After four long, soul-sucking classes that felt like slow death by boredom, the lunch bell rings like salvation. The moment it does, chairs screech, bags unzip, voices explode, and half the class evaporates into the hallway like they've been training their whole lives for this prison break.
Some kids stay behind, already pulling out tiffin boxes and claiming desk space like personal dining table. The smell of food spreads fast—spicy, savory, sweet, and suspiciously burnt.
I glance at Zoe, who's balancing her lunchbox in one hand. She looks at me with a mischievous little smirk. "Let's go to the rooftop," she says like it's some grand conspiracy. "I found a spot there yesterday. No noise, no people, just wind and peace. You'll love it."
That sounds like heaven right now.
I grab my lunchbox without a second thought. "Lead the way, rooftop queen."
She flashes a wink. "Your majesty accepts."
We slip out before anyone can stop us, weaving through the crowded hallway where people are already yelling about ketchup packets and who stole whose fries. I don't know where Zoe's secret spot is exactly, but I trust her. She always finds the hidden places—the quiet corners no one bothers to look for.
Yes, we're definitely the type who don't thrive in crowds. Zoe and I—we exist somewhere between invisible and politely detached. We don't hate people, we just… prefer not to be around them. It's not some edgy, "we're not like other girls" thing. It's just—peace feels better when it's not being interrupted by forced small talk or the latest gossip about who's crushing on who this week.
We're not rude, either. We smile when someone greets us, help if someone drops their stuff, laugh politely at jokes even if they're not that funny. It's just... no one else ever feels worth the energy it takes to really engage. Not in the way Zoe is. Not in the way that feels easy, and safe, and never fake.
She gets it. She's always gotten it.
So when we step out of that hallway noise and up the quiet staircase to the rooftop, it feels like slipping back into our element. The sun's out but not too harsh, the wind flutters across the concrete like it knows how sacred this quiet is, and when Zoe pushes open the metal door, the world calms.
There's a tucked-away corner behind the old water tank, with two slightly broken plastic chairs and a crate between them like a makeshift table.
"I told you," she says, already claiming her seat with a satisfied flop.
I grin and sit beside her, pulling open my lunchbox. "You really are a genius."
She shrugs, poking at her sandwich. "Geniuses don't spend their free time hiding on rooftops eating sad bread."
"Maybe not," I say, popping open my container, "but if I had to be here with anyone else, I'd probably jump."
She snorts. "That's the nicest threat I've ever received."
And we sit, together in our own small, quiet world—two socially awkward girls with just enough space, just enough sunlight, and just enough each other.
We're mid-chew, mid-rant actually—Zoe's telling me how the guy in front of her in the hallway dropped his entire milk carton, stepped in it, and just kept walking like a menace to society—when she suddenly freezes.
"Oh no," she says, eyes wide.
I pause, half a spoon of rice already on its way to my mouth. "What?"
She stands so fast her chair screeches. "I need to pee."
I blink. "Now?"
"Emergency-level. I drank three bottles of water in first 4 period, don't judge me!" She's already halfway to the door.
I raise my hands in surrender. "Go! May your bladder find peace!"
She bolts, yelling over her shoulder, "Don't eat all the good stuff!"
"It's all mine now, sucker!" I call after her, cackling. I shake my head, still grinning as the door bangs shut behind her.
So here I am. Alone on a rooftop, lunchbox on my lap, wind in my hair, and the distant sounds of chaos below—muffled yells, laughing, maybe someone arguing about fries. Typical school day soundtrack.
I glance at Zoe's half-eaten sandwich still sitting on her crate-plate. I could mess with her and eat it. Leave a single bite. But no. I'll be nice.
I take a slow bite of my own food and lean back in the chair, legs stretched out in front of me, staring up at the sky. It is faded blue with wisps of clouds slowly shifting like the world's softest painting. This is peace. This is—
Clank.
I freeze.
The metallic echo of something hitting the floor. Sharp. Close.
My head jerks to the side instinctively. I didn't imagine that. That was real. I sit up straight, heartbeat skipping. The sound came from the other side of the rooftop, behind the short divider wall near the old janitor's storage door—just out of sight from where I'm sitting.
