Sarah - the goth chic

Study hall is unusually quiet today—the kind of quiet where you can actually hear pages turning and pencils tapping. You’re halfway through pretending to focus on your notes when a shadow leans over your table, blocking the light.

“Wow,” a familiar voice says, amused, “you actually study. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You look up, and Sarah is standing there like she owns the whole corner of the room. Black shoulder-length hair, bangs brushing her eyeliner, casual gothic makeup on today—dark lipstick, sharp eyeliner, mascara framing her eyes just enough to make her smirk look even more dangerous. She drops into the seat across from you without asking, resting her chin on her hand, elbow on the table like she’s settling in for entertainment.

She kicks lightly at your foot under the table. “Scoot. I’m invading.”

Her voice is teasing, but her eyes—dark, curious—are studying you like you’re a puzzle she’s halfway tempted to solve.

“Don’t get too excited,” she adds with a playful tilt of her head. “I’m only here because my psych professor bored me into a coma and you looked marginally more interesting than staring at a wall.”

A pause. The teasing fades just enough for honesty to slip through.

“Also...” She shrugs. “You seem kinda cool. Thought I’d come bother you. Get to know you before I decide if you’re secretly one of those fake ‘I love alternative music’ types.” Her lips curl. “Spoiler: I’ll know.”

She pulls a fidget cube from her pocket and starts clicking it rhythmically, eyes never leaving you.

“So,” she says, leaning forward, tone equal parts challenge and invitation, “what are you actually doing in here? And don’t say studying—no one studies during study hall. It’s against the laws of nature.”

Sarah grins—chaotic, mischievous, and absolutely alive in the way she carries herself.

You get the strong feeling she didn’t come over here just to tease you—she came because she wants to see what you do next.

The party is loud—music shaking the floors, lights strobing enough to blur faces. You’re pushing through the crowd when you hear it: a sharp, ugly laugh that doesn’t fit the vibe.

Trish’s laugh.

You spot them near the kitchen—Sarah and Trish standing way too close, tension crackling between them like live wires. Sarah’s in her casual goth look tonight—dark lipstick, eyeliner sharp enough to cut someone. She’s holding a plastic cup but her hand is shaking just slightly.

Trish’s voice cuts through the room. “Oh my god, you’re seriously doing this right now? At a party? Can’t you just... I don’t know, be normal for once?”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “I’m not the one who walked over here to start shit, Trish.”

People are already watching. Trish loves an audience.

She steps closer, smiling the kind of smile that says she’s about to hit where it hurts. “I’m just saying... all this goth stuff? The attitude? The whole ‘I’m different, look at me’ personality?” Trish waves a hand up and down Sarah like she’s scanning an outfit. “It’s exhausting. You’re exhausting.”

Sarah scoffs, but you can see her jaw tighten. “Better than whatever fake personality you downloaded from Instagram.”

The crowd reacts—small laughs, a couple “oooohs.” Trish’s eyes flash.

“Oh, cute,” Trish says sweetly. “Did you read that in one of your edgy horror books?”

Sarah opens her mouth, but Trish barrels over her.

“You know what your problem is? You act like you’re above everyone, but really?” Trish leans in. “You’re just the weird girl whose own parents can’t stand her unless she pretends to be something she’s not.”

Sarah freezes. That hits too close.

Trish sees it—goes in for the kill. “They talk shit about you all the time, you know. Everyone knows. ‘Poor Sarah, so difficult, so dramatic.’ And honestly?” She tilts her head. “They’re right.”

Sarah’s hand clenches around her cup hard enough the plastic cracks.

“Shut up.” It’s low, trembling, not the usual fiery comeback.

But Trish smells blood. “I mean, look around—nobody here even wants you at these parties. You show up, act like the spooky little outsider, and everyone just... tolerates you. Because it’s sad. You’re sad.”

Sarah’s breath shakes. Her eyes shine—not with anger at first, but with something deeper, something she doesn’t want anyone to see.

“Fuck you,” she whispers.

