Bella's Room — 6:47 AM
Forks, Washington – The Next Morning
Bella stared at her reflection like it had wronged her personally.
The mirror, spotted with fog and flecks of old toothpaste, showed the same tired girl: sleep-creased cheek, tangled brown hair escaping the scrunchie she'd lazily tied at 2 AM, and eyes too wide and dark for seventeen.
She was still in her sleep shirt — a faded gray band tee from some obscure indie group she'd only pretended to know because the cashier at Tower Records had complimented it once. The hem was fraying. The neckline slouched off one shoulder like even the cotton had given up.
Her fingers clenched around a Maybelline mascara wand, hand hovering mid-air like she wasn't quite sure whether to use it or stab herself with it.
"I look like the B-side of a sad poem," she muttered under her breath.
The dream had wrecked her. Again.
Edward had been there. Again.
He always was — in dreams.
In real life?
He sat beside her in Biology like she didn't exist. Like they hadn't shared a moment a month ago that replayed on loop behind her eyes. Like he hadn't caught a van with one hand and caught her with the other.
No one else remembered it the way she did. No one else noticed him the way she did.
She lowered the wand, wiped the brush clean on a tissue, and dropped it in the chipped ceramic cup on her dresser. What was the point? Mascara didn't fix ghosts.
Pulling her flannel off the chair, she threw it on over the band tee. Blue and black plaid. Buttoned wrong the first time. Fixed it. Didn't bother tucking it in. Didn't care that it clashed with her jeans.
She stared at herself again.
"Maybe if I wear enough layers," she said quietly, "the feelings won't get through."
No one laughed. No one ever did in this house unless she was on the phone with her mom.
She slid her backpack on — the old one, the one with the stuck zipper and frayed straps. It smelled like pencil shavings and rain. That same slow, creeping mildew scent that lived in everything in Forks.
Downstairs, the silence was heavy. Dad had already left. A mug still sat in the sink, half-rinsed. The house felt hollow in the way it always did when it was just her inside.
She grabbed a granola bar she wouldn't eat, shoved it into her pocket, and stepped into her old Converse like she was suiting up for battle.
Outside, it was raining again. Of course it was.
She didn't bring an umbrella. What was the point?
By the time she got to the truck, her flannel was damp, her hair stuck to her neck, and her bones already felt like someone else's. She sat behind the wheel, gripping it with cold hands.
And she whispered it, like a secret or a dare:
"Try not to fall apart today, Bella."
She turned the key.
And drove toward a school full of boys who didn't understand her — and one who refused to see her at all.
—
Forks High Parking Lot — 7:58 AM
Monday Morning Drama, Served Cold with a Side of Rain
Bella pulled into the lot like a war widow pulling up to her own funeral.
The engine coughed its last word. She didn't even wait for it to stop fully before opening the rust-splotched door.
She was halfway to slinging her backpack over one shoulder when—
"Bella!"
Tyler Crowley.
Appearing with the consistency of student debt and seasonal depression.
He jogged up beside her, rain already dotting his varsity hoodie, grin wide and unreasonably bright for someone who'd totaled a car just a month ago. "Hey, I saved you a seat at lunch again. Same table, same spot."
Bella blinked. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yeah," he said, undeterred. "But I did. Also—" He dug something out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her like it was a mixtape of destiny. "I made you a CD. Death Cab. Their early stuff. You said you liked them, right?"
"I said I liked silence," Bella said, dryly.
He laughed like she was kidding. She wasn't.
Before she could formulate an escape plan involving fire or invisibility, Mike Newton came sprinting over, blonde hair gleaming with enough product to be considered flammable.
"Tyler," Mike panted, like he'd just run a triathlon in Vans, "Didn't Coach bench you for the week? Something about your concussion and your complete inability to walk in a straight line?"
Tyler's smile tightened. "I'm good. Might even play Friday."
"Right. Maybe Bella can, what, nurse you back to health?" Mike asked, voice just short of a sneer. He turned to her. "What do you think, Bella? You free to play Florence Nightingale?"
