High school smells like burnt toast and broken dreams.
Burnt toast because the cafeteria insists on murdering bread every single morning, and broken dreams because… well, it's high school.
The hallways at Lincoln High aren't movie material. No glamorous lockers with glossy finishes, no perfect cheerleaders flipping their hair in slow motion. It's mostly chipped paint, gum fossilized under desks since the '90s, and teenagers pretending their lives are bigger than they really are. Including me. Especially me.
I'm Elena. Seventeen. Average grades, average life, average face—at least that's what the mirror tells me every morning. I'm the kind of girl you sit next to in biology but forget the second the bell rings. Invisible by choice, maybe? Or maybe just invisible, period.
My locker door groans open, the hinges squeaking like it's been through trauma. Inside, there's a mess of textbooks, folded-up notes I never answered, and a half-empty bag of pretzels from God-knows-when. I'm fishing out my notebook when—
"Elle!"
The slam nearly takes my hand off. My best friend, Marcie, leans against the lockers with a grin so wide it belongs on a toothpaste commercial. She has the personality of three Red Bulls and a daredevil streak that'll probably land her in jail before she's twenty.
"You look like you're about to write a eulogy," she says, inspecting me like I'm a crime scene. "It's Monday, not a funeral."
"Same thing," I mumble.
She throws her head back and laughs, loud enough to turn a few heads. That's the thing about Marcie—she makes me sound funnier than I really am. Sometimes I wonder if she sees a version of me I can't even imagine existing.
We walk down the hall together, weaving through crowds. Posters for prom are taped everywhere, fluttering under the blasts of the air conditioner. Starry Night theme, cheesy glow-in-the-dark stars. Everyone's buzzing about who's asking who.
Marcie elbows me. "So, prom. Are you finally going with a date this year, or are you planning on being my arm candy again?"
"I don't think 'date' is in my vocabulary," I reply, shoving my notebook into my bag.
She narrows her eyes. "Translation: you're still hopelessly crushing on someone you'll never talk to."
I don't answer. Because silence, apparently, is louder than words when you're guilty.
The bell rings, sharp and metallic, echoing through the halls. Students scatter like cockroaches at the flip of a light switch. Marcie winks, then disappears into her math class, leaving me with the chaos.
I head to English, sliding into my usual back-row seat by the window. The desk wobbles every time I breathe too hard, but it's my spot. My safe corner.
Outside, the football field stretches endlessly under the morning sun, and for a second, I imagine myself running straight across it, past the bleachers, through the gates, and into a life bigger than this town. Bigger than me.
But then the teacher starts droning about Shakespeare, and the fantasy dies its dramatic little death.
I rest my chin on my hand, eyes drifting to the messy scrawl in my notebook margins: random doodles, lyrics I'll never finish, half-baked dreams of leaving this place behind. And even though nothing is different today, I can't shake the thought pulsing in my head, louder than the clock ticking at the front of the room:
There has to be more than this.
English class is supposed to be my safe zone, but today it feels like a holding cell. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow glow that makes even the confident kids look washed-out. The teacher drones on about Shakespeare's Hamlet, his voice flat, like someone pressed repeat on a boring audiobook.
"To be, or not to be…" he recites, eyes scanning the class like he expects one of us to jump in and solve Hamlet's existential crisis. Spoiler: no one does.
I doodle in the margin of my notebook instead—messy sketches of stars, arrows, and a line that says: what if leaving is the only way to stay alive?
Marcie is two rows ahead, passing folded notes to a boy whose name I've forgotten. He's laughing, shoulders shaking, trying to hide it. She's practically allergic to silence.
I, on the other hand, have made silence into an art form. It's easier to keep my thoughts to myself. Especially the ones that sound like I don't belong here.
"Miss Carter?" The teacher's voice snaps through my daydream.
My head jerks up. "Yeah?"
He frowns. "I asked what Hamlet's central conflict was."
I swallow, buying time. My brain screams: don't say the truth. Don't say, his central conflict is that he feels like the world is crumbling and he has no idea who he's supposed to be anymore, which is basically me every morning when my alarm goes off.
Instead, I mutter, "Uh… he can't decide what to do?"
The class chuckles. The teacher sighs like I've personally ruined his career.
