The problem with routines is they stop feeling like comfort and start feeling like chains.
I brush my hair the same way every morning - ten strokes on each side, center part, and a bun. I use the same comb, the one with the missing tooth. Same skirt, same blouse, same socks folded just above my ankle bone. I don't wear makeup. I don't wear jewelry. Not even the simple gold studs my aunt gave me when I was ten. I told her I lost them. I didn't. I just couldn't explain why they made my ears feel like they were burning.
My uniform isn't about fashion. It's about safety. Predictability. Silence.
The halls are too loud. Every step echoes. I time mine between the others so I don't sound like I'm announcing myself. I take the long way around the main stairwell so I don't have to pass by the bulletin board where the popular kids lean like it's a throne room.
Some days I wish someone would talk to me.
Most days I'm glad they don't.
My seat in class is always second row from the back, by the window. I like watching clouds more than people. They move without asking permission. They shift, dissolve, re-form - and no one tells them they're wrong for it.
Today, the teacher's voice is background static. I try to focus. I really do. But my pencil wanders. My notebook fills with drawings instead of notes. Wings again. Always wings. I think I'm obsessed with the idea of flight - not the soaring kind, just... leaving. Quietly. Without needing anyone's approval.
The bell rings. I flinch. I always do.
In the hallway, someone bumps my shoulder. Not on purpose, I think. They don't look back. I grip my sketchbook harder. Pretend I don't care.
I find a spot beneath the stairwell during free period. It smells like dust and gum and faintly like old socks, but no one comes here. That makes it sacred. I open my book. Draw myself again, only this time my eyes are open and defiant. Just on the page. Just here.
Footsteps echo. My breath stills. I curl in tighter, preparing for the sound to pass.
But it doesn't.
Someone sits a few feet away. I don't look up.
Silence stretches like a held breath.
And then, a soft voice: "Do you always draw wings?"
It's him. The mango boy.
My pencil pauses.
I don't answer.
He doesn't press. Doesn't shift closer. Just stays.
I don't know what rule this breaks, but somehow it doesn't feel wrong. It just feels... new.
I draw another feather, darker this time.
He sits in silence, and I let him.
We don't speak for the rest of the period. But when the bell rings again, I find myself wishing the silence had lasted longer.
Later that day, I sketch again. This time, I draw two figures under a stairwell. One with wings made of shadow. The other with hands in his pockets, gaze steady but quiet. I don't title the drawing. I don't have to.
I don't see him again the rest of the day. I'm not surprised. People like him exist in slivers. They touch the edge of your world just long enough to make you wonder if you imagined it.
At home, I sit in my room with the lights off. I stare at the ceiling. Think about how it felt to be seen, even a little. Think about the way he didn't demand anything from me. Not attention. Not explanation. Just... presence.
That night, I brush my hair twelve strokes on each side. Same motions. Same rhythm. But when I look at myself in the mirror, I don't feel the same.
Something has shifted.
I can't name it. But it's there - a tremble in the fabric of my rules.
And maybe, just maybe, I don't want to disappear forever.