MIRA'S POV
I return from the kitchen with two bowls of burnt popcorn, its smell taking over our tiny sitting room like a bad decision I can't undo. I drop the bowl onto the table, ignoring Ayla's side-eye as a few blackened kernels bounce out like survivors of a failed experiment.
"Okay," I say, flopping beside her on the couch. "Start from the beginning. And I mean the beginning, not when she ruined your science fair. I want the full tea, not just the milk. I'm ready to sacrifice my sleep for this drama that's about to unfold in your life, so spill it all so I don't miss a single detail."
Ayla shoots me a look that clearly says, Do I really have to?
I raise a brow right back. Yes, you do.
I shove the bowl toward her. "Here. Burnt popcorn and trauma. My specialty. Eat, so you'll have strength to narrate."
Ayla's lips twitch into the faintest smile. "You're impossible, Mira."
"Good," I say, matching her smile. "At least I'm something to you."
She hesitates then, fingers tightening around the bowl. The room falls quiet… the kind of quiet that feels like it's holding its breath.
"You know…" she says slowly, "some people enter your life quietly. They just… slip in."
I tilt my head. "And her?"
"She didn't," Ayla whispers. She looks down at her lap, a faint smile tugging at her lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "She crashed into mine like a storm."
The fan hums louder. The room blurs around her.
And just like that…
AYLA'S POV
I still remember the smell of that morning… polish, paper, and too much perfume.
I was sixteen then. Pretty, innocent, and far too hopeful.
The gate of Solaria Girls Academy, the pride of New York… the kind of boarding school that made Ivy League campuses look like playgrounds… rose before me like something out of a dream: tall, gleaming, and cold. The kind of place that didn't just open for people like me.
Parents in designer coats were saying goodbye to daughters wearing diamond-studded watches. Chauffeurs lined up at the entrance, unloading Louis Vuitton luggage like trophies.
I stood there clutching my worn suitcase… the pink fading at the edges, one wheel squeaking in protest… and wondered if they'd kick me out just for lowering the property value. At that moment, I rethought to myself, "Am I really lucky to get a free scholarship to study in this school, or am I just here as a reminder to these rich kids that poor people still exist in the world?"
I stood at the gate for a few minutes, breathing in rich-people air and admiring the life of the wealthy before finally stepping in.
Inside, everything gleamed. Marble floors. Gold-plated signs. Trophy shelves that stretched forever. Even the air smelled rich… like old money, polished pride, and quiet privilege. You could smell the money here. And trust me, money had a scent.
Girls in crisp blazers brushed past, laughing in accents that made my name sound too ordinary. Their shoes clicked in unison, their hair tied like they had a personal stylist hiding in their dorm.
Me? I was just the scholarship girl from Lima, Ohio… a small-town transplant dropped into New York's most expensive fairytale.
I went straight to the teachers' office to submit my transfer and scholarship confirmation. My voice was small, my palms sweaty as I handed the form to the teacher on duty. She smiled kindly, then told me to wait while she got ready to take me to class.
I was from Lima, Ohio… just an ordinary small-town girl who somehow got admitted to Solaria on a full scholarship. But after my father passed away a few days before resumption, I'd had to delay my start. Coming here late already felt like walking into a party everyone else had been dancing at for years.
When the teacher was ready, she gestured for me to follow. My shoes squeaked too loudly on the spotless floor, announcing me before I could even speak.
The classroom door opened, and thirty faces turned toward me.
"Everyone," the teacher said with a practiced smile, "this is our new transfer student, Ayla Davul. She'll be joining us from today."
They all turned…
Some curious.
Some blank.
Some already judging before I even opened my mouth.
"Wow, she's so pretty," someone murmured.
"Look at those hazel eyes, that long brown hair cascading over her… she is pretty."
"Oh no, Sophie's beauty title might be in danger."
"From where, though?" another whispered. "Definitely not from the city."
"Look at her hair… she's kinda cute."
The teacher smiled encouragingly. "Go ahead, dear. Introduce yourself."
I gripped my bag strap tighter. "Hi. I'm Ayla Davul, from Lima, Ohio. It's… nice to meet y'all," I said softly.
The word y'all slipped out naturally… too soft, too homey.
A ripple of laughter spread through the class. Not cruel at first… just amused. But it grew. Louder. Snickering.
"From Lima, Ohio? In Solaria?" someone giggled. "Guess they're letting anyone in now."
I stood there frozen, heat crawling up my neck.
And that's when I saw her.
She sat at the very back, near the window. Long black hair that shimmered under sunlight, a face too perfect for sixteen. Beautiful… but not the soft kind of beautiful. Sharp, commanding. Handsome, almost. She sat like she owned the room… like even the air had to ask permission to move around her.
While everyone else laughed, she didn't. She just smirked… slow, deliberate… like she'd just found something amusing.
"All right, that's enough," the teacher cut in, and the class quieted. "Settle down."
The teacher's gaze scanned the room. "Looks like the only empty seat left is beside Elena. Go ahead, Ayla."
Whispers rippled again.
"Oh no, poor girl."
"She's sitting next to her?"
"She's doomed."
I didn't understand what they meant. I just smiled politely, walked over, and sat down.
Up close, she was even more stunning… the kind of beauty that's more dangerous than soft. Her hair caught the light like silk, her high cheekbones framed perfect posture, and her pen glided with precision. Everything about her screamed: don't talk to me unless you dare.
"Hi," I whispered.
No response.
"Hello… I'm Ayla," I tried again, forcing a small smile.
She looked up… just once. Her gaze met mine, cold, assessing, unbothered. The kind of look that makes your spine straighten on instinct.
Then she simply turned a page in her book… smooth, graceful… and went back to writing, her disinterest as sharp as a blade.
I swallowed hard, turning back to the board, pretending her silence didn't sting. Pretending I wasn't already drowning.