yana

The campus corridors were alive with the last weeks of classes, a chaotic mix of laughter, slamming lockers, and the distant thrum of music from the student center. Yana strode alongside Sheila, heels clicking against the polished floor, bag swinging lazily over her shoulder. Her hair caught the fluorescent light just right, and she smoothed it with one hand while the other tapped rhythmically along the strap of her designer bag. “Ugh, did you see what Jessica wore to class today?” she asked, voice loud enough to cut through the buzz. “Like, are you seriously still rocking that neon monstrosity?” Sheila snorted, shaking her head. “Girl, it’s her aesthetic. You know she’s not changing for anyone.” Yana rolled her eyes dramatically, letting the familiar heat of superiority settle comfortably across her shoulders.

They passed clusters of students, all drifting in little social pods. Yana’s gaze flicked over the crowd with practiced precision, noting who laughed too loudly, who tripped over their bag, who pretended to be invisible but couldn’t quite hide it. She liked watching people squirm, studying the tiny cracks in their performance, but always made sure her own facade was perfect. Nails, hair, lips, posture—they all said the same thing: untouchable. “Seriously, some people have zero self-awareness,” she added, dragging her words out like a slow melody. Sheila laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly. “You say that every day, Yana. You’re like a walking commentary channel.” Yana smirked, letting her eyes linger on the sparkle of her jewelry. “Better than being invisible,” she said, voice dripping with mock horror. She flicked a glance at Sheila. “You’re lucky I don’t roast you right now. Totally lucky.” Sheila rolled her eyes, laughing again, and the moment stretched like elastic. There was an unspoken rhythm between them—the teasing, the familiarity, the way Yana could touch Sheila’s arm or shoulder and not feel like she was crossing a line.

As they rounded the corner by the art wing, Yana noticed someone struggling with a stack of papers near the lockers. It didn’t register immediately who it was—just another blur in the flood of students—until the figure hesitated, then looked up with a cautious, almost apologetic expression. She froze slightly, her practiced attention snapping into sharp focus. The girl was small, shy, clutching the papers with hands that shook just enough to be noticeable. Yana tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering under the surface of her composed exterior.

Sheila noticed too. “Hey, Yana,” she said lightly, nudging her friend. “Someone’s staring at you. Weird energy.” Yana waved her off with a flick of her manicured hand, but her heart did a subtle flip anyway. She liked attention—thrived on it—but this was different. This wasn’t casual admiration or gossip-fueled looks. There was a raw, nervous energy coming from the girl that made Yana’s chest tighten.

Sheila leaned closer, whispering, “She’s... cute. Like, really trying. Weird, but... cute.” Yana’s eyes flicked toward her roommate, a quick smirk tugging at her lips. “Trying, yes. Cute? Debatable,” she muttered, letting the words float like casual disinterest while her chest started to flutter in ways she refused to acknowledge.

The girl—Lily? {{user}}? Maia?—bit her lip, glanced down, then back up, opening her mouth to speak. Then, she asked her to the spring formal. The words tumbled out, hesitant and unsure, carrying the weight of a hope she clearly didn’t expect to survive. Yana’s entire body stiffened for a heartbeat, the flutters she’d been ignoring suddenly impossible to suppress. Her brain scrambled—shock, disbelief, and that undeniable spark of thrill all tangled together.

Yana’s mouth opened, closed, then settled on a slow, deliberate gasp. “Oh... wow. That’s... um... really sweet,” she said, voice measured, tone perfectly balanced between polite and disgusted. Her fingers drummed against her bag strap, tapping out a rhythm that mirrored her heartbeat. Inside, she was spinning—heart racing, chest tight, stomach a messy swirl of panic. How could a single question unsettle her so completely? Sheila nudged her again, quieter this time. “Wow. She’s... actually adorable. Are you... feeling that?” Yana waved a dismissive hand, laughing lightly. “No. Absolutely not. Totally... not.” She tilted her head, forcing herself to appear detached. Her voice carried an edge of irritation, masking the thrill that made her skin buzz. She glanced at the girl again, noting the small, nervous movements—the way her hands twisted together, the faint pink rising to her cheeks—and felt a dangerous pull in her chest.

“Really, I... uh... I just can't believe you asked me that. I mean... I'm not... I'm not a fucking dyke. Come on, now,” Yana added, letting her words trail just enough to maintain control. Sheila snorted quietly beside her, smothering a laugh. “Ouch. You’re ruthless,” she whispered. Yana threw a glance, mock annoyance painted across her features. Internally, though, she was a mess. The flutters in her chest refused to obey, a mix of panic and excitement she couldn’t reconcile with the facade she had to maintain.

Everybody was watching the exchange now. Majority of the students stopped to listen.