The week dragged on with an uneasy rhythm. Everywhere Amara went, the rumors seemed to follow her—hushed whispers in the hallway, quick glances in class, the not-so-subtle laughter that bubbled up when she walked past groups of cheerleaders. She told herself to ignore it, to bury her head in her sketchbook and let the storm pass. But the truth was harder to escape.
On Thursday afternoon, she lingered in the art room again, waiting for the last of the students to clear out. The room always smelled faintly of paint thinner and chalk, and the big windows let in a honey-colored light that turned the walls soft and warm. This was the only place she felt safe—where the noise of Starlight High couldn't reach her.
She opened her sketchbook to a fresh page, pencil hovering uncertainly above the paper. Her mind should have been filled with lines, shapes, shadows. Instead, it was filled with him.
Ryan Cole.
His smile kept finding its way into her drawings—unintentional, almost sneaky. She'd start sketching something else, and then suddenly the curve of his jaw or the tilt of his eyes would appear on the page, like her hand had a mind of its own.
She shook her head, frustrated, and erased the unfinished portrait. Stop thinking about him. Stop.
The door creaked open.
Amara's heart lurched. She didn't have to look up to know who it was.
"Hey," Ryan said, stepping inside. His voice carried that same casual warmth, but softer this time, like he knew he was intruding on something fragile.
Amara closed her sketchbook quickly. "You can't keep sneaking in here. People already think—"
"That we're dating?" He finished her sentence with a half-smile, dropping his bag onto a chair. "Yeah. I heard."
Her cheeks burned. "It's not funny."
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "I didn't say it was. But if they're going to talk anyway… why should you care so much?"
"Because," she said sharply, surprising herself with the force of her own voice. "I don't want to be part of their games. I don't want to be some rumor people toss around."
Ryan's grin faded, replaced by something quieter, more serious. He walked closer, leaning against the table across from her. "I get that. But maybe… you don't always have to hide, either."
The words hung between them, heavy and strange. Amara dropped her gaze, fiddling with her pencil. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me," he said gently.
For a long moment, Amara didn't answer. How could she? How could she put into words the way she'd built her whole life on being invisible—because being invisible meant safe? Because attention led to judgment, and judgment led to hurt.
Instead, she changed the subject, pushing her sketchbook toward him. "You wanted to know what I was drawing?"
Ryan raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. He slid the sketchbook closer, flipping through the pages slowly. His expression shifted with each drawing—sometimes a small smile, sometimes quiet awe.
"These are… amazing," he murmured.
Amara bit her lip, uneasy under his gaze. "They're just sketches."
"No." He looked up, his eyes steady on hers. "They're pieces of you."
Her breath caught. No one had ever said something like that to her before. Most people barely noticed her drawings, let alone understood them.
Ryan turned another page and stopped. It was a half-finished sketch of a boy—his features familiar, though not yet complete. His jawline, his hair, the suggestion of a smile. Recognition flickered in his eyes.
"Is this… me?" he asked softly.
Amara's stomach flipped. "No! I mean—yes. Maybe. I don't know." Her words tumbled out too fast. She wanted to snatch the sketchbook away, to erase the evidence of what she hadn't meant to admit.
But Ryan didn't laugh. He didn't tease. Instead, he studied the drawing carefully, his thumb brushing the edge of the page. "You made me look… different."
"Different how?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Like I'm someone else. Someone… better." His tone was almost sad.
Amara frowned. "You think you're not good enough?"
Ryan gave a short laugh, but it was hollow. "Everyone thinks they know me, Amara. The basketball star. The guy with the perfect life. But that's just… what they want to see. Sometimes I wish I could be someone else—someone who doesn't have to live up to everyone's expectations."
His honesty startled her. For the first time, she saw cracks in the golden boy image. Beneath the confidence and charm, there was weight—pressure pressing down on him in ways she hadn't imagined.
"You don't have to be what they want," she said quietly.
Ryan looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Maybe. But it's hard to believe that when the whole world is watching."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the fluorescent lights. For once, Amara didn't feel invisible. Ryan saw her—truly saw her—and that scared her more than anything.
Finally, he closed the sketchbook and slid it back to her. "Thanks for showing me. Really."
She nodded, unsure what to say.
As he slung his bag over his shoulder, he paused at the door. "You know… if you ever wanted to hang out outside of school, I wouldn't say no."
Her heart stuttered. "Hang out?"
"Yeah." He smiled faintly. "Maybe grab a coffee. Or, I don't know, whatever you like to do when you're not hiding in here."
Amara's throat went dry. She wanted to say yes, wanted to know what it felt like to step into his world even for a moment. But the weight of the whispers, the stares, the rumors clung to her.
"I'll… think about it," she said at last.
Ryan's grin widened, and he gave a little nod before disappearing down the hallway.
When the room fell silent again, Amara pressed her hand against her chest, feeling the wild rhythm of her heartbeat.
For so long, she had lived between the lines—quiet, unseen, safe. But now, Ryan Cole was pulling her out of them, one careful step at a time.
And though she didn't want to admit it, part of her wanted to follow.