Elise, lurking in the corridor's dim embrace, watched it all unfold—the magical girls streaking completely naked for the world to see. Each movement was effortless, every curve catching the light as if it belonged there. Their bodies were flawless, radiant in ways that made everything about Elise feel flat and ordinary.
Loneliness struck like a fist to the gut—sharp and unyielding, stealing her breath in a cold, hollow rush.
Every boy's eyes had followed them—raw awe, unspoken admiration, quiet longing. The want that pulled them forward, leaning closer, craving the impossible.
No boy would ever look at me like that—not like they just looked at Sabrina and Hinata.
I'm just some stumpy goth girl, the truth twisting like a knife, carving deeper with every stolen glance she'd imagined for herself but never earned.
Sabrina's body looked like it was sculpted by light itself—every curve smooth and effortless, every move drawing eyes without even trying. She held herself with that natural poise that made people forget to breathe.
Hinata was just as breathtaking—perfect skin, toned and radiant, her magic humming beneath it like fire, giving her that otherworldly glow. Even her movements seemed to dance with purpose, elegant and sure, as if the world itself had been made to admire her.
Even drenched and dishevelled, they looked unreal—breasts high and full, waists shaped like art, thighs that balanced strength and grace. They were everything Elise wasn't: luminous, alive, unforgettable.
And me? A baggy oversized Nirvana T-shirt. My chest barely fills a bra, lopsided and flat against the world. My waist is straight as a ruler, with no dip or flare to catch a second glance. My thighs stick together when I sit, soft and uneven, and my legs… gods, even they look as if they gave up halfway through. Short.Plain.Forgettable.
Noctiprick is the only thing that's ever "wanted" me, she thought, poking at the wriggling pet with a numb finger. Its feeble twitch felt like a hollow echo of the boys' hunger—pathetic, meaningless. Just pity. A joke.
I'm the shadow they step over—the goth girl with freckles fading into the gloom, hair limp and lifeless, a body that quit long before I did.
She jabbed at Noctiprick, her little "penis monster" pet, and it squeaked, "Mama!"
I don't want to be your mama! she cried, voice breaking. I want… I want…
Her mind drifted to her husbando pillow at home—Kage from The Seraphim Protocol—and the truth hit her: she was utterly, undeniably pathetic. She almost wished she could toss the stupid pet into a locker and leave it there forever, a small, meaningless possession to match the rest of her forgotten life.
She yanked her locker open, metal protesting with a harsh clang, eyes blazing with frustration and self-loathing. Noctiprick wriggled in her arms, squeaking, but she ignored it, bracing to shove the little creature inside and slam the door.
Then—something caught her eye. A flash of shiny paper, tucked into the corner of the locker, gleaming faintly under the harsh fluorescent light. Her hand froze mid-motion, the world narrowing to that single glint.
Lifting the letter high, her heart hammered in her chest.
It… it can't be…
Fingers trembling, she drew it close and inhaled a faint, familiar scent that made her stomach twist. A soft gasp escaped, and she sank to her knees, cradling it against her like a treasure.
This… this is it.
Pressed to her face, the rest of the corridor fell away—no noise, no pressure—just this, hers to cherish. Slowly, reverently, the paper unfolded; a fragile, radiant smile spread across her face.
A love letter?
Her eyes skimmed the lines: Your copy of Tentacle Penetration 4 is significantly overdue. Please return it to the library without delay. A late fee of $3.50 has been applied to your account.
The laugh that bubbled up turned sour. With a frantic motion, the paper was torn to confetti
And then everything snapped.
A raw, vampire-scratch scream tore from her throat, shredding the corridor—but nobody heard her...Nobody saw her. She screamed into the emptiness, her fury and despair ricocheting off the tiles, swallowed whole by silence.
Elise pounded her fists against the locker door, then kicked the next one hard; metal shrieked, and the echoes ricocheted off the tiles, her rage filling the empty corridor. "Shut up!" she howled, smashing her palm into the metal again, breath ragged, nails digging into her skin.
Noctiprick squeaked wildly from inside the locker; she shoved the door open and slammed it shut so hard the lock rattled.
She beat the locker with the heel of her hand, over and over, each hit a little less controlled, a little more animal.
Her voice tore out of her in jagged bursts—shouts that would burn if anyone heard them—but the academy swallowed them like a stone.
When the fury ebbed, she stood shaking, chest heaving, fists raw, surrounded by fluttering scraps of paper and a corridor that kept pretending she wasn't there.