Chapter 1: Collision
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The bell had rung, and chaos had already claimed the hallways. Misyla didn't notice. Her books were stacked dangerously high, her hair deliberately tousled into that perfect mess she liked, the kind that looked like she hadn't tried but somehow still drew eyes. She ran, heart hammering, desperate to make it to her first class without being noticed—an impossible task in a school where everyone had both eyes and a reputation.
Heads turned as she sprinted past, a blur of messy pink hair, green eyes, and skirts flying like petals caught in a windstorm. She could feel the stares prickling her skin. Some were awestruck. Some… curious. She did not like it. Not one bit.
Books pressed against her chest, she skidded around a corner—and ran straight into someone.
Everything erupted into chaos.
Her books flew like startled birds. One smacked against the locker, another bounced across the polished floor, and the rest tumbled in a neat little stack at his feet.
"Oh no—" she gasped, bracing for impact, for the anger, for the whispers that would follow her down the hall.
But she didn't hit the ground.
A firm hand gripped her wrist, another her waist, and suddenly she was being lifted, spun, and set on her feet with the kind of grace that made the world hold its breath. The movement was startlingly familiar. The turn, the lift, the gentle placement of weight—it was a dance her father had taught her when she was little, an old folk routine that made the living room feel like a palace.
For a moment, Misyla felt something she hadn't in weeks: home.
Wide-eyed, she looked up.
Her heart skipped again.
The boy before her wasn't just anyone. Not just a rescuer. Not just an upper-class student whose presence radiated wealth and confidence. He was familiar. Impossible, but familiar. The sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips, the way his hair caught the light and haloed his face—he could have stepped out of a dream she'd been too afraid to remember.
And yet… he didn't know her. At least, not yet.
Her books had already been gathered by a small, quiet acolyte at his side. Misyla wanted to speak, to thank, to somehow explain the racing of her heart, but the words clung stubbornly to her throat. She fled, cheeks burning, hair tangling in her own frantic hands, leaving him standing there like a statue carved from sunlight and polished wood.
The hallway seemed impossibly long after that. Every glance burned. Whispers wrapped around her like threads, and she hated that even now, a trace of her pride wanted to smolder in their direction. She would rather be invisible, yet invisible had never felt quite so impossible.
The echo of his movement haunted her. The spin, the lift, the gentle yet commanding way he'd set her back on the ground—it was intimate without being invasive, firm without being rough. Who was he? Where had he learned that move? Only someone with privilege, perhaps… someone who had been trained in arts most students couldn't even dream of.
And yet, there was something else in the way he moved, something personal, almost careless, as if the world had briefly stopped for him to notice her—not her rank, not her lack of status, not the sticky sap of school gossip clinging invisibly to her clothes—but her.
She reached her classroom finally, breaths short, heart still drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The teacher smiled, introducing her to the class. "Everyone, this is Misyla, our new transfer student. Please make her feel welcome."
They didn't.
A silence that bordered on cruel stretched across the room. Some faces held awe, others thinly veiled contempt, and Melody, who seemed born with the express purpose of disliking anyone prettier, kinder, or more interesting than herself, narrowed her eyes.
Misyla sank into her seat, cheeks flushed, hands still trembling slightly from the brush with perfection that had been the boy in the hallway. She tried not to think of him. She tried. But every time she blinked, the memory returned: the tilt of his chin, the way his eyes had flicked briefly toward her with something… unspoken.
It was then that the first wave of real danger, the social kind, hit.
Melody sauntered up to her desk, grinning as if she'd been planning mischief for weeks. Before Misyla could react, Melody dumped a glop of sticky sap across the surface, laughter echoing around the room. "Better know your place," she said, voice honeyed with menace, "or else I'll cook you. Literally."
Misyla froze, not in fear—but in disbelief.
High school, she realized, was a battlefield. And she had just been thrust onto it without armor.
That evening, the dorms were a sanctuary of quiet. A stoic acolyte guided her through the rules, tone clipped and eyes unreadable. Misyla listened, nodding, though her thoughts kept returning to the boy with the impossible grace.
Her roommate, Yuelle, was a revelation. Telekinetic, cheerful, and instantly friendly, she had already moved their shared mess with effortless flicks of her fingers. "What about you?" Yuelle asked, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. "What's your gift?"
Misyla hesitated, then admitted, "I… don't know yet."
Yuelle's smile didn't falter. "Late bloomer, then. We'll find it."
The night passed with whispered plans, shared giggles, and a growing sense of hope. Somewhere in the labyrinthine walls of the school, something awaited her—something powerful, something that might finally belong to her.
That night, as Misyla lay in bed, she recalled the hallway again. The spin. The lift. The precise balance. And that face—the too-good-to-be-real, impossibly familiar face.
Who was he?
Why did her chest ache when she thought of him?
And, most importantly…
Would he notice her again?
The hallway collision had been brief, barely more than a heartbeat. But for Misyla, it had left the kind of echo that could reshape worlds—or at least her own. She did not yet know the full extent of the adventure that awaited her. Not yet.
All she knew was that the boy with the dance-like hands had entered her life—and, somehow, the stars themselves seemed to lean closer, curious to watch.