Before she could answer—or scream—a third voice cut in.
"I'm standing right here, guys."
Eric Yorkie, camera swinging from his neck, cargo pants a little too cargo, and the scent of Axe body spray so aggressive it could legally be considered an attack. "Bella, I was gonna ask—do you wanna help edit the yearbook spread after school? I have snacks. And Photoshop."
Mike snorted. "You think Bella wants to spend her afternoon choosing fonts with you, Yorkie?"
Tyler grinned. "At least he's not still bragging about his C+ in trig."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Mike said. "Some of us don't peak in P.E."
Bella stared ahead. At nothing. At everything.
The boys were still talking, voices rising like static.
They didn't notice that she'd stopped listening ten seconds ago.
Her eyes had drifted. As they always did.
Across the parking lot.
To the silver Volvo.
The Cullens had arrived.
They stepped out of the car like a Vogue editorial had crash-landed in a funeral. Rosalie, all wrath and runway. Emmett, grinning like he'd just bench-pressed a grizzly. Jasper, shoulders tense, eyes haunted like he remembered wars no history book listed. Alice, twirling in low-rise jeans and a cropped black tee that read Witch, Please in silver glitter.
And Edward.
Edward looked like he hadn't slept since the Cold War.
Bronze hair tousled, jaw locked, coat clutched like he was bracing against more than weather. His gaze never lifted. Not once. Not toward her.
He walked past like she was fog on the glass. Like she wasn't there.
Like he hadn't saved her life a month ago.
A month ago—
When the van came skidding toward her, tires screaming, fate crashing.
When Edward and Hadrian, who'd both been standing across the lot just seconds before, were suddenly there, Edward's hand against metal, arm around her waist, stopping death like it was just an annoying gust of wind.
Everyone else said she imagined it. That she'd hit her head. That it was all adrenaline and poor depth perception.
Even Tyler had insisted, "Nah, Bella. I was there, man. Cullen and Peverell were just nearby. You probably fainted."
But she hadn't.
He'd moved like lightning. Inhuman. Instant.
And then the next day?
Gone. Not from school. Just... from her life.
She'd tried to talk to him once.
Outside Biology. Her voice small, but trying. "Thank you."
He'd looked at her like it physically hurt. Nodded once.
And walked away.
She hadn't tried again.
Didn't see the point.
The boys around her were still arguing about something — video games? seating charts? toxic masculinity in fleece? — but she felt miles away.
Invisible.
Pitiful.
Edward Cullen didn't look at her.
But she couldn't stop looking at him.
—
Biology – 9:14 AM
Forks High School, Room 117 — The Emotional Autopsy Table
The room smelled like antiseptic and frog dissection memories.
Bella stepped inside like a criminal returning to the scene of a heart crime.
She walked slowly. Carefully. Like the floor might crack beneath her.
He was already there.
Of course he was.
Edward Cullen sat perfectly straight, arms folded over his textbook, every pen aligned with military precision. He didn't move when she entered. Didn't look up. His bronze hair was slightly damp, curls still clinging to the collar of his black peacoat, and his jaw was set like it was holding back a scream.
She lowered herself into the seat beside him, barely breathing.
The chair gave a soft creak, like even it regretted being here.
Edward didn't flinch.
He stared ahead, gaze locked on the lab table like it had personally offended him.
His lashes were impossibly long, and his eyes—when they weren't focused on her, which was always—looked like they held every tragedy she couldn't name.
He smelled faintly of cedar. Cold air. And heartbreak.
Bella bit her lip.
Then, softly—almost without thinking—she said, "Hi."
It was barely more than breath.
Not a greeting. A wish.
He didn't answer.
Didn't turn.
Didn't blink.
Just kept staring forward like she wasn't real.
Like she was a ripple in his perfect, doomed little world that he couldn't let himself notice.
Bella swallowed hard and looked down at her textbook, pretending to read.
