Samantha adjusted her glasses for the fifth time that morning—not because they were slipping, but because her fingers needed somewhere to go. Nerves had turned tactile. The school gate loomed in soft, peeling blue against a backdrop of tamarind trees and quiet suburbia. Morning mist clung to the pavement like breath held too long.
She looked out of place, and she knew it.
Her face, clean and bare, glowed faintly in the dull light of seven thirty. Not radiant in the high-definition sense, but softly lit—like candlelight through thin silk. No makeup. Just skin. A little flushed from the morning heat, the dew of humidity gathering gently along her jawline. Her features were not symmetrical, not sculpted—but they moved in harmony with something deeper. The curve of her mouth suggested withheld laughter, or maybe a thought she hadn't yet allowed herself to speak.
The oversized spectacles didn't hide her—it was the way she wore them, without apology, that made them part of her mystery. Her blouse was modest, collar buttoned, sleeves to the wrist. But the way it clung near her waist as she moved betrayed a softness in her posture, a grace not learned but inherited. Long skirts, low heels, deliberate stillness.
If anyone looked closely—if they lingered past the first glance—they might notice the shadow at her collarbone, the slight lift of her chin when spoken to, the near-ceremonial way she carried a stack of books, fingers curled just so. There was a kind of beauty in her restraint, the kind that asked for patience to be truly seen.
Samantha wasn't conventionally beautiful, but something about her hinted at another version waiting quietly behind the curtain. Like Dakota Johnson minus the effortless confidence—more unfinished, more vulnerable, but no less striking.
Her past lingered like perfume—faint and traceable. A high school relationship that outlived its magic but not its meaning. She had given her body out of curiosity and what felt like infinite love at sixteen. Now, at twenty-three, the breakup sat inside her like a closed book she didn't reread, only remembered. He had drowned in his own masculinity. She had floated away.
"Miss Samantha Lim?" a voice said brightly.
She turned. A woman in her late forties waved with the kind of friendliness that felt practiced but genuine. "I'm Madam Rosnah—I'll be showing you around today."
Samantha offered a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."
The school was larger than expected—long corridors lined with green metal railings, classrooms with windows that opened too wide, like mouths mid-yawn. Students in neatly pressed pinafores darted past, curious glances tucked inside hushed giggles. All girls. All energy.
As Madam Rosnah led her past the teachers' lounge, Samantha absorbed details like rain—soft, unnoticed, but soaking through.
"Over here's the principal's office. She's quite stern, but fair. Loves punctuality—especially from new staff," Rosnah added with a wink.
The principal, Puan Zaiton, greeted her with a nod and the kind of handshake that measured grip strength and backbone in one go. There were no pleasantries, just expectations and a well-thumbed copy of the school handbook.
The tour continued. Staffroom. Science labs. Prayer room. Discipline board. "And this," Rosnah said, gesturing, "is your class. Form Four Lily. They're… spirited."
Samantha peeked in. Girls stared back, bold and silent. A few smirks. One girl in the corner—lips painted just faintly enough to break the rules without shattering them—held her gaze.
"She's one to watch," Rosnah murmured, sensing the moment. "Nadra. Smart. Difficult. Beautiful. And knows it."
From the corner desk, Nadra's gaze broke its usual lazy rhythm. It didn't linger openly—it dipped, skimmed, paused. Something in her pulse snagged when she saw the new teacher. She couldn't explain it, not exactly. Not yet. But there was something different in this one's softness.
Not flirtation. Not innocence. But an absence of pretense. A rawness, barely framed.
She looked like someone who didn't know how beautiful she was—but might discover it in the right light, with the right person. And Nadra, usually so unimpressed, so practiced in knowing who to provoke and who to ignore—found herself swallowing once, too quickly.
Samantha turned slightly, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear.
And Nadra, for a second too long, forgot what she was supposed to be smirking about.
They moved on. Past the canteen, where warmth smelled like fried noodles and adolescence. Past giggles, shrieks, and chalk dust in the air.
Samantha felt herself soften. Not fully. Just a little.
Something was blooming beneath the surface. Not love. Not desire. Just… awakening.
She didn't know it yet, but the eyes that followed her—girls and women alike—weren't all curious. Some were searching. Some saw the quiet kind of beauty that speaks loudest in silence. And one of them, somewhere behind a classroom door or a coffee-stained lesson plan, would start wondering what Samantha looked like with her hair down and her guard lowered.