Emma Monroe hated Mondays.
Not because school sucked — though it usually did — but because it meant pretending for five whole days straight.
Pretending she didn't notice her mom's boyfriend's toothbrush in the bathroom.
Pretending the whispers in the hallway didn't stick to her skin like gum on sneakers.
Pretending she wasn't tired. Not just sleepy, but soul-tired. The kind of tired crying doesn't fix anymore.
She walked through the front doors of Lincoln High in her oversized hoodie and noise-canceling headphones, volume off. Not for the music — for the illusion of distance.
No one stopped her. No one said hi.
She liked it that way.
---
Art Class, 1st Period.
She sat in the back, where the sun barely reached and Mr. Harris never bothered her if she kept her head down. Her sketchbook was open, but not to the assignment. Instead, she was working on a drawing of a hand letting go of a balloon — the string slipping through crooked fingers.
> Grief doesn't arrive like thunder.
It drips. Like a leaky faucet in the middle of the night.
That line echoed in her head, but she didn't dare write it down.
"Alright, class," Mr. Harris said, strolling in with a coffee cup that looked older than the school itself. "Today we'll be starting your final semester projects. You'll be working in pairs."
Groans filled the room.
Emma's stomach sank.
> Please not someone chatty. Please not someone fake.
As if summoned by fate, the classroom door creaked open.
And in walked Ryan Carter.
Black hoodie.
Faded jeans.
Hands in his pockets like he didn't care if he stayed or left.
He didn't look around. Didn't introduce himself. Just handed Mr. Harris a slip of paper and waited. There was a faint scar on his eyebrow, a bruise fading beneath one eye, and that kind of silence around him that wasn't shy — just heavy.
Her heart did something strange — like it hiccuped.
Mr. Harris cleared his throat. "Class, this is Ryan. He's new. Transferred from…" He glanced at the slip. "Springwood High."
A few whispers followed. Springwood had a rep — rough kids, real problems.
Emma didn't care.
She'd stopped believing rumors the day her dad became one.
---
Mr. Harris scanned the room. "Ryan, take a seat next to Emma. Back row."
Emma froze.
You've got to be kidding.
Ryan walked toward her. Slow. Steady. Like he didn't care where he landed — just that he didn't trip on the way.
He slid into the seat beside her without a word.
She stared at her sketchbook.
He stared at the clock.
Silence stretched.
And for reasons she couldn't explain, she noticed the way he tapped his fingers against his knee — like counting down to something.
---
After a minute, he leaned over slightly and asked, "You good at this art thing?"
His voice was quiet. Rough around the edges.
She didn't look up. "I get by."
"Hm." He nodded. "Cool."
Back to silence.
But her fingers suddenly felt warmer than they had a minute ago.
And for the first time in months…
she wasn't sure if she wanted to be invisible anymore.