The first time I saw her, she walked straight past me.
That was unusual.
People don't do that. Not in this school. Not with me.
When I walk through the hallways of St. August's, people step aside. They make eye contact, smile like it's reflex, wait for my approval like they were trained to. They know who I am.
And if they don't? They learn quickly.
But she didn't look up.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even breathe differently when our shoulders almost brushed near the courtyard entrance.
That… irritated me.
More than it should've.
I turned to watch her walk away. Black hair tied with a ribbon. White shirt too crisp, like she hadn't worn it long. A black skirt down to her knees. Leather bag over one shoulder. She blended in—except for the fact that she didn't blend in at all.
There was something deliberate about her distance.
Like she wanted to disappear and dared you to try and stop her.
And that was the moment I knew: She didn't belong here.
But I was going to make her mine anyway.
Her name appeared on the class roster the next morning.
Rhea Virelle.
Transfer from "abroad." No one said which country.
No social media. No photos. No digital footprint. The admin office claimed they had her documents, but every time I asked, there was a nervous smile and a different excuse.
She sat in the back row. My row.
I'd claimed that seat three years ago. No one else dared take it.
Until her.
"Is that seat taken?" I asked, smooth and low, hands in my pockets.
She didn't look up from her book.
"No."
She didn't move either.
I slid into the chair beside her. "I'm Adrian."
"I know," she said.
That was it. No smile. No effort. Not even a fake one.
Just a deadpan voice and an answer I didn't know how to respond to.
The next few days were… frustrating.
I tried subtle. Dropped pens. Made clever comments. Pushed my way into her line of vision.
Nothing.
She didn't avoid me. But she didn't react either. Like I was no different than the trees outside the window. Just another object in the background.
Everyone else noticed.
Whispers followed her in the hallway.
Why doesn't she talk to Adrian?
Is she stupid or suicidal?
He's going to break her. Watch.
And maybe I would have. But curiosity turned into fixation.
I started memorizing her schedule.
Third period: library, not the cafeteria.
Fifth period: she'd sit on the third step behind the art building and read some weird red notebook.
Always writing in it. Always alone.
I stole it.
Of course I did.
It was locked — not physically, but emotionally. The words were written in a language I didn't recognize. But the names inside? Some were students. Some weren't. One of them was mine.
She knew me before I ever spoke to her.
That night, I dreamed of her for the first time.
She was standing barefoot in my bedroom, her ribbon tied around her throat instead of her wrist, and she whispered my name like a curse.
I woke up sweating.
Two days later, she cornered me in the hallway.
No one else was around. The lights flickered — one of them always did near the music wing.
She reached into her bag and held something out to me.
The notebook.
"I believe this is yours now," she said.
I stared at it. "You knew I took it."
"I let you." Her voice was soft, deadly. "You're not the first one who thinks watching someone gives them control."
Then she walked away.
And just like that, the game began....