"You may be his world, but you're the only thing that ever felt like home to me."
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Some people never get second chances. Lilah never thought she'd get one with her brother's best friend.
She's quiet...
I'm proud to say I'm back in my creative flow, and I'm actually writing a couple chapters in advance so you guys don't have to wait too long for updates. I can't believe I'm already over 20 chapters in 🥹
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I tap my pen repetitively against my notebook, my eyes facing the front of the class and following Mr. Grey as he continues to pace the room slowly, his monotone voice making me fight the urge to yawn. He's going on about market trends or something equally useless, but I'm not paying full attention. The tapping sound from my pen is the only thing keeping me from zoning out.
This is the last class of the week that I have with him, with tomorrow finally being Saturday.
My focus drifts to the girl sitting next to me, her shoulders hunched over her notebook as she aimlessly flips through blank pages, some of them having random scribbles.
Lilah hasn't said much since we sat down, much less the entire week. Her fingers tighten around her pen, tapping the edge of the desk in an irregular rhythm. Every now and then, I can hear her exhale sharply, like she's trying to ground herself.
"Okay, you guys have forty five minutes to work on your project." Mr. Grey's voice drags out, followed by some people sighing in relief. I'm glad to not be the only person who can't fucking stand this class.
Ten minutes pass silently, my pen resting against my notebook, staring blankly at the empty page in front of me. The classroom is filled with the low hum of conversations, but the only voice that sticks out is Lilah's, quieter than usual.
I ignore some of the female gazes that turn to look back at me, trying to not let it annoy me and keeping my attention directed on trying to listen to Lilah. It's already hard trying to hear her voice, but it doesn't help when she's giving short answers on top of it.
"Any ideas?" I ask, breaking the silence between us.
She barely glances up, shaking her head. "Not yet."
Her voice is off. Flat. Tired. Her eyes remain glued to her notebook, but her hollow gaze is looking past it as if she's seeing images from her head. I wish I could know what she is thinking.
I lean back in my chair, stretching my arms behind my head. I ignore the annoyed glare I receive from the pair sitting behind us. If they aren't willing to have a pair of balls and speak up, then I'm not moving.
"Great. So we're failing this project." I reply nonchalantly, accepting defeat with a shrug.
That gets a reaction—just a small one. She shoots me a look, but there's no real fire behind her eyes like there usually is. Usually, she'd snap back, roll her eyes, tell me to stop being lazy. But right now, she just shrugs, dropping her pen onto her notebook like she's already over it.
That's when I know something's wrong.
Lilah never just shrugs things off. Even when we were little.
