Morning light hits differently when you've actually slept.
I'm walking into school with my old sketchbook tucked under my arm, the one I haven't touched in over a year. Something about talking with Caleb last night—even with all his awkward pauses and sidelong glances—left me feeling lighter. Not fixed. Just... less heavy. He's trying. That counts.
The hallway's crowded with the usual morning shuffle. Lockers slamming. People laughing too loud because they're still half-asleep. I flip through the sketchbook as I walk, running my fingers over the last drawing I'd done—some half-finished landscape that I abandoned when everything started changing. There are a few blank pages at the back. Maybe I'll actually use them today.
That's when I spot Selma by the water fountain. She's dragging her feet, backpack hanging off one shoulder like it weighs a hundred pounds. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair pulled back but messy, like she did it in the car.
"Hey, Selma!" I call out, waving my free hand.
Her head snaps up, eyes widening a little. I realize I'm smiling.
Weird
"Well, look at you," she says, adjusting her backpack. "Being all sociable in the morning. That's new."
I shrug, clutching my sketchbook tighter. "Guess I slept okay for once."
"It's nice," she says, her voice softening. "You look cute when you smile. Should try it more often."
I pause midstride and almost stumble for a moment. I don't know what to do with that.
Selma lets out a weary smile and chuckles slightly.
"You okay?" I ask. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
Selma sighs, shoulders dropping another inch. "That obvious, huh?"
"That obvious, huh?"
I nod, not really sure what else to say.
She rubs her face. "Zahra and Hana are still at it. I'm caught in the middle, and honestly? It's exhausting."
"I get it," I say, even though I don't really know what it's like to be in her shoes. I know what it's like to feel pulled in every direction though. To feel like you're the problem even when you're not.
Selma looks at me like she's about to say something else, then just sighs again.
"You doing okay though? You seem... I don't know, different. Calmer."
Different. I flinch a little at that.
"I guess." I glance down at my sketchbook. "Trying to be better."
We stand there for a moment, people flowing around us like we're rocks in a stream. Selma looks so tired. She's always the one listening to everyone else's problems—my stuff, Zahra and Hana's drama. Always the mediator, the shoulder, the one who keeps it together.
When's the last time someone did something for her?
I could help for once. Before everything changed, I would've just invited her over for video games or something. We'd eat junk food and forget about everything else for a while.
The thought hits me like a memory from someone else's life. That version of me feels so far away now. But maybe... maybe some things don't have to be different.
Aunt Clara would probably be cool with it. She's always saying I should have friends over.
"What are you doing this weekend?" The words tumble out before I can overthink them.
Selma blinks, surprised. "Um, nothing really. Why?"
"You could come over. Just to hang out or whatever." My voice sounds weird. Too high. I clear my throat. "If you want."
Something shifts in her expression—a tiny spark in those tired eyes.
"That sounds—"
"Hey, Selma."
I turn to see Luis hovering nearby, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets. I barely know him—he transferred in last semester. Something about him always makes me uneasy. Like he knows things about me that I don't want anyone to know.
"Oh, hey Luis," Selma says, her voice warming slightly. "How's it going?"
"You know. Surviving." His eyes flick to me, then back to Selma. "What are you guys talking about?"
The hallway suddenly feels too small. My throat tightens.
"Ely was just inviting me over this weekend," Selma says.
Luis nods slowly. "Cool."
Silence stretches between us, thick and awkward. Selma looks between us, obviously trying to figure out what to say next.
Shit. This is weird now.
"You can come too," I say to Luis, forcing a smile that feels like plastic on my face. "If you want."
His eyebrows shoot up. "For real?"
No. Not for real. But Selma's smiling now—a real smile, not the tired one from before—and she's looking at me like I've done something amazing instead of something stupid.
"Yeah," I manage. "Saturday afternoon maybe?"
"I'm in," Selma says, readjusting her backpack. "I could use a break from everything."
Luis nods, still looking surprised. "Yeah, sure. Thanks."
The first bell rings, saving me from having to say anything else.
"I'll text you both," I say, already backing away. "See you later."
As I turn to head to class, my stomach churns with regret, but also, anticipation?
Study hall is the one good thing about school. Everyone's supposed to be quiet, which means nobody's talking to me. Just the scratch of pencils and the occasional cough from Mr. Delaney who keeps checking his phone like we can't see him doing it.
I open my sketchbook, flipping past all the old drawings. Past life stuff. The blank page stares back at me.