She couldn't have named a single sentence on the page. The words twisted. Blurred. Sank. Her throat burned in that awful, familiar way it always did now. That terrible tightness that made her feel like something inside her chest was folding in on itself.
It was always like this. Every day.
He'd sit beside her, silent and still as glass.
And she—idiot that she was—would try anyway. Hope anyway.
No one else noticed him the way she did.
To them, Edward Cullen was just another ghost passing through Forks High. Quiet. Weird. Beautiful in a way you couldn't look at too long without feeling like you'd missed something essential.
But to her?
He was everything.
Every shift of his shoulders. Every slow inhale. Every time his fingers twitched like maybe, just maybe, he wanted to speak but stopped himself.
And that smile. That one time.
Just once, weeks ago. A crooked, rare thing—like he hadn't done it in a century and wasn't sure if he should've. It had lit up his whole face, and it had destroyed her.
Because it was real.
Because it had been for her.
And now?
Now she sat beside him like a shadow he refused to look at.
Just the girl who said "hi" to silence.
And meant it.
She blinked too fast, too hard.
No tears. Not in class. Not here.
Outside, rain traced slow paths down the windows. A gray watercolor world where everything was muffled, quiet, and lonely.
Inside, Edward Cullen didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He just sat there—hands folded, lips pressed together, jaw clenched—like he was at war with something neither of them could see.
The space between them was maybe ten inches wide.
It felt like a mile.
It felt like forever.
—
Bella's Room — 6:07 PM
Monday Evening – Rain Still Drizzling Like the Sky Just Can't Let Go
The lasagna smell was still hanging in the air.
Charlie had reheated it before work and left half of it on the stove. A gesture that said "I care about you in a dad way, but I also fear emotions."
Bella sat curled up on her bed, flannel sleeves half-covering her fingers, socks mismatched. The one on her left had a hole. The one on her right had a cartoon mushroom on the ankle that looked vaguely judgmental.
Her hair was drying in weird waves from the rain. She hadn't brushed it. Or changed. Or even opened her Biology notebook. What was the point?
She stared at the ceiling like it owed her answers.
Then the landline rang.
Twice.
Three times.
She reached for it, the coiled cord tangling around her wrist as she lifted the pale green receiver.
"Hello?"
"Bells!" Jessica's voice burst through, high and jittery like she was calling from inside a shopping mall or her own caffeinated bloodstream. "Hey. So. Don't freak out, okay?"
Bella blinked at the wall. "Why would I freak out?"
"I mean, I don't know, you've been… super broody lately. Very Lorde before Lorde was a thing."
"It's called a personality, Jess."
Jessica giggled. "Well, it's a little Wuthering Heights, but we vibe with it."
Bella sighed. "You're stalling. What's up?"
Jessica inhaled like she was about to launch into an audiobook. "Okay. So. The Girls' Choice Dance is coming up. Three weeks. Posters everywhere. I was thinking… I might ask Mike."
Bella sat up slightly. "Mike Newton?"
"No, Mike Tyson," Jessica deadpanned. Then, more nervously, "Yes, that Mike. I mean, unless you were planning to ask him, which would be totally fine and I'd support that even though he's been, like, magnetically orbiting you since January—"
"I'm not asking anyone," Bella said quickly.
Jessica hesitated. "Wait, really? Like, really really?"
"Yeah."
"I mean…" Jessica trailed off, then came back with full cheerleader pep. "I thought we could all go as a group. You know, like a weird, chaotic movie montage. Me, you, Angela, Lauren if she promises not to insult anyone's shoes. No pressure to dance. You could wear your flannel. We'll make it ironic."
Bella gave a dry laugh. "Yeah, I'll be the poster child for irony. 'Girl gets saved by mysterious boy, is ghosted by same, now haunts the cafeteria in sad pajama shirts.'"
Jessica was quiet for a second. "So… it is about Edward."
Bella stiffened. "No, it's not."
"Bella. Come on. You look at him like he's the only surviving member of your favorite band and he just refuses to sign your CD."