I sink lower in my seat, cheeks burning. Great. Another tally mark for my invisible scoreboard of Elena Carter's Daily Embarrassments.
I glance out the window, chasing distraction. The football team is running drills outside, all muscle and sweat in the September sun. Their voices carry faintly through the glass—shouts, laughter, whistles. I recognize one of them without meaning to.
Ryan Carter. Senior. Tall, athletic, the kind of boy who doesn't just walk into a room but rearranges it with his presence. Everyone knows his name. I don't even try to pretend otherwise.
He's laughing at something one of his teammates says, head thrown back, eyes bright even from this distance. And suddenly, the classroom feels ten degrees warmer.
Marcie's words from earlier echo in my head: Translation: you're still hopelessly crushing on someone you'll never talk to.
She's not wrong. I've perfected the art of noticing Ryan without ever stepping close enough to matter. He's a universe, and I'm a star too faint to even get noticed.
The teacher clears his throat, pulling me back to reality. I force my gaze away from the window, back to Hamlet, back to the scribbles in my notebook.
Still, one thought hums underneath the noise of the classroom, steady and relentless:
What if this is it? What if I never get out, never say the words I should, never live a life bigger than these walls?
The bell rings before I can answer.
The cafeteria is chaos on steroids.
Trays clatter, soda cans hiss open, somebody's screaming about the Wi-Fi being down, and the entire place smells like pizza that died a slow death in the oven.
I clutch my tray—one slice of questionable pepperoni and an apple bruised enough to qualify as injured—and scan the sea of tables. Everyone has their place, like animals in some weird teenage ecosystem: the jocks near the windows, the theater kids by the vending machines, the nerds huddled around laptops, and the girls who could pass for Instagram models sitting dead-center like they own the world.
I don't fit in any of those. So, I slide into my usual spot across from Marcie, who's already halfway through her fries.
"You took forever," she says with her mouth full.
"I was contemplating whether food poisoning was worth it."
She laughs, snatching the apple off my tray like it belongs to her now. "This looks like it survived a war."
"Exactly my point."
We fall into the rhythm of small talk—teachers who assign too much homework, how prom posters are uglier this year than last, the usual cafeteria soundtrack. But then, like clockwork, Marcie leans forward, her eyes gleaming with the kind of trouble I've learned to fear.
"So," she says, dragging out the word, "guess who's been talking about Ryan Carter lately?"
My heart stumbles. I keep my face neutral, poking at the pizza with my fork like it's suddenly fascinating. "Who?"
"Half the junior girls. And probably some of the seniors, too. Word is, he's single again."
I roll my eyes, trying way too hard to sound unaffected. "Why do you even care? You don't like him."
"I don't," she admits, licking salt off her fingers. "But you do."
The fork slips in my hand, clattering against the tray. I shoot her a glare, but Marcie just smirks, victorious.
"I don't," I lie, the word tasting weak.
"You so do. You practically broke your neck looking out the window at practice today."
Heat creeps up my neck. I hate that she notices things I try so hard to hide. "I was… bored. And he was there. Big deal."
"Big deal is right," she teases. "Come on, Elle. Everyone notices Ryan. He's like… gravity. You can't not."
I hate that she's right. Ryan Carter isn't just another senior. He's the kind of boy who makes hallways feel like runways, who draws attention without trying. He's a name whispered in gossip, a laugh that carries down the halls. And yeah, maybe I've noticed him more than most.
But what's the point of admitting it? He doesn't know I exist.
"You're wasting your crush," Marcie continues, dunking a fry in ketchup. "If you don't say something soon, someone else will."
I snort. "What do you expect me to do? Walk up to him and say, 'Hi, I've been invisibly in love with you for two years, want to grab a burger?'"
"Not invisibly," she says with a grin. "You're not as subtle as you think."
I bury my face in my hands. "Remind me why I'm friends with you again?"
"Because I'm the only one who tells you the truth."
The thing is, she's not wrong. But admitting it out loud feels like carving open a wound I've kept hidden. Ryan Carter is safe as long as he's untouchable. He can stay this perfect, faraway crush, the boy I imagine when I'm daydreaming about a life bigger than this cafeteria.
