As we stepped out of the principal's office, Eddie walked ahead of me without a backward glance.
I followed silently, thinking about the way she'd squeezed my shoulder. It hadn't been painful exactly—but it hadn't felt friendly either. What did it mean? I couldn't tell. I wasn't sure if I cared enough to figure it out.
We walked through the quiet, echoing hallways of the administrative building. Eddie didn't say a word, and neither did I.
Suddenly, she stopped, and I nearly bumped into her. She turned swiftly, her sharp eyes locking onto mine.
"Vanya Astor," she said in a clipped tone, "your fellow juniors are on the first floor of that building."
She gestured toward a mid-rise structure in the near distance. Faint voices echoed from it—students, probably.
"The library is to your right," she added, pointing toward a large, solitary building framed by tall green trees. Then she nodded at another section of the school. "That's the lunchroom. And over there is the teachers' lounge."
She paused. Then her gaze landed on me again, this time settling on my head.
"You'll be in trouble for that hairstyle," she said, her voice honey-sweet. "School policy requires braids, you know."
And then she walked away, the click of her polished shoes echoing down the corridor.
I stood there for a moment—expressionless as always—staring at nothing in particular, my thoughts drifting like fog.
She was right. I was supposed to braid my hair.
The bell rang somewhere in the distance, breaking the stillness.
It made me flinch—not visibly, just a twitch under the skin.
I started walking, my shoes quieter than hers, my path less certain. I crossed the courtyard and reached the mid-rise building, pushing through the door just as a few stragglers rushed inside. I didn't look at them. Didn't meet their eyes. I kept my gaze straight ahead, my arms close to my sides, my presence as small as I could make it.
Inside, the hallway buzzed with noise. Lockers slammed shut, shoes squeaked against linoleum, voices bounced off the walls. I felt it all press against me like heat—uninvited, unwanted.
A few students turned to glance at me, curiosity flickering in their eyes. I saw it—the half-second stare, the wordless exchange between friends. Who is she? She's new. Is she mute? Weird?
I kept walking.
I found the right classroom—Room 2C—and paused outside the door for a beat. My hand hovered over the handle. I knew what would happen when I stepped inside. Eyes. Whispers. That moment of exaggerated silence where everyone notices you before pretending they didn't.
I opened the door.
The classroom was louder than I expected—chatter, laughter, the occasional scrape of a chair dragging across tiled floors. The kind of noise that fills every corner of a room and makes the walls feel too close. But the moment I stepped in, the volume dropped—not all the way, but enough. As if I had brought my own kind of silence with me, thick and uneasy.
Heads turned. Conversations stuttered mid-sentence. A few whispers floated in my direction, soft but sharp, like needles cloaked in curiosity.
I didn't meet their eyes.
I made my way to the only empty seat at the far end, by the window—half-shielded from view, almost forgotten. That suited me just fine. I walked with careful steps, my chin lifted just enough to look unbothered. When I sat, my back stayed straight, my expression soft and unreadable—just the way I liked it. Just the way I needed it to be.
The girl beside me glanced over. She had smooth skin, a calm presence, and braids so neat they looked sculpted. Her uniform was perfectly pressed, and even her notebook sat aligned with the desk edge. She offered me a polite smile, hesitant but kind.
"Hi, I'm Nia," she whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the settling room.
Her eyes lingered for a second too long on my loose, unbraided hair, but she didn't say anything. The judgment was quiet, if it existed at all.
I gave a small nod. No smile. No words. She didn't push.
Moments later, the door opened again, and the teacher walked in—a tall man with a worn face and sharp, alert eyes that scanned the room like a spotlight. His gaze paused when it found me.
"You must be the new student," he said. "Vanya Astor?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, steady.
He nodded once, briskly. "Welcome to Finrod High. I hope you'll adjust quickly."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
He turned his back and began scribbling something on the board. I let my eyes drift—not to the chalk, not to the lesson, but to the window. The sky outside was a pale, indifferent gray. Just like me.