"I'm not into Edward Cullen," Bella said. It wasn't a lie. It was a funeral for truth held in a whisper.
Jessica made a noise that was half-skeptical, half-concerned. "Okay. Sure. But like… if you were, that would be normal. I mean, he's weird, but hot. Like, Victorian-orphan-haunting-a-piano hot."
Bella bit the inside of her cheek. "He doesn't even talk to me."
"Sometimes I think he's a hallucination. Like, we all collectively dreamed him up during flu season."
"I'm fine, Jess," Bella said softly. "You can ask Mike."
Jessica exhaled like she'd been holding her breath through the whole conversation. "Okay. Cool. Thanks. You're a goddess. Or, like, a sad nun. Either way. Iconic."
Bella smiled weakly. "Good luck."
"Oh, God, I need it. What if he says no? What if he laughs? What if he thinks I'm desperate?"
"Then it means he's a high school boy with no taste and you're better off."
Jessica laughed. "Ugh, you're kind of wise in a rainy-day-sadness type of way."
Bella glanced at the window. The rain was still falling. Slow. Relentless. Just like her thoughts.
"I'll save you a corsage anyway," Jess said, almost shy. "Just in case you change your mind."
"I won't," Bella murmured.
Jessica said goodbye with a chirp and a pop of a bubblegum-like "Wish me luck!"
And then it was just Bella again.
She set the receiver down gently and leaned back on her bed.
Her ceiling had water stains from years before she'd ever lived in this house. Her fingers tangled in the hem of her flannel.
A dance. A boy. A maybe.
And she couldn't even say hi without feeling like she was begging the universe for scraps.
Edward Cullen hadn't looked at her once today.
And she'd spent hours memorizing the way he didn't.
—
Forks High School — Tuesday Morning
Somewhere Between Rejection and Rain (and awkward male entitlement)
Bella walked through the hall like a ghost who still paid property taxes.
The building smelled like wet coats and stale tater tots, and the fluorescent lights buzzed above her like a headache. Her green-and-black flannel was buttoned wrong again, but she didn't bother fixing it. Some days were like that. Off-kilter by default.
She passed Jessica by the vending machine. No wave. No smile. Just a brief glance and a blink that might as well have been Morse code for whatever.
That one stung.
Not like a punch.
More like a paper cut right along the edge of something important.
Bella didn't blame her.
She'd known Jessica was hopeful. Had warned her with every tone, every deflection.
But Jess had been all nerves and lip gloss and optimism, and now… now she was quiet.
And that was worse.
Bella sighed and turned toward her locker. She had just finished spinning the combo when she felt it.
That specific kind of presence.
Looming. Nervous. Blonde.
Mike Newton.
He lingered nearby like a pop-up ad she couldn't quite click away. The smell of Axe body spray hit first. Then came the scuffed sneakers and the too-loud breathing.
"Hey, Bella," he said, in a voice that was weirdly hopeful and half an octave higher than usual.
She didn't turn. "Hey."
She grabbed her Biology book and her notebook—both water-warped from the rain—and slammed the locker shut with more force than necessary.
"So, um…" Mike ran a hand through his perfectly tousled hair, probably rehearsed in a mirror. "Jessica asked me to the dance."
Bella raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I know."
"Oh. She told you?"
"She's my friend, Mike." Bella's voice was calm, flat. She adjusted the strap of her backpack. "That's generally what friends do. Talk."
He blinked, then grinned like maybe this was still salvageable. "Right. Cool. So… I didn't give her an answer yet."
Bella stared at him. "Why not?"
Mike glanced away, then scratched the back of his neck like it was a nervous tic he'd practiced in the mirror. "I thought maybe… you were gonna ask me."
Bella blinked slowly, like maybe if she didn't acknowledge the words, they'd disappear into the fog.
Then she looked at him properly. The hopeful gleam in his eye. The shy smile. The way he stood, like he was waiting to be chosen for dodgeball and pretending not to care.
She felt nothing.
