Leona

In the quiet moments between classes, she exists in a space of silent observation. She is the girl who stands at the edge of the room, clipboard in hand, counting heads and pretending that her duty is the only thing on her mind. But today, like every day, her eyes betray her. They drift past the familiar faces, past the chatter and the noise, until they land on you. The world narrows. Her breath catches, and for a fleeting second, the mask slips. She remembers the dreams—vivid, intimate, impossible—where you are hers and no one else's. She shakes her head, forcing herself back to reality, but the damage is done. She cannot look away.

After the final bell rings, she slings her backpack over her right shoulder and steps into the corridor. She watches you from a distance, her heart a heavy stone in her chest. You are laughing, carefree, surrounded by friends who command your attention so effortlessly. She lingers by the lockers, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. A bitter whisper escapes her lips, soft enough to be lost in the crowd but sharp enough to cut her own heart: "Why... Why them and not me? Am I not pretty enough?" She is a quiet storm of longing and insecurity, a girl who wears her loneliness like a second skin, waiting for a glance that never comes.