Today, I picked up Yasmine from her house and drove her the school so she wouldn't have to suffer on the bus. The entire time, she was yapping about Luca - that guy she had met yesterday. I saw a faint blush on her cheeks, and noted the huge smile on her face.

"Like, you should have seen the way he looked at me. Do you think maybe he likes me—?"

"Yas. Why wouldn't he like you? You're like literally the prettiest girl I know." It was completely honest.

Yas had sleek, black hair that framed her heart-shaped face, accentuating her sharp yet delicate features. Her deep brown eyes were framed by long lashes, and her lips carried a natural pink sheen. When she smiled, her entire face lit up, a single dimple appearing on her right cheek, adding a playful charm to her expression.

Her looks matched her personality—bold, confident, and effortlessly captivating. She had a slender frame with just enough curves to turn heads, and her sun-kissed skin hinted at her Asian heritage. She never needed to chase attention; it naturally found her. As far as I knew, she had never asked anyone out, yet she had turned down more than a few admirers without a second thought.

"You really think so?" She responded.

I saw in her face that she was trying to be modest. "Yeah, I do, but you know it."

"I guess," she sighed.

I admired Yasmine for not being one of those girls so absorbed in themselves they could turn into a sponge, however sometimes I wished she wouldn't be scared to tell people she was beautiful. She knew she was, and so did everyone she met.

It wasn't that I was jealous—I knew I was fairly pretty in my own right. My green eyes stood out against my fair skin and brunette-blonde hair, and while I was slim, I didn't have the same curves that made Yas effortlessly eye-catching. Still, standing next to her, I felt plain.

But I didn't mind. I never craved attention the way she did. Yas thrived in the spotlight, glowing under its warmth—but she was never arrogant about it. She carried herself with confidence, not vanity, and that was something I could respect.

"You're very quiet, Kay. Are you okay?" Her voice broke my train of thought.

"What? Yeah. I'm just thinking."

"What about?"

"How I wish you would just admit you know your pretty."

"Fine! I'm pretty." She seemed to cringe at her own words, which made me laugh.

Soon enough, we arrived at school. I pulled into an open spot and hopped out of the car, the morning air crisp against my skin. Yasmine fell into step beside me as we navigated the packed parking lot, weaving through students spilling out of their rides.

The entrance hall was already crowded, the mingling scent of perfume, sweat, and cheap cologne thick in the air. Wrinkling my nose, I nudged Yasmine. "Let's not be late to English again," I muttered.

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Together, we slipped through the throng of students, making our way down the hallway toward classroom 48.

When we handed in our Shakespeare report, Mr. Martin looked up at me, impressed.

"Good work, Yarrow."

"Thanks," I murmured, deciding not to mansion that I may have had a little help.

"And exactly one-thousand words! I'm very impressed. I see we have some class competition! Christian – you are going to have to work hard to stay on top!"

A scrawny, bony boy glared up at me from his seat, his pale lips in a line, and his eyes staring menacingly at mine.

"Oh," I said, slightly taken aback. I didn't want academic competition to stress me out when life was already so full-on. "I think I'm okay. I did this topic at my old school, so I already knew about it." Although I had in fact done this topic at Apperdale, I couldn't actually remember anything about it; there was a time and place for being honest, and this wasn't it.

I saw Mr. Martins smile falter, and his eyes become hard around the edges. I felt guilt fluttering like butterflies in my chest, knowing my mother had done all the work for me, and I was giving him false hope.

In attempt to distract myself, I went to my desk at the back of the room, and took out my notebook. We were moving onto Romeo and Juliet. A topic I had not covered at my old school.

Luckily, though, today's homework was relatively simple: a short paragraph about the character arc of Romeo and Juliet.

When we where walking out of the classroom and heading to our next class, I felt Yasmine grab my wrist, and I looked over at her.

"How the fuck did you write all of that?"

I just stared blankly at her.

"And you wrote it so well! Your essay could have be published for a scholarly website and everything!"

"Well, just between you and me, my mum wrote it for me." Seeing the look of shock and sheer disappointment on her face, I added, "my mum didn't think the essay was fair on our first day, and I'd fallen asleep."

"Okay. I just never passed you as the type not to do your homework."

"I'm not, I just literally could not keep my eyes open. But I did get like thirteen hours of sleep that day, so I think it was worth it."

I waved goodbye to Yasmine, and she walked away with a scowl on her face. I looked up at the plague at the door in front of me. Classroom 26.

As I stepped into the dark room, my eyes immediately scanned the crowd, searching for Jake. I had been waiting to see him since the moment I woke up, and the anticipation had only grown throughout the day.