Not butterflies. Not awkward guilt. Not even secondhand embarrassment.
Just that quiet, familiar ache of why is this always happening?
"Mike," she said, voice soft but not gentle, "I'm not going to the dance."
He frowned, lips twitching downward like a kid who just realized Santa might be a lie. "Oh. Really?"
"Really."
"But… why not?" he asked, his voice hitting the classic teen-boy trifecta: confusion, entitlement, and fragile ego. "It could be fun."
Bella gave a half-shrug. "I'm going to Seattle that weekend."
His nose scrunched like the sentence didn't compute. "Seattle? Alone?"
"Yeah."
"You're… driving there. By yourself."
Bella tilted her head, her sarcasm warming up like a vinyl player. "What, do you think the highway has bandits? Or is it just that you're struggling to imagine a girl in possession of a car and self-direction?"
Mike gave a nervous chuckle. "No, no, it's just—Seattle's far. Like… big city far."
"Exactly," Bella said, flipping her bangs out of her eyes. "That's why I like it."
Mike shuffled his feet, trying to recover. "I just thought maybe… I mean, I know we've been hanging out a lot. Lunch, and Bio, and—"
"Mike."
His name stopped him mid-thought.
"You should go with Jessica," she said, not unkindly. "She likes you."
Mike looked genuinely baffled. "I mean… yeah, I guess I like her too, but—"
Bella raised an eyebrow. "You guess?"
He winced. "Okay. Bad phrasing. But you—you're just, like… cool. And smart. And you're kinda mysterious and sarcastic, which is hot in, like, a 'dark indie movie heroine' kind of way—"
Bella laughed once. Sharp. "Mike. Stop talking."
He did.
"I'm not asking you to the dance. I'm not going to the dance. And you're not the tragic love interest in an angsty teenage romcom. You're the guy with a good heart and bad timing."
Mike looked at her like she'd just handed him a pop quiz in a language he didn't speak.
"So… I should say yes to Jess?"
Bella gave him a look.
He nodded quickly. "Right. Yeah. Okay."
And then, like all teenage boys trying to preserve what was left of their dignity, he mumbled something about seeing her in class and walked away with the vibe of someone who'd just unplugged their own guitar mid-performance.
Bella exhaled.
—
Biology — 9:14 AM
Same Lab Table. Same Tension. More Fallout.
Bella turned around in her seat like someone sitting on a landmine and pretending it was furniture.
Edward was already there.
Of course he was.
Black peacoat, pale fingers folded on the edge of the desk, spine straight like he was bracing for impact. Or penance.
She didn't look at him. She was tired of looking.
Tired of pretending not to notice the ghost next to her who only ever noticed her when no one else was watching.
She pulled out her notes and her chewed-up pen, trying not to breathe like a teenage girl hyperaware of the boy-shaped shadow six inches to her left.
The air was thick with formaldehyde and unfinished conversations.
Then:
"Seattle?"
The word hit her like a dropped glass.
It was quiet. Almost casual. But not really.
Bella turned slowly.
His head was tilted toward her now, lashes lowered, eyes a little too bright.
Edward Cullen, speaking to her. Out loud. In a voice low and controlled and impossible to ignore.
Her heart did something dramatic and stupid.
"Excuse me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
His gaze flicked toward her, then away. Like he couldn't decide whether looking at her counted as a sin.
"I overheard," he said. "You're going to Seattle. That Saturday."
Bella blinked. Her mouth was dry. Her sarcasm reflex kicked in like muscle memory.
"You been studying my planner, Cullen?" she muttered, pen tapping.
He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening.
"You shouldn't go."
She stared at him. "Wow. Okay. And why not?"
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
And it was like standing on train tracks while the train was still miles away, but somehow you could already feel the rumble in your bones.
"It's not safe."
Her brow arched. "What is it, the rain? The traffic? Am I going to be mauled by a particularly aggressive Starbucks barista?"
He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just—looked.
Like he was doing calculus behind those amber eyes and didn't like the answer.
