Lily pressed her back against the cold metal of her locker, eyes glued to her phone even though there were no new messages. The hallway buzzed with laughter—high-pitched, carefree, effortless. Sneakers squeaked against the linoleum. Locker doors slammed shut like the punctuation marks of a language she didn't speak.
She wasn't part of it. She never was.
Her hoodie was oversized, hanging off her shoulders like a security blanket she'd outgrown but refused to let go of. Her jeans clung to her thighs, making her hyper-aware of every step, every glance, every smirk. And every time someone looked her way, she was sure they were silently judging her.
It wasn't paranoia. Not really.
Last week, someone had laughed right after she walked past, and the word "whale" followed, loud enough for her to hear, soft enough for the teacher on hallway duty to ignore.
Now, she kept her head down. It was easier that way. Safer.
In class, she sat in the back, near the window, where she could lose herself in the trees swaying outside. She rarely spoke. When she did, teachers blinked in surprise, like they'd forgotten she was there at all. She wasn't a troublemaker, wasn't gifted, wasn't even average in the right way. She was just… there.
At lunch, she took her usual spot—the table farthest from the center of the cafeteria. It was small and uneven, and one of its legs wobbled, so her milk carton tilted unless she placed it just right. No one ever joined her. They never did.
She opened her sketchpad and flipped to a half-finished drawing of a girl who didn't look like her. The girl was bold. Her curves were intentional, like art. Her smile was crooked, her eyes bright. There was a quiet power in her pose—like she knew exactly who she was and didn't care if anyone else approved.
Lily sighed and picked up her pencil. As she began shading the folds in the girl's dress, someone brushed past her table hard enough to knock her backpack to the floor.
"Oops," said Rachel, the ringleader of pretty. She didn't even pause. Just kept walking, her laughter trailing behind her like cheap perfume.
Lily didn't say anything. She never did.
Instead, she knelt, picked up her bag, and sat back down. Her heart thudded in her ears. The cafeteria noise blurred, and for a second, all she could focus on was the girl in her sketchpad—the version of herself that didn't flinch.
After school, Lily walked home in the gray hush of a cloudy afternoon. Clouds blanketed the sky, muting the sunlight and making the world feel softer, quieter. It was her favorite kind of day. The shadows weren't as harsh.
She took the long route, avoiding the corner store where the popular kids loitered after school, sipping energy drinks and exchanging too-loud jokes. Instead, she walked down Maple Street, past the rows of quiet houses, until she reached the block with the bookstore.
Fable & Thread, the carved wooden sign read. She slowed as she passed. Its dusty windows held a kind of magic—flickering lamp light, towers of books leaning like old friends, a cozy armchair with a knit blanket draped over it. A man stood behind the counter, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, absorbed in something she couldn't see.
She'd never been inside before.
She took a step closer. Then stopped.
Something tugged at her—curiosity, maybe. Or the warmth that seemed to glow from inside, a world apart from her own.
Maybe tomorrow, she told herself.
But as she turned to leave, the door creaked open.
And Lily looked back.
Just once.