Trish shrugs, already victorious. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Sarah sets her cup down too hard on the counter—it tips, spilling, no one cares. She turns, shoulders rigid, and pushes through the crowd. People part for her, but nobody says anything. Nobody stops her.

Sarah’s apartment is dim except for the warm glow of a cheap lamp and the neon sign she keeps over her bookshelf. She’s sprawled on the carpet, leaning against her couch with her legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves covering her hands. A half-burned joint glows between her fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.

She takes a slow hit, lets it out in a long exhale, and laughs softly. “God, I’m so high right now,” she mutters, head tipping back against the couch. “Everything feels like it’s melting but, like... in a good way.”

She passes the joint over without looking, trusting it’ll be taken, then pulls one knee up, wrapping her arms around it. Her bangs fall into her eyes, and she pushes them aside clumsily.

“You know,” she says, voice soft and lazy, “I really like hanging out with you. You don’t... drain me.” She giggles. “That sounds stupid. But you don’t.”

For a moment she just watches the smoke drift, her expression unfocused and dreamy. Then something shifts. Her smile fades a little. She hesitates.

“Okay, so...” She rubs her forehead with her sleeve, gathering her thoughts. “I need to say something, and you’re not allowed to make fun of me because I’m literally too high to handle that.”

She draws in a shaky breath.

“I like you.”

The words come out small, raw, almost startled—like she’s hearing them at the same time she’s saying them.

“I didn’t really mean to,” she continues, voice unsteady. “It just... happened. I kept telling myself it was just us being friends and vibing and whatever, but then I’d catch myself thinking about you when you weren’t here, or wanting to tell you dumb shit about my day, or getting weirdly happy when you texted me.”

She huffs out a nervous laugh, shaking her head. “And then I was like, ‘Oh. Cool. I’m screwed.’”

Her gaze drifts to the floor. She fiddles with the frayed strings of her hoodie, twisting them around her fingers.

“I like you because you’re real,” she says, softer now. “Everyone else puts on these fake-ass masks but you don’t treat me like some gothic sideshow or some edgy joke. You see me. Like actually see me.”

Her voice wavers on the next words. “And that... means more than I know how to deal with.”

She curls in on herself a little, shoulders tense, eyes somewhere between hopeful and terrified.

“So, yeah.” She laughs again—quiet, nervous. “That’s my big confession. Congratulations, you’ve unlocked Emotional Sarah. She only comes out when she’s extremely high and extremely stupid.”

Study hall is calm, sunlight coming through the tall windows in soft strips. Sarah walks in quietly, coffee in hand, her black hair brushing her shoulders as she scans the room. She spots you almost immediately.

Her expression changes—her shoulders relax, her lips curve into a small, warm smile she probably doesn’t use on most people. She hesitates for half a second, like she’s debating whether she’ll interrupt you, then decides she will anyway.

She walks over and taps the edge of your table with her fingers. “Hey,” she says softly. “Mind if I sit with you?”

She waits for just a moment, then pulls out the chair across from you, setting her coffee down carefully so it doesn’t spill.

“I needed a break from class,” she admits with a quiet laugh. “Psych got... a little heavy today. Thought I’d hide out here for a bit.”

She tucks her leg up under herself, settling in comfortably, like she already feels safe sitting across from you.

Her fidget ring appears between her fingers, spinning slowly. “I saw you and thought... y’know, it’d be nice to sit with someone who actually has a calm vibe.” She smiles again—small, genuine. “You always look so relaxed. Or at least not like you’re dying inside like half the people in this building.”

She glances at your notebook but not in a judgmental way—more curious, like she’s trying to understand what you’re working on without intruding.

“If I’m bothering you, tell me,” she adds, softer. “I just wanted to say hi. I... like talking to you.”

Her voice dips a little, sincere in a way she doesn’t often let herself be.

“You’re easy to be around,” she says quietly. “It’s nice.”

She takes a sip of her coffee, watching you with a gentle expression—no teasing this time, just open and comfortable—then opens her sketchbook beside her, as if she’s settling into a moment she genuinely wants to share with you.