"There's a storm forecasted. Strong winds. Slick roads."
"I'm from Phoenix, Edward. I've driven in monsoons and haboobs. You think a little drizzle scares me?"
His jaw twitched. Hands clenched tighter on the desk. Knuckles white.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me," she said.
She didn't mean to sound like a challenge. But it came out like one anyway.
Edward's lips parted, like maybe—just maybe—he was going to.
Then closed again. A breath caught in his throat.
Silence.
Bella shifted in her seat. Looked at the desk. Her fingers picked at the edge of her paper like it was something alive.
"Is this... about the accident?" she asked, quieter now.
Edward didn't answer.
Bella scoffed. "Right. Of course. You can save me from a van, but you can't form a full sentence when I ask if you're okay. You vanish for a week, ignore me for another, and now you're giving me weather reports?"
Edward's voice was tight when it finally returned. "I'm trying to help you."
"Then maybe try not pretending I'm invisible for five days at a time."
That landed.
Edward's head dropped slightly. His expression cracked—just a little. Enough for her to see the storm inside him wasn't just outside.
His voice, when it came again, was rough and broken-glass soft.
"You don't know what you're asking."
Bella stared at him.
And for a moment, she didn't feel confused or annoyed or sarcastic.
She felt scared. Not of him. Not really.
But of how much she wanted to know.
Of how much she already cared.
Edward looked away. Out the window. Toward the gray skies that mirrored his eyes too well.
Bella's breath caught.
He looked like he was drowning.
And for once—he didn't seem to want to save himself.
Silence stretched between them like a tightrope.
Then the bell rang.
Edward stood too quickly, his chair scraping against the floor. For one split second, he lingered—fingertips still resting on the desk, eyes flicking toward her like he was about to speak.
Then he was gone.
Bella didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
She stared at the chair he'd vacated like it had just told her a secret she didn't understand.
The classroom emptied. Someone turned off the overhead projector. Someone else laughed in the hall.
Bella sat perfectly still.
Her hands were trembling.
Because Edward Cullen had spoken to her.
Because he knew about Seattle.
Because he was worried—and also something else.
And because…
when he looked at her like that?
She could pretend it didn't mean anything.
But it already meant everything.
—
Biology Classroom – Back Row – 9:15 AM
Somewhere between formaldehyde and finely tuned family drama
Edward Cullen moved like he was walking through invisible shrapnel — stiff, silent, like every step was one heartbeat too loud. His chair scraped against the linoleum with a sound that made most students flinch.
Not Elizabeth.
Not Katherine.
From the last row, Elizabeth watched him with the amused detachment of someone who'd seen the whole movie before and was only sticking around for the alternate ending.
She slouched just enough to look insufferably comfortable, her short platinum-blonde hair tucked behind one ear, fingers lazily spinning the silver ring on her middle finger. Her boots—platformed, scuffed, and 100% not regulation—were propped on the bar beneath her desk like this was her throne room, not a public-school lab.
"Ach," she whispered, lips curling, voice soaked in a soft Scottish lilt. "There he goes. The brooding prince flees his kingdom."
Katherine didn't even blink. She just tilted her head slightly, eyes following Edward as he stalked toward the door. Her gaze was colder, more calculating—dark brows furrowed in quiet judgment.
Unlike Elizabeth, Katherine sat with perfect posture. Neat. Composed. Pencil balanced on her notebook like a scalpel. Her long, ink-dark braid draped over one shoulder, still damp from the morning fog. When she spoke, her accent was subtler—lowland and laced with glass.
"So dramatic," she muttered. "If he flared his coat any harder, he'd start floating."
Elizabeth snorted quietly. "Bet he's halfway to writing poetry in the Volvo by now. Something about storm clouds and temptation."
Katherine didn't laugh, but the edge of her mouth twitched. "And blood. Probably metaphors about blood."
"Oh aye," Elizabeth said, pretending to jot notes. "Her scent cuts through me like a blade / crimson sins I cannot evade." She tapped her pen to her lip. "D'you think he knows how emo he sounds?"
