MIRA
Stay out of sight if you want to make it through Westbrook Academy. That is what comes before everything else.
Freshman year, just three days in, it hit me. A senior - Cassidy Wellington - blocked my path mid-hallway. Her voice carried real surprise. Did I belong here? That was her question. In her mind, I fit better near mops and buckets, sneaked in through the back door.
A different face in the same outfit. Still, Cassidy noticed how folks at Westbrook always stare through me.
Three autumns have passed since then. These days, I glide through hallways like smoke. Back row is mine, always. Questions hang in the air - I stay silent, even if the reply hums behind my teeth. Lunch happens among dusty shelves, tucked past the reference books where shadows pool and footsteps never wander. Right when that last bell screams, I'm gone - head low, steps quick, slipping out like a thought nobody bothers to finish.
Somehow it runs. Must keep going.
If they ever noticed - really took a look - they'd see the frayed edge on my sleeve where I stitched it last week, the scuffed toes of shoes worn through three winters already, how I always stay behind when others walk home together after school. Something shifts then, quiet but certain, once words start passing between us about why. Why leads into what happened back in fifth grade, that hallway talk near the lockers. What happened ties straight to her.
Fourteen years old, Elena calls me her sister. In her mind, that's how it's always been. The night she began? Gone from her thoughts - she was too small then, shielded by time. Memory works differently for me. Every detail stays.
Now she looks right through me. Like I am not even there.
Tuesday morning in September begins just like the others. At 5:30, the alarm breaks the silence. By 5:31, feet hit floor, already moving. In near blackness, clothes slip on - one careful motion after another - to avoid stirring Elena through that flimsy wall. Chilly air clings to skin; heating stays off, always conveniently overlooked till November, despite asking more than once. Two shirts pile beneath the jacket, hidden beneath fabric folds, a small gamble that nobody will see what's underneath.
At 6:15, the lunch is packed, the note about math help sits on the counter, then I step outside before anyone wakes. Though the bus leaves at 7:30, getting there means walking nearly an hour - each morning, every weekday, most of the year. Saving two bucks one way adds up quick when you do it enough times. Five days, forty weeks, little by little - it becomes something real. That money buys what she needs when snow hits, nothing fancy, just warmth. A single stack of cash, four hundred strong, buys every book needed for the term ahead. That same amount stands like a line drawn in dirt - step over it, life keeps moving; stay put, everything halts.
Down the cracked sidewalk I go, slipping between The Shallows' quiet hum. Boarded windows line one side, then come the pawn shops, grimy glass showing mismatched junk. Lou's Diner glows ahead - tonight I clock in at four and stay till they lock up. Inside, Marcus weaves behind the counter, wiping down surfaces, prepping coffee pots. Family? Not by blood - he comes nearest, just like Elena does. Slow evenings let me slide into that back booth, books spread wide while he flips pancakes. Cash finds its way to my pocket after shifts, unrecorded. That money piles toward Columbia. No forms, no questions about how a kid gathers three grand.
Somehow, even thinking about Columbia tightens my ribs. Four hundred miles stretch between it and Connecticut. An Ivy League spot opens there each year for kids without money but with strong grades. My GPA sits at 4.0, the SATs went flawlessly, and my essay - well, they might actually feel something when they read it. Getting accepted feels less like hope and more like gravity. Off we go, Elena at my side. Gone for good - no return to these streets, these walls, this way of being.
Facing senior year comes before anything else.
At 7:58, the delayed bus forces me into a fast stride over Westbrook's tidy grounds, worn shoes tapping on clean red bricks. Because of that, I move quick, cutting through groups of students chatting about gatherings I never got word of, moaning about birthday vehicles gifted by mom and dad. While they float along, I push forward like a current going opposite, unseen, passed over.
Fifteen breaths late, I reach AP English just before the bell. My chair scrapes the floor when I slip into the rear corner spot. Mrs. Ashford keeps her eyes on her desk - same as always. Not one person turns my way.
This is what we do. Every time, it stays the same.
Maybe it's just the silence making things seem louder. Could be shadows playing tricks again. Perhaps someone really is watching after all.