English class had been a disaster—my focus shattered, my thoughts circling back to him over and over again. It was ridiculous. I had known this guy for less than twenty-four hours, and yet, he had completely taken over my mind.

Sitting at my desk, I kept my eyes on the door, waiting. Any second now, he'd walk in—right? But he didn't.

One by one, students trudged into the room, chatting, laughing, taking their seats. Finally, Ms. Kently walked in and shut the door with a decisive click. A frustrated sigh slipped through my nostrils before I could stop it, and suddenly, every head around me turned. My face burned as I quickly looked down at my desk, pretending nothing had happened.

Ms. Kently went over the roll, and I found myself still clinging to the faint hope that Jake would rush in at the last second, flashing an apologetic grin. But the door stayed closed.

With a sigh, I forced myself to focus as we briefly revised yesterday's lesson—the elements of drama—before moving on to today's task: actually incorporating them into our own performances.

Which meant acting. The entire class groaned.

"Kay," Ms. Kently's voice said gently over the annoyed class, "because this is your first time writing a play, I don't expect you to fully understand – it's okay if you don't finish in time."

Just as I was about to gratefully thank Ms. Kently for her generosity, the door creaked open. My eyes snapped to the sound, and there he was.

Jake.

"Sorry I'm late, Miss," he said with that casual tone, his voice laced with the slightest hint of embarrassment as he walked toward the desk. His presence, always so effortlessly confident, made my heart skip a beat.

Ms. Kently's expression tightened just a fraction—probably from the disruption—but she smiled and nodded at him, accepting the apology.

I felt my body tense as Jake slid into the seat beside me, his bag gently thudding against the floor by our feet. The air seemed to hum between us, and I had to fight the urge to let my attention wander to him. I forced my eyes forward, focusing intently on Ms. Kently, desperate to keep my mind from wandering and remind myself just how close he was. It was ridiculous. I'd barely known him a day, and yet...

It was hard not to think about him when he was right there.

"Ok, we'll get into partners, and write a short 2-minute play," she explained.

I felt my heart flutter uneven palpitations as Jake leaned over to whisper in my ear.

"You and me?" He asked. I wasn't able to get a single word out, so I just nodded, trying even harder to focus on Ms. Kently's instructions.

A minute later, we were all on our feet, moving into groups. Jake and I wandered over to the far-right corner of the room, settling against the wall. We sat close, our backs leaning against the cool surface as we tried to get comfortable.

I noticed the space between us was small, but the moment he sat down, our knees brushed ever so slightly. The electric heat I felt yesterday when he'd grabbed my wrist flared up again. It was a rush of warmth that I couldn't ignore, something that pulled at me, making it hard to concentrate.

I shifted ever so slightly, scooting just enough to put a tiny bit of space between us. Not too much, just enough so our knees didn't touch anymore. I didn't want to be distracted by him—though, honestly, it wasn't like I was making it easy on myself. But being this close to him, feeling that spark again, was... overwhelming.

"So." Jake began with a grin. "Have you ever written a play before?"

"No." I made sure to keep my eyes well away from his.

"Have you ever watched a play or musical at a theatre or something?"

"I used to watch them with my dad ." It was a hobby of hours, going to the local theatre on the weekends to watch the newest development. The thought of him made my muscles tighten, so I gently traced my palm in order to distract myself.

"Did you do drama at your old school?" Jake continued.

"No, it wasn't offered."

"Why did you move schools?" I lifted my eyes up to his at the sudden personal question.

I hesitated, the words heavy in my chest. But Jake's eyes, so full of genuine curiosity and concern, made me feel like I could let my guard down, just a little.

"We moved," I began, the weight of it all pressing down on me. "About five hours away. So, I had to change schools too."

Jake's brow furrowed slightly. "Had to move houses?" he asked, his voice gentle but insistent, like he knew there was more.

I took a deep breath, bracing myself. "Yeah. My dad... he was murdered five months ago," I said, feeling the lump in my throat. "My mom... she was scared, thought the people who did it might come after us too. So we left."

For a moment, there was a painful silence. Jake's face shifted from shock to something softer, something closer to empathy than pity. He didn't look at me with that hollow sympathy people often gave when they didn't know what to say. Instead, his eyes softened, like he truly felt the weight of my words.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice quiet. "That must have been hard for you."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded, but I couldn't meet his gaze for a second. The words stung, even if he meant them well. I hadn't really talked about my dad's death with anyone since the move. I'd mostly kept it to myself, burying it under the new life we were trying to build. It was easier that way.

"Yeah, it's... been rough," I said, my voice a little tight. "But you know, we're doing okay now."