Still, my gaze betrays me. Across the room, he's sitting with his teammates, laughing so hard his shoulders shake. He tosses his head back, eyes crinkling at the corners, and it feels like the whole cafeteria tilts toward him.
I snap my attention back to my tray before Marcie can notice.
"Uh-huh," she says knowingly. "Totally not interested."
I sigh, defeated. "Fine. Maybe I think he's… I don't know. Interesting."
"Interesting?" She laughs so loud people turn to look. "Elle, he's not a museum exhibit. He's hot."
I cover my face with both hands this time. "Can we not do this here?"
"Relax. I'm not going to announce it on the intercom," she says, grinning. "But honestly, you need to stop hiding behind your notebook scribbles and do something real. For once."
I don't answer. Because if I open my mouth, the truth might spill out:
I don't just think he's hot. I think he's magnetic. I think he's dangerous. I think he's everything I've convinced myself I'll never have.
And maybe—just maybe—I like it that way.
The bell rings before Marcie can push further, saving me. She dumps her tray and links her arm with mine, steering us toward our next class.
As we weave through the crowded cafeteria doors, I steal one last glance over my shoulder.
Ryan doesn't look up. Of course he doesn't. Why would he?
But somehow, that single glance feels like a promise I can't name yet.
The gym always smells like sweat and floor polish, even when it's empty. But today it's anything but empty.
Students line the bleachers, some pretending to care about the basketball scrimmage while really just scrolling on their phones. A few girls in cheer uniforms are gossiping loudly, voices carrying over the squeak of sneakers and the whistle blasts.
I shouldn't even be here. Gym is an elective I signed up for solely because it sounded easier than advanced chemistry. Spoiler: it's not easier. It's just more public humiliation.
I sit cross-legged on the wooden floor, clutching my water bottle like it might save me from social disaster. Across the court, the team is running drills. And there he is.
Ryan Carter.
Not the rumor, not the casual mention in cafeteria conversations. The actual person. Six feet of sweat-slick confidence, his gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders in ways that make the cheerleaders giggle behind their hands.
He moves like gravity doesn't apply to him. Quick steps, sharp turns, the ball an extension of his hands. When he scores, the sound of the ball swishing through the net echoes like punctuation.
I try not to stare, but my eyes betray me.
His laugh carries across the court, deep and unbothered. He slaps a teammate's shoulder, shoving him playfully, and it's so casual, so effortless, like he was born knowing how to fill a room without trying.
I take a sip from my water bottle, mostly to hide the fact that my mouth has gone dry.
Beside me, Marcie leans in, whispering, "You're drooling."
"I am not."
"You so are. Look at your face. You're practically in love with his biceps."
I glare at her, cheeks flaming. "Shut up."
She smirks, unbothered. "Relax. Everyone's watching him. You're not special."
But that's the problem, isn't it? I want to be. I want him to look up, just once, and see me the way I see him. Not as another face in the crowd, not as background noise. As someone worth noticing.
The whistle blows again, and the team jogs off the court toward the benches. Ryan grabs a water bottle, tipping it back in one long drink. For a split second, his gaze sweeps across the bleachers.
My stomach flips.
Did he just—?
No. He didn't. His eyes slide past, settling on someone else. A girl with glossy hair and a laugh like she's auditioning for a perfume commercial. She waves. He waves back.
I look down at my sneakers, suddenly fascinated by the frayed laces. The sting in my chest is stupid, irrational. I don't even know him. He doesn't know me. But still, the distance between us feels like a rejection I never signed up for.
The coach calls for everyone to switch partners for drills. Ryan jogs back onto the court, muscles flexing under the gym lights. The cheerleaders giggle again.
Marcie nudges me. "Honestly, Elle. You've got it bad."
I groan, covering my face with my hands. "Please stop narrating my humiliation."
"Fine," she says, grinning. "But one day, when you're married to him, I'll remind you of this exact moment. The drool, the tragic sighs, the whole thing."
I peek through my fingers, back at the court. Ryan dribbles, passes, scores again. He looks untouchable. Like he belongs to a different world entirely.
And maybe he does.
The final whistle blows, echoing through the gym. The players gather their things, laughing, tossing towels at each other. Students spill off the bleachers, heading for the locker rooms.
I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder, telling myself to walk out without looking back. But of course, I do.