"He listens to Muse on repeat and stares out the window during class, Lizzie. He's one pair of fingerless gloves away from joining My Chemical Romance."
Elizabeth's laugh was low and breathy. She shifted closer to Katherine and nudged her knee beneath the table. "You love it."
Katherine gave a soft eye-roll. "I tolerate it."
They both turned their attention toward Bella, who was still sitting at the lab table like she'd been left behind in the wreckage of something she didn't ask for.
Elizabeth's voice dropped again, a little more thoughtful. "Think she's got a clue what's coming?"
Katherine shook her head once. "Not yet. But she will." She tapped her pen thoughtfully against her notes. "He's circling. Getting closer. Eventually, he'll either drag her under or pull himself out."
Elizabeth smirked, gaze flicking between Bella and the door. "You make it sound like we're watching Pride and Prejudice if Darcy also wanted to kill Lizzy a little bit."
Katherine shrugged, unbothered. "That's the vibe."
They shared a look — long, familiar. A silent agreement passed like a folded note.
Elizabeth reached down and twined their fingers together beneath the desk, ring cool against Katherine's skin. "You and me though? We're fine."
Katherine squeezed her hand. "Always."
Then, with a sigh that was equal parts fond and exasperated, Elizabeth muttered, "Still… bet Alice's somewhere grinning like she won the Super Bowl."
"She did call it," Katherine agreed, deadpan. "She's probably already redecorating Bella's future."
Elizabeth snorted. "Someone tell her Bella doesn't even own a pink sweater."
Katherine smirked. "She will."
A beat passed. The class began to settle again—papers rustling, someone coughing, Ms. Melvin returning to her droning lecture about cell mitosis.
But the back row?
The back row knew better.
The storm had shifted.
And Elizabeth and Katherine?
They were already watching the clouds roll in.
—
Spanish Class — 10:05 AM
Room 203 — Mrs. Goff's kingdom
The classroom smelled like a mix of dry-erase markers, old textbooks, and just a hint of Mrs. Goff's spicy perfume — the kind that lingered long after she'd swept past, eyes sharp and ever-watchful.
Hadrian lounged in his chair like he owned the place, emerald eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He'd just gotten a text — that little ping breaking the monotony of Mrs. Goff's rapid-fire Spanish instructions.
"Bet's over. You win, Peverell. Edward finally looked at Bella when one of the usual suspects made a move. Told you so." — Alice
Hadrian smirked, his fingers casually slipping the phone back into his pocket. Across the table, Emmett, his muscles making the chair creak just a little more, gave a sly grin and nudged Jasper with his elbow.
Jasper, calm and effortless with his Southern drawl, leaned in and whispered, "Well, I'll be damned. Looks like the prince wins the crown. You ready for your payout, boss?"
Emmett's hand slid beneath the desk, producing a thick wad of cash folded like it was been waiting for this moment since the dawn of time. Jasper followed with a crumpled envelope that made the unmistakable ka-ching sound when it landed near Hadrian's knee.
Hadrian pocketed the winnings smoothly, all cool confidence and no hint of rookie surprise.
Then came the pivot: Mrs. Goff spun around on her heel, the classroom instantly snapping to attention.
"¡Ay, Hadrian!" Her voice carried that rich Colombian lilt, sharp but teasing. "¿Estás aquí o en otro planeta, mijo? Porque pareces más perdido que un pingüino en el Sahara."
Hadrian smiled, matching her tone with an easy charm. "Lo siento, señora. Solo estaba pensando en el juego."
Mrs. Goff's eyebrows arched dramatically as she stepped closer, hands on hips. "Bueno, vamos a ver si tus pensamientos pueden ayudar con esto." She pointed to the board, voice turning classroom-serious. "¿Cómo se dice 'to succeed' en español?"
Without hesitation, Hadrian's voice was smooth and clear. "Tener éxito."
