let anyone see how tired you are."
I bite the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. It's always the same lecture, the same commands. Be perfect. Be flawless. Be everything they want you to be. As if that's even possible anymore.