A chill creeps up my neck like pressure under skin. Eyes on me - this feels different. Not just someone looking away from their desk, but fixed, steady. My gaze stays ahead, posture locked, expression empty. Practice taught me that long ago. Stay still. Say nothing. Offer no flicker they can grab.
Yet that sense lingers, stuck just beneath the surface.
Out past the window, the afternoon slants in just right. Mrs. Ashford talks about Gatsby reaching for that distant glow across the water, chasing something already gone. Her voice moves through ideas of hope, loss, dreams built too high on shaky ground. My pen keeps moving, forming tight rows down the page, edges crowded with thoughts meant only for me. Yet behind my eyes, another scene plays - someone watching, silent, steady, their attention fixed where it shouldn't be. Questions rise without answers: whose eyes are they, and what pulls them here?
The moment the bell sounds, I grab my things fast, just like every day, then move toward the exit before stopping -
"Mira."
That sound. My turn to answer. Quiet before the word rose. A teacher's voice breaking the hush. Name hanging in air. Not a question. Just called. The moment landed like dust settling.
I freeze.
Folks never call me by name at Westbrook. When roll gets taken, teachers say it - flat, like ticking a box. Other kids ignore it since they've got no reason to speak it. To them, I don't show up as someone real. Just furniture tucked behind the others.
Slowly, I turn.
Damen Blackwood stares my way.
A spot two seats away holds him, same as it has since second year, positioned just right for watching entrances, exits, window light, every person who walks in. Not someone who works at being noticed - hair dark and always in place without effort, eyes like storm clouds that catch more than they should, a sharpness along his face like polished stone. Land across much of Connecticut carries his family name. Magazines show his father staring out from shelves. In these walls, during class time, tears have fallen because of him.
His eyes meet mine.
"You dropped this."
There he is, waving it like some kind of trophy. Not just any pen - mine. That old blue one, its tip gnawed down by years of nervous hands. Middle school days clinging to plastic. Must've slipped loose when I zipped my backpack shut.
Thank goodness. Over I go, grab the thing, then head off. This is how unseen girls act.
I stay still instead, eyes locked on how he looks at me. His face holds a look I cannot figure out - no hint of the usual dullness he shows everyone, nor that distant calm driving others to run after him. A different kind of signal. One that twists my gut without permission.
"You going to take it, or should I keep it as a souvenir?"
He speaks softly, a hint of laughter in his tone. Some students still near the exit turn their heads, watching. It feels risky. Drawing attention from Damen Blackwood means vanishing into the background just slipped away.
Feet drag forward, somehow. Step after step, uneven. At his desk now, reaching for the pen he offers. My hand meets his - just a flicker, almost nothing. Warmth from him. Cold on my fingertips.
"Thank you," I say, though it feels foreign. The sound doesn't seem to come from me.
"Damen."
I blink. "What?"
"My name. You said 'thanks' but you didn't say my name. It's Damen."
His name? I know it. So does everyone else. Yet those words stay locked inside. Not a sound comes out. Just stillness. My fingers grip the pen, motionless. His gaze lands on me - those pale eyes scanning, knowing too much.
"Mira," he says again, slowly, like he's tasting the word. "I've been here three years. I don't think I've ever heard you speak."
"I speak."
Could it be true? Tell me when. Name the place. His voice trails off, calm as anything. Sitting there relaxed, feet maybe up somewhere unseen. As if hours stretch ahead without end. Go on then - start talking
A trap. Must be. Kids with money toy with those who earned their place - seen it before. Feign curiosity, pull you close, strike once you let your guard down. Last year, Selena Vance pulled that move on a girl called Priya. By October, she was gone - transferred schools without warning.
"I have to go," I say.
Facing a new direction, steps carry me forward. Not fast - not that kind of speed - it wouldn't fit. Exit reached, hallway followed, curve taken, bodies moving between periods pull me in. Among them now, gaze low, presence faded once more.
Frozen under that gaze again, even now.
***
Fog clings like a second skin, morning to night. Quiet steps echo behind each move I make. Hours blur, yet it stays - close, constant. A shadow without edges trails every breath.
