Rain in Forks wasn't an exception. It was a constant.
It fell that morning with the same indifference it had yesterday—and the same indifference it would tomorrow: soft, persistent, cold. Droplets slid down the windows of Forks High like tears the sky didn't dare dry.
Carrie White walked down the hallway with hunched shoulders, head down, fingers clenched tightly around the books she held against her chest like a shield. Her straight, pale blonde hair was damp from the walk home. She wore a thick, light-brown wool sweater—slightly worn at the elbows—and a long, dark skirt that brushed her ankles. Her clothes were modest, old-fashioned… as if they belonged to another time. As if her mother, Margaret White, had sewn them by hand while praying for her daughter's soul.
"Look! There goes the nun!" someone shouted from the far end of the hall.
Laughter. Snickers. Twisted mouths.
Carrie didn't lift her gaze. She only pressed the books tighter to her chest and quickened her step.
It hadn't always been like this. In her first days of high school, she'd tried to smile. She'd tried to answer when someone asked her name. But her words came out clumsy, her eyes blinked too quickly, and her laugh… her laugh was a sound no one understood. So she learned to be silent. To disappear.
But the problem with disappearing… is that sometimes you forget yourself.
She entered the girls' bathroom with her head bowed, as if she needed to ask permission even of the air she breathed. She locked herself in the last stall and sat on the floor, knees pressed to her chest. She closed her eyes. Breathed.
You are sin, Carrie. Born of sin. But you can redeem yourself. Just be good. Be silent. Be invisible.
Her mother's words echoed in her head like funeral bells.
From the bathroom door, she heard laughter. Familiar voices.
"Do you think she's still in there?" asked a sharp, malicious voice disguised as innocence.
It was Chris Hargensen—blonde, flawless, with a smile that promised cruelty.
"Definitely," said another girl. "She's always there. Like a sad ghost."
"We should pay her a visit," Chris said, now laughing. "You know… like in gym class."
The memory hit her like a punch to the stomach.
Two weeks ago.
Gym class.
The first time it… happened.
She'd been playing volleyball. A bad pass. The ball had hit her in the face—not hard, but the laughter that followed burned worse than any blow.
"Oops! Is your nose bleeding, Carrie?" someone had called out.
And then—the heat. That heat rising from her chest, scorching her veins, making the floor tremble beneath her feet. Someone had stumbled. A ball had exploded in a forgotten corner. A mirror had shattered with no one near it.
No one had noticed.
That night, her mother locked her in the prayer closet.
"The devil visits you, Carrie!" she'd screamed, eyes full of tears and terror. "Kneel! Beg forgiveness for the evil inside you!"
And Carrie had done it.
Because she believed it was true.
Because she knew nothing else.
Now, in the bathroom, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back tears. She didn't want to cry. Tears were weakness. And weakness invited more pain.
But then… she heard it.
From the hallway—louder laughter. Voices she didn't recognize.
"Hey, Bella! Wait, don't walk so fast."
Carrie opened one eye. Through the stall's narrow gap, she saw a new girl walking down the hall—Bella Swan. Just arrived. Already had friends. Already had a life. Normal clothes. A gentle smile. Eyes that looked at the world without fear.
Carrie envied her. Not with bitterness, but with a sadness so deep it ached in her chest.
Why her? Why not me?
For one second, she imagined walking beside her—laughing, making plans, being… normal.
But the fantasy shattered when Chris and her friends approached the bathroom mirror, adjusting their makeup while laughing about a party Carrie would never be invited to.
"Hey," one of them said, "did you hear about Carrie in science class? She dropped the microscope… She's pathetic. That's why she has no friends."
"Yeah," Chris said with a cruel smile, "who'd even want to be near her?"
They laughed.
Carrie closed her eyes. She felt that heat again—stronger this time—as if something inside her were waking. But this time, she held it back. Pushed it down. Buried it. Because if she let it out… her mother would be right. She would be possessed. She would be lost.
She left the bathroom once they were gone—head down, heart pounding.
At home, the scent of incense and prayer wrapped around her like a stiff blanket. Her mother was in the kitchen, washing dishes in cold water—she claimed hot water was a sinful luxury—and humming a hymn.
"How was your day, daughter?" she asked, not looking up.
"Fine, Mom," Carrie murmured.
"Did anyone talk to you?"
"No."
"Good. Boys are temptations. And girls are mirrors of evil. It's better you're alone. Solitude is pure."
Carrie went upstairs to her room. The walls were covered in crucifixes, Bible verses, images of saints with sorrowful eyes. Not a single mirror. Her mother said mirrors fed pride.
She sat on her bed and looked out the window. The rain hadn't stopped. The world remained gray.
She pulled a notebook hidden beneath her mattress. In it, she wrote things no one was meant to see:
Today I dreamed I had friends. We laughed in the cafeteria. No one mocked me. No one called me weird.
But when I woke up, I remembered—this isn't for me.
I'm not like Bella.
I'm like the prayer closet. Dark. Empty. Silent.
She closed the notebook and hid it again.
She lay on her bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The silence was so thick she could almost touch it.
Then, she thought it.
What if I just… stopped existing?
Not dramatically. Not with screams. Just… close my eyes and never open them again. It would be relief. It would be peace.
Tears finally fell—silent. Desperate.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling, and sobbed softly, as if even crying were a sin.
"Please…" she whispered to the void. "I just want someone to see me. Just once. To tell me I'm not a mistake."
There was no answer.
Only the rain.
Only the silence.
Only the pain.
But then…
a voice.
Soft. Calm. Almost like a whisper on the wind.
"Are you alright?"
Carrie sat up abruptly, eyes wide.
In the doorway, standing in the dim hallway light, was a boy who stepped closer and knelt near her.
Dark brown hair, slightly tousled. Deep blue eyes, like the ocean on a moonless night. Simple but elegant clothes. And a gaze… that didn't judge.
It only saw.
Carrie didn't know what to say. Didn't know whether to run, hide, or scream.
She only looked at him.
And for the first time in her life…
she felt someone looked at her
as if she truly existed.