The rectangular alarm clock blared red, its repetitive beeping swarming the room.
Kara groaned at the sound and flung her arm toward the nightstand. Her slim, pale hand snapped down on the clock, silencing it instantly. The beeping stopped, leaving only the glowing red numbers—5:00 a.m.—burned into the screen.
She let her arm fall back and covered her eyes, fingers dragging slowly across her face as she pushed her raven-black hair away. After a moment, she pried her tired, lifeless eyes open.
Silence followed. Pure silence—just for a heartbeat.
Then Kara sat up on the small mattress placed in the corner of her room. Her thin white blanket, no thicker than a sheet of paper, slid off her shoulders and pooled around her waist. Black curls spilled over her narrow shoulders as she rubbed at her sore eyes, trying to wake herself.
The sun hadn't risen yet. Outside, a raging snowstorm howled against the walls, the wind screaming through the darkness.
With a quiet sigh, Kara pushed the blanket aside and stood. She slept in nothing but a worn bra and underwear—pajamas were a luxury she couldn't afford. A luxury that didn't want her, just like her parents.
She moved robotically into her bathroom. It barely fit a grimy sink, a cracked mirror, and an old toilet wedged beside it. The shower—small and rusted—offered only cold water, with barely enough room to turn around.
Kara stared at her reflection. Plump bow-shaped lips set in a straight line.
The idea of smiling—of laughing—felt foreign.
She grabbed her old toothbrush and squeezed the last of the toothpaste onto the bristles. I have so much to get done today, shethought. I just want to sleep.
When she finished, Kara returned to her "wardrobe"—a metal rack beside her mattress, holding a few hangers and even fewer clothes. She pulled on her warmest outfit: a long-sleeve gray shirt, black baggy pants, and a thin fall coat layered with a scarf.
She tied her hair into a loose ponytail, strands falling gently around her face, then shoved her feet into dirty black boots meant to battle the blizzard outside.
Grabbing her torn backpack and cracked phone, Kara left for school—skipping breakfast as usual.
By the time she arrived, she was seconds away from hypothermia. Her entire body relaxed the moment she stepped into the heated building. 7:30 a.m. Thirty minutes until first-period math.
She walked the familiar halls—until she stopped.
LEAK! DO NOT CROSS!
Kara stared at the sign, irritation flickering across her face. Her eye twitched. She always took this route. A piece of her routine—small but sacred—had been cut away.
She'd have to go through the gym.
The loud, noisy, smelly gym.
Perfect. Just fucking amazing. Why does life hate me so much? It wasn't really a question—more of a bitter statement—as she walked forward, anger sharpening her stride. The closer she got, the louder the muffled screams and cheers became. Morning football practice. With the snowstorm outside, the team had been forced indoors.
Kara stopped in front of the gym doors, as if facing a challenge.
Her dark eyes narrowed. Brows furrowed. Lips pressed tight. Jaw clenched. She gripped the straps of her backpack like a child clinging to a finger and froze for a moment.
Okay. Just walk by the wall. Be the ghost you've always been.
Nobody cares. Nobody knows who you are.
They have better things to do than notice you.
With that fragile speech of self-motivation, Kara pushed open the gym door.