A kid occupies my regular chair in AP History - likely by accident, some underclassman unaware of the unspoken codes. Instead of speaking up, I shift sideways toward the glass panes. The entire hour crawls while sunlight hits the back of my neck. Visibility weighs heavier than expected. Not hidden feels wrong.
Chemistry class starts slow, then Mr. Liu teams us up - suddenly I'm stuck with Piper. She never looks up from her screen once. The whole time she scrolls, says nothing, leaves everything to me. Works out okay. Doing it alone feels more natural anyway.
Usually, I slip into the library at noon, ducking behind the history shelves where the numbers start with nine. There, I chew on a grocery-store apple while scanning drafts of what I wrote for Columbia. Peace lives in this corner. Silence sticks around, thick and steady. Only Mr. Hendricks wanders near, the school's book keeper, and he ignores me - mostly since I stay out of his way.
Now a figure appears on the path.
Footsteps echo across the worn carpet, careful, one after another. My body locks in place - apple paused mid-air, pulse thudding sharp beside my ear. Silence falls right at the edge of the shelf, just beyond the books.
"Found you."
Footsteps echo - suddenly Damen turns the corner. My breath catches; maybe he came back to pick up where we left off earlier. Not now though. His eyes stay fixed on the bookshelves instead of me. One hand drifts across the rows, tracing each spine like a slow question.
"History section," he says. "Boring. You'd think a girl with your grades would read something more interesting."
"How do you know my grades?"
He glances at me, one eyebrow raised. "Everyone knows your grades. You've had the highest GPA in our class since freshman year. It's not exactly a secret."
That came as a surprise. My grades, sure - those I was aware of. But me noticing them? Not something I expected. Who'd care enough to watch?
Hmm, history's kind of my thing, I admit, since nothing smarter comes to mind.
"Do you? Which part?"
Caught by surprise, that query hits without warning. Questions of this kind never come my way. Silence surrounds me - no inquiries at all.
"I... I don't know. All of it, I guess. Understanding why things are the way they are." I stop myself, realizing I'm talking too much. "Why are you here? The library's not exactly your scene."
A grin spreads, shifting everything about how he looks. Handsome is just there, built in, impossible to avoid - yet the smile drags him down from stone into flesh. Not carved anymore, but breathing.
"My scene? What's my scene, Mira?"
Sometimes it's hard to tell. Open grass spaces where kids kick balls around. Loud rooms full of people swaying to music. The place where Selena Vance lives. Her name comes out slow, just to see what flickers across his face. People talk about her - how they drift together, then apart, then back again. She has looks that draw eyes. Money that shows in everything. Exactly who you'd expect him to chase after.
A shadow crosses his face, a shift in the grey of his eyes, just for an instant. Selena and me - we're not exactly… things between us aren't really…
Everything halts. A slow shake follows, left to right.
"I needed a book," he says. "For English. Something on the Jazz Age."
"The 900s are that way." I point. "Second shelf from the bottom."
There's a small dip of his head, yet his feet stay fixed. Stillness wraps around him while his eyes lock onto mine, unwavering. A familiar tingling creeps up my skin - like I'm suddenly transparent under his gaze.
"Mira," he says, and his voice is different now - softer, almost careful. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to not have to hide?"
Something slams into me, hard. Silence comes instead of words. There's no air left to speak. Chest frozen. Breath gone. Heart just stops.
A pause hangs there. One second. Maybe more. His head tilts slightly, as if a thought just clicked into place. Off he goes, moving slow in the direction of the 900s.
Stillness holds me long after he leaves. Behind stacks of old history texts, I stay fixed. The half-eaten apple rests on the desk. Papers with unfinished thoughts lie untouched. His voice circles inside my head, again, then once more, never quite fading.
What if hiding wasn't something you had to do? Could life feel different without it?
Fine. Without fail. Each morning brings it again.
Staying stuck in questions won't cover the bills. It won't shield Elena when shadows move closer. Pausing to wonder only works if you're already out of reach.
I pack up
My stuff in hand, I step out of the library, heading slow toward class. The path stretches far, hugging walls like always. Moving quiet, just another shadow along the edge.
This is my way. Me, through and through.
Must be that way.