Monday came with gray skies and the low thrum of dread humming in Lily's chest. The moment she stepped through the school doors, the warmth of the bookstore felt like a dream—distant and unreal. Here, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the air was thick with the weight of unseen eyes.
She kept her head down, weaving between bodies and conversations she wasn't part of. At her locker, she twisted the combination lock with shaking fingers. It stuck—again. She tugged it harder, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Behind her, laughter bubbled. Sharp. Mean.
"Hey, look—it's the cow whisperer," Rachel's voice rang out like it was on a stage. "Where you off to, Lily? Gonna draw your fantasy boyfriend again?"
Lily froze.
The hallway got quieter. Just slightly. Just enough.
She didn't turn around. She couldn't.
"Maybe she's got a whole sketchbook full of guys who'd never date her in real life," Rachel added, faux-sympathetic. "Sad, right?"
Lily stared at the locker door, her breath quickening. The weight of every cruel word ever spoken to her pressed down all at once.
She wanted to vanish. Melt into the floor. Evaporate into thin air.
Instead, her fingers clenched around the strap of her backpack. She said nothing.
Silence had always been her safest armor.
"Whatever," Rachel muttered eventually. "Let's go."
The moment they walked away, the hallway filled with movement again. Conversations resumed. Laughter returned. And Lily was invisible once more.
She made it through her classes in a daze. Teachers droned on, their voices muffled by the buzzing in her ears. She barely touched her lunch. The cafeteria echoed with too many voices and too much noise, and all she could think about was the weight of the word cow. How it clung to her skin.
After school, she walked the long way home again. Each step away from school loosened something in her shoulders. Her mind wandered—to the bookstore. To the soft glow of the lamps. To the way Nathan had looked at her drawing, like it meant something.
She passed Fable & Thread without thinking, then stopped and doubled back. Her fingers rested on the door handle a moment before she pushed it open.
The bell chimed.
Nathan glanced up from behind the counter. "Twice in three days," he said. "Careful—you'll end up a regular."
Lily managed a small smile, though it felt fragile.
Nathan tilted his head. "Rough day?"
She nodded.
He gestured toward the back corner. "Tea's on the warmer. Mint and something herbal I can't pronounce. Help yourself."
Lily poured a small mug and sank into the armchair near the window. The steam curled up into the soft light like a gentle breath.
She pulled out her sketchpad and opened to a blank page. Her hand hesitated, hovering over the paper.
Nathan sat across from her, a book in hand, but not reading.
"Do they call you names?" he asked quietly.
Lily flinched, surprised. Then nodded again.
Nathan set the book aside. "I used to get it, too," he said. "When I was younger. I was quiet. Weird. Always sketching monsters when the other kids were playing basketball."
Lily looked up, startled.
He smiled faintly. "Names have weight. People think words bounce off, but they stick. Especially the ones that sound like facts when you hear them often enough."
She looked down. "I know they're not true. But sometimes…"
"They echo," he said gently.
She nodded, eyes stinging.
"But here's something I learned," he continued. "You get to name yourself, too. And your name—what you believe about yourself—gets to be louder. Even if it takes time."
Lily stared at the blank page in front of her. Slowly, she began to draw. Not a person this time. A word.
Worthy.
In bold, curling letters. She shaded the edges, giving it weight.
When she was done, she stared at it for a long time.
It didn't erase the pain. But it softened something sharp inside her.
Nathan didn't say anything. He just sipped his tea, and they sat together in the golden quiet.
And for the first time, Lily felt the tiniest shift—not just in how the world saw her, but in how she might begin to see herself.