"Muy bien," she purred approvingly, then flicked a glance at the class like daring them to keep up. "Ahora conjuga en presente: 'ellos tener éxito.'"
Hadrian shrugged with a mock dramatic sigh, flashing that signature grin. "Ellos tienen éxito."
A few classmates glanced up, trying to mask their surprise — some impressed, others pretending to be too cool for school.
Emmett leaned over with a cheeky grin, whispering loud enough for Hadrian alone, "Damn, Peverell, you make that look easy. Cash those chips, baby."
Jasper chuckled, Southern drawl thickening in amusement. "Yeah, just don't blow it all on fancy stuff, okay? Gotta keep your feet on the ground, son."
Hadrian chuckled, shaking his head, "Don't worry. I'm saving up for the real magic — like passing Mrs. Goff's quizzes."
Mrs. Goff shot him a mock glare, twirling a marker between her fingers. "Ay, chico, if you don't behave, I'll have you conjugating verbs until the cows come home. And trust me, those cows speak Spanish."
Laughter bubbled around the room, breaking the tension like a perfectly timed remix.
Hadrian settled back with a satisfied smile, eyes sparkling with the thrill of small victories — in class, in bets, and in the complicated game of Forks High.
—
English Class — 10:30 AM
Room 105 — Ms. Harper's Domain
Alice twirled her pen between slender fingers, pixie-cut hair bouncing with every subtle grin she couldn't quite suppress. Her bright eyes sparkled with that gleeful mischief of someone who just scored a secret win.
Across the room, Daenerys leaned casually against her desk, silver hair catching the pale fluorescent light like moonbeams trapped indoors. Her violet eyes held a quiet intensity—cool and composed, but sharp as shattered glass beneath calm waters.
"So," Alice whispered, voice low and full of excitement, "it's official. Edward's breaking. Like, really breaking. We don't have to play cloak-and-dagger anymore, stalking him like we're in some teenage spy movie."
Daenerys's lips curved into a soft, knowing smile. "It's overdue. He's been drifting like a ghost ship. Honestly? I think Bella needed this break more than anyone."
Alice's grin widened, almost conspiratorial. "Right? I swear, Bella's got that whole 'lost puppy with too much sarcasm' vibe, and I'm ready to be the big sister she never asked for. Maybe you too, Dany. Imagine—us three taking over this school, keeping secrets, making moves."
From the corner, Rosalie sat like a statue carved from ice. Arms crossed, posture rigid, her flawless blonde hair cascading perfectly despite the chaos of teenage drama. Her eyes, sharp and cool, flicked toward the pair with a slow, disdainful raise of one brow.
"Seriously?" Rosalie's voice sliced through the hush, low and dry like cracked porcelain. "You're literally celebrating his meltdown? Maybe some of us actually have standards—and loyalty."
Alice's eyes gleamed as she met Rosalie's glare head-on, unfazed. "Oh, Rosi, don't be so dramatic. It's not like we're throwing a party over his 'meltdown.' We're just glad we don't have to sneak around, play detective, or baby-sit the brooding boy anymore."
Daenerys's silver strands shifted as she leaned forward, voice calm but pointed. "Exactly. If Edward's going to lock himself in his own world, why waste energy chasing shadows? Bella deserves friends who show up, who actually fight for her."
Rosalie scoffed softly, the sound barely audible but filled with venom. "Friends? Is that what you call it? Sounds more like gossip disguised as 'help.'"
Alice shrugged with a devil-may-care smile. "Call it whatever you want, but it's game on now. No more ghosts, no more secrets."
Daenerys nodded, eyes gleaming like amethysts. "Game on."
The bell rang sharply, breaking the tension like a knife through silk.
Alice gathered her books with a satisfied sigh, voice low and filled with purpose. "Let's make sure Bella knows she's not alone anymore. That we're here. No more invisible walls."
Rosalie's glare lingered like a winter storm, cold and unrelenting, but Alice and Daenerys already exchanged a glance full of plans and promise — the kind that could shake up a whole school.
---
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