The morning air bit at Jade's cheeks as she stepped out of her house, the kind of chill that made her grateful for the extra sweater she'd stuffed into her bag at the last minute.
She tugged the collar higher around her neck and started walking toward school at her usual unhurried pace—slow enough to notice the frost still clinging to the edges of leaves, fast enough not to be late.
The streets were quiet, the city still half-asleep, and she liked it that way. No rush, no crowds, just the soft crunch of her shoes on the pavement and the faint mist of her breath.
By the time she reached the school gates, the sky had lightened to a pale gray. She slipped through the entrance with twenty minutes to spare, the familiar weight of her backpack shifting against her shoulders.
The corridors were mostly empty, just a handful of early arrivals drifting like ghosts—some scrolling on phones, others yawning into their sleeves. Jade preferred these moments; the school felt less like a battlefield and more like a place that belonged to her alone.
She stopped at her locker, the metal door clanging open with a satisfying echo. Books for the day—math, literature, history—came out in neat order, along with the small notebook she carried everywhere.
She zipped her backpack shut, locked the door, and turned toward her classroom. Her steps were measured, almost deliberate, as if she were savoring the quiet before the storm of bells and voices.
When she reached the door, she paused. It was already ajar.
Jade frowned. The classroom door was never open this early. Someone must have come in ahead of her. A teacher, maybe? Or one of the overachievers who liked to claim the front row before anyone else arrived? She pushed the door wider and stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by the weak morning light filtering through the windows. Desks stood in their usual rows, chairs pushed in. And there, near the back, sat a girl.
She had her elbows on the desk, face buried deep in her hands, dark hair falling forward like a curtain. She didn't move.
For a second Jade thought she might be asleep—head down, shoulders relaxed—but there was something too still about her, too deliberate. Not quite napping. More like hiding.
Jade's stomach did a small, unexpected flip. A new girl. Here. Now. After months of the same faces, the same routines, the same predictable rhythm of the classroom.
Transfer students usually arrived at the start of terms, announced with fanfare by the teacher. This one had slipped in unnoticed, like she'd been waiting for everyone else to leave before she dared show up.
Jade stood frozen in the doorway, suddenly aware of how loud her own breathing sounded. She wasn't prepared for this. Not for the way the girl's presence seemed to shift the air in the room, making the silence thicker, more noticeable.
Carefully, she walked to her usual seat—two rows over, parallel to the stranger. As she passed, the girl stirred. Her hands slowly lowered, fingers trembling just slightly as they came away from her face.
She must have sensed someone there. Her head lifted, and for a heartbeat their eyes met.
The new girl blinked—once, twice—then fumbled for the pair of glasses resting on the desk. She slid them on, the lenses catching the light, and looked straight at Jade again. No smile. No greeting. Just a wide, startled gaze that held for too long before darting away.
Absolute silence swallowed the room.
Jade cleared her throat, the sound embarrassingly loud. She dropped into her chair, cheeks warming. Why did it feel like she'd interrupted something private? She busied herself with her bag, pulling out the novel she'd been reading—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages—and opened it to where she'd left off. The words blurred. She tried to focus, but her mind kept sliding sideways to the girl beside her.
Minutes stretched. The awkwardness settled between them like dust.
Then the bell rang, distant at first, then closer as footsteps echoed down the hall. The classroom filled quickly—laughter, chairs scraping, voices overlapping. Jade glanced sideways. The new girl had hunched lower, shoulders tight, as if trying to make herself smaller.
The others noticed her immediately.
"Hey, you're new, right?"
"What's your name?"
"Where'd you transfer from?"
"Where do you sit normally?"
Questions flew like confetti, bright and relentless. A cluster formed around her desk—curious, friendly, overwhelming. Someone offered her a spare pen. Another asked if she liked the cafeteria food. The energy was genuine, almost eager, the way people always rallied around anyone new.
But the girl shrank back. Her answers were short, mumbled, barely audible over the chatter. She kept her eyes on her hands, twisting a ring on her finger. Every smile directed at her seemed to make her flinch inward a little more.
Jade watched from her seat, book forgotten in her lap. She recognized that look—the quiet panic of someone who preferred shadows to spotlights. It was familiar. Too familiar.
By the time the teacher walked in and called for attention, the new girl looked ready to disappear entirely.
Class began. Notes were passed, equations scribbled, voices rose and fell. Jade tried to pay attention, but her gaze kept drifting sideways. The girl sat perfectly still, pen moving slowly across her notebook, as if every mark cost her effort.
At one point their eyes met again—brief, accidental. The new girl looked away first, cheeks faintly pink. Jade felt a strange tug in her chest, something between curiosity and recognition.
Who was she? Why had she chosen the back corner on her first day? And why did the sight of her—glasses slightly askew, hair falling over one eye—make the ordinary morning feel suddenly different, charged with something unspoken?
Jade didn't know yet. But as the lesson droned on and the clock ticked toward break, she realized one thing clearly:
That girl wasn't going anywhere.
And maybe—just maybe—neither was the quiet pull Jade already felt drawing her closer.