One last glance, just to burn it into memory.
Ryan is standing near the bench, head tilted back, pouring water over his face. Droplets cling to his jaw, catching the light. And for a second—just a second—it feels like the world pauses around him.
I take a breath so sharp it hurts.
Marcie tugs my arm. "Come on, Elle."
I let her pull me out of the gym, my sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. And even though I don't believe in fate, even though I know I'm just another invisible girl in the crowd—something in me whispers that this moment matters.
That noticing him was only the beginning.
Ryan Mitchell had a way of walking into a room and immediately owning it, like the oxygen shifted just to keep him comfortable. His voice wasn't loud, but it had that lazy arrogance that made you want to listen, even if you hated every word.
By the time Elena entered her senior year, she already knew every rumor.
Ryan Mitchell had kissed half the cheer squad before Halloween. He had been seen sneaking out of his math teacher's niece's car during prom week. He was the boy who leaned against lockers with that smirk—like he knew you would stare, like he wanted you to. And maybe you hated that you did.
But the thing was, none of this made Elena like him less. If anything, the contradictions fascinated her. He wasn't the straight-A golden boy, not the captain of any sports team. He was just… Ryan. The kind of boy mothers warned you about, and still, daughters dreamed about.
Elena sat at the back of the cafeteria, pretending to scroll through her phone, but really her eyes were glued to him. He was sitting with two of his friends, laughing so hard his head tilted back, his hand smacking the table. There was a girl on his lap—a brunette from the theater group—who looked like she had already lost herself in the idea of him.
And the worst part? Ryan didn't look like he cared. Not about her, not about the way half the cafeteria stared. His fingers drummed against the girl's thigh absentmindedly, like she was just another background detail.
"El, stop staring."
Her best friend Tessa slid into the seat across from her, her tray clattering. "You look like you're about to write him a sonnet."
Elena's cheeks flamed. "I'm not staring."
Tessa raised a brow. "You're in love with a walking cautionary tale. Everyone knows Ryan Mitchell doesn't do relationships. He does… experiments."
Elena wanted to argue, but Ryan's laugh carried across the room again, wrapping around her like a song she couldn't stop humming.
It wasn't just the way he looked—though that was impossible to ignore. It was the contradiction: the playboy behavior with the sad eyes he sometimes couldn't hide. Like under the mess of girls and parties, there was something broken. Something real.
Later that week, Elena got her first close-up of the Ryan everyone talked about.
It was at a Friday night game. Not that he played—Ryan wasn't the kind of guy who showed up in uniform. He was the kind who showed up with a different girl every time, leaning against the bleachers like he had better places to be.
Elena was sitting two rows down, pretending to be invested in the game, when the sound of Ryan's voice cut through the noise.
"I told you, Jessica, I'm not looking for serious."
Elena froze. She couldn't help but look.
The girl he was talking to—Jessica, a junior with glossy black hair—looked seconds away from tears. "Then what the hell was last weekend? You said—"
Ryan shrugged, and that smirk curled on his lips. "I say a lot of things. Doesn't mean you should believe them."
Elena's chest tightened. It wasn't just the cruelty of his words—it was how easily he said them, how comfortable he was with breaking hearts like it was just part of his daily routine.
Jessica stormed away, mascara streaking down her face. Ryan didn't chase her. He didn't even look guilty. Instead, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, the flame briefly illuminating his face. His eyes caught Elena's for a split second.
And in that second, she swore she saw it—the sadness again. The part of him no one else seemed to notice.
The game roared on, the crowd cheered, but Elena's heartbeat was louder. She didn't know if she wanted to hate him or save him.
By Monday, the cafeteria buzzed with new rumors. Ryan had been spotted leaving a party with someone else—someone new. His name was tossed around like currency, every detail exaggerated.
Tessa leaned across the lunch table. "See? This is what I mean. He's not boyfriend material, El. He's a disaster. A gorgeous one, but still."
Elena pushed peas around her tray, her throat tight. She wanted to tell Tessa she didn't care, that maybe she liked disasters. But the words stayed trapped inside her.
Ryan Mitchell was chaos, wrapped in charm, dipped in danger. And Elena knew—deep down, in the part of her that ignored every red flag—that she was already standing too close to the fire.