My pencil moves before I really decide what I'm drawing. Just lines at first, curved and soft. A face takes shape—round cheeks, big eyes. Girl's face. Pretty. I add hair next, falling in gentle waves past her shoulders. The kind of hair I see in magazines.
Wonder what I'd look like with hair like that.
I keep sketching, adding little details without thinking too hard. A small nose. Full lips with just a hint of a smile. I shade in the eyes, making them look bright, alive. She looks... happy. Confident.
My hand drifts to the shoulders, adding a necklace with a little star pendant. I'd like something like that.
Nice.
"That's really good."
The voice behind me makes me jump so hard my knee hits the underside of the desk. My sketchbook tumbles to the floor, pages fluttering.
Shit shit shit.
I twist around to see Kyra standing there, her expression apologetic. I didn't even hear her walk up.
"Sorry," she whispers, already bending down to pick up my sketchbook. "Didn't mean to scare you."
Before I can stop her, she's looking at the drawing. My face burns hot.
Kyra just studies it, something soft in her expression. "You're talented," she says, handing the book back to me. "She's beautiful."
I take it, careful not to let our fingers touch. "Thanks. It's nothing. Just doodling."
Kyra slides into the empty seat next to me, which is weird because she usually sits near the windows. "She kind of looks like you, you know."
My stomach drops. "What? No she doesn't."
"The eyes," Kyra says, pointing but not touching the page. "Same shape. And something about the expression." She tilts her head. "It's like... you, but in another universe or something."
I stare at the drawing again. Maybe there is something familiar there. But also not. It's like looking at a funhouse mirror—recognizable but different in all these ways I can't put my finger on.
"I didn't really mean to draw anyone specific," I mumble, which isn't exactly a lie.
Kyra leans back in the chair, still looking at my drawing. "I used to draw too. Not nearly as good as you though."
"Really?" I ask, genuinely surprised. I remember Kyra having a lot of hobbies when we were kids, but drawing wasn't one of them. At least not that I knew about.
She nods. "Yeah, mostly when I was like, twelve? My mom was going through this phase where she wanted me to try everything. Piano lessons, tennis, art classes." She rolls her eyes but there's fondness there. "I was terrible at all of it except maybe the drawing. But then I got busy with other stuff."
"What kind of stuff?" I ask, trying to sound casual. Like I don't already know some of the answer.
"Debate team for a while. Then I got really into photography." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I still do that sometimes."
I nod, remembering the camera she got for her thirteenth birthday. She'd taken pictures of everything for weeks—including about fifty unflattering shots of me making stupid faces.
"What about you?" she asks. "Have you always been into art?"
I hesitate. The truth is complicated. "On and off," I say finally. "More off lately, but... I'm trying to get back into it."
"Any particular reason you stopped?"
My grip tightens on my pencil. "Just... stuff happened. Life got weird."
Kyra doesn't push, which I appreciate. Instead, she just nods like she understands. "Life has a way of doing that."
Mr. Delaney clears his throat and gives us a pointed look. Kyra lowers her voice even more.
"Sorry for bothering you," she whispers. "I just... I don't know. Wanted to say hi, I guess."
Something about the way she says it makes my chest feel tight. Like she's been wanting to talk to me for a while but wasn't sure how.
"You're not bothering me," I say, and I mean it.
She smiles, and it's the same smile from when we were kids. The one that made her eyes crinkle at the corners.
"What classes do you have this semester?" she asks.
We talk quietly for the rest of study hall. About nothing important—just schedules and teachers and how the cafeteria food seems to be getting worse. It feels normal. Easy. Like we're just two people getting to know each other, not a girl talking to someone who used to be her best friend and a different person a year before.
As the bell rings, we both gather our things without rushing. Kyra slings her bag over one shoulder, then glances at me.
"This was nice," she says. "We should talk more. Maybe text or something?"
I start to nod and open my mouth, ready to give her my number—then stop.
Still the same number. Still tied to the name I don't want anyone seeing pop up on their screen.
"My phone's acting weird lately," I say quickly. "But I can grab yours and text you after school?"
Kyra doesn't seem to notice the pause. "Sure," she says, and rattles off her number. I repeat it back under my breath, just loud enough so she knows I heard.
"Cool," I say, awkward and quiet.
She smiles again, easy and warm. "Talk soon?"
"Yeah. Definitely."
We step into the hallway. The noise hits, same as always, but it doesn't feel like too much this time.
Not with her walking next to me.
Not today.