The hallways smelled of fresh paint and pencil shavings. Sophie clutched her sketchbook to her chest, weaving through the tide of students returning from summer break. The school had always felt like a maze of noise to her—lockers clanging, laughter echoing—but today felt different, like a blank canvas.
She slid into her homeroom seat near the window. Outside, early September sunlight warmed the courtyard where students spilled in from the buses. Sophie brushed her dark hair behind her ear and opened her sketchbook, sketching the rows of sneakers, the bend of someone's backpack strap—tiny details she used to feel invisible in.
"Still drawing everything, huh?" Maya's familiar voice cut through the noise.Sophie smiled. Her best friend plopped down next to her, wearing a bright yellow hoodie that stood out like a sunbeam. Maya was Sophie's opposite—loud, bold, and fearless.
"Yeah," Sophie said. "It's how I survive this place."
Maya leaned in conspiratorially. "New kid alert." She tilted her chin toward the door.
Sophie looked up. A tall boy had stepped into the classroom, scanning the room with a guarded expression. He had dark hair falling slightly into his eyes and carried a guitar case slung across his back—odd for a student here, where music club had been defunct for years.
He hesitated only a second before choosing a seat two rows away. Sophie's pencil stilled on the page.
"Bet he's mysterious," Maya whispered, grinning.
Sophie rolled her eyes but couldn't look away. The boy opened a notebook and began scribbling something quickly, as though trying to catch a thought before it disappeared.
The bell rang. Their teacher, Mrs. Caldwell, introduced the class to the new semester and rattled off upcoming assignments. Sophie tried to focus, but her gaze kept flicking toward the boy. She caught the edge of a tune humming from him—so soft only she seemed to hear.
At lunch, Maya dragged Sophie to their usual table. "So? What did you think of him?" she asked between bites of apple.
Sophie shrugged, sketching idly on a napkin. "He's just… different. That guitar case. No one here even plays."
Maya smirked. "You should talk to him. You like 'different.'"
"I don't even know his name."
As if on cue, the boy walked past their table, tray in hand. He nodded politely at them. "Hey," he said, his voice low but warm.
"Hi," Maya replied brightly. Sophie murmured a greeting, cheeks warm.
He sat at a far table alone. Sophie's pencil moved before she realized it, sketching his profile: the angle of his jaw, the concentration in his eyes. She shaded the lines gently.
Maya peeked at the napkin and whispered, "Oh, you're in trouble."
Sophie tried not to smile, but something about the boy—the quiet, the guitar—felt like the start of a story she hadn't dared to imagine before.