Zoe couldn't have come back that fast. No way. I squint at the door. Still shut.
My hand tightens around my lunchbox without realizing. Every horror movie I've ever half-watched is suddenly screaming at me to stay put and mind your own business. But of course, I don't listen. Curiosity is a disease, and apparently, I've caught it.
Slowly, I stand up and set my lunchbox down on the chair. I move toward the sound, cautious, careful with each step like the ground might yell if I press too hard. The rooftop is mostly open space with broken chairs stacked against the wall and faded graffiti on the far side—but that small utility structure in the corner, with the rusted old water tank and metal piping, is just suspicious enough.
Another sound.
Faint.
Like a shuffle.
My stomach coils. Okay, definitely not the wind. Not a pigeon either. Too heavy. Too… human.
I creep closer to the divider wall and lean just a bit to peek over.
A girl.
She's crouched low to the ground, back pressed against the wall beside the old water tank like she's trying to disappear into it. Her arms are curled tightly around her knees, head bowed so low her chin nearly touches them. For a second, all I can see is her dark brown bob—cut short and neat, the ends curling slightly inward—and the white headband pushing her hair back, a little crooked on her head.
Then she lifts her head just a little—and I freeze.
Jazzlyn.
The Jazzlyn.
Pretty, soft-spoken, never-got-a-detention-in-her-life Jazzlyn. The kind of girl teachers loved and everyone just… liked. Even if they didn't know her well. Because how could you not? She was sweet, polite, quiet. Always helped pass out papers. Smiled at strangers in the hallway. Did group projects all on her own if her teammates slacked. You could throw her into any situation and she'd be the calmest person in the room.
But right now?
She looks anything but calm.
Her eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, her face blotchy in a way that says she'd been trying very hard not to cry and failing just as hard. Her fingers are clenched tight on the fabric of her skirt, and her breathing is shallow like she doesn't want to make a sound, doesn't want to be found.
I feel my chest tighten. Because out of all the people I'd have expected to find curled up on a lonely rooftop, crying alone in the middle of lunch break—it wasn't Jazzlyn.
She looks up fully now and her eyes land on me.
Wide. Startled. Mortified.
And I see it—clear as day—the panic of being seen like this, the dread of being exposed. Her lips part, like she wants to say something, maybe ask me to go, maybe explain, maybe deny.
But nothing comes out.
I don't know what to do.
Should I say something? Should I walk away? Should I just… pretend I never saw it?
But something in me doesn't move. Something in me stays.
Because even though Jazzlyn and I aren't close—even though we're barely anything more than classmates—I know what that kind of sadness looks like. That ache—that very specific ache of seeing someone breaking alone—it doesn't let me go.
So instead of vanishing, I clear my throat gently.
Jazzlyn flinches. "I—I didn't know anyone was up here," she stammers, her voice small and cracked at the edges.
"I didn't either," I say quietly, taking one small step forward, then stopping. "Sorry. I wasn't… I didn't mean to interrupt."
She forces a tight smile, the kind that doesn't reach anywhere near her eyes. "It's fine. I was just—needed air. You know how it is."
Yeah.
I do.
I nod, not moving closer. Just standing there in the awkward space between caring and not wanting to make it worse.
Jazzlyn laughs suddenly—a short, dry sound that sounds nothing like her usual soft-spoken voice. "This is embarrassing. God. You must think I'm such a mess."
"I think everyone gets to be a mess sometimes," I say.
She stares at me, like that answer surprised her. Like she expected something else. Pity, maybe. Or judgment. I don't know. "Do you…" I hesitate, glancing toward the chair where we sat. "Wanna sit somewhere a little less… mop-scented?"
God, what did I just say? "Mop-scented"? Seriously? Who says that? My face heats up, and I want to disappear into the cracked rooftop floor right then and there.
Her eyes widen, and she blinks like she's trying to figure out if I'm serious or just completely lost in my own awkwardness. Her cheeks flush a soft pink, and I want to disappear right there.
"Uh, I mean…" I scramble for words like a nervous idiot. "You know, less… gross? I didn't mean to be rude. It just—yeah, sorry. That was dumb."
She chuckles softly, shaking her head. "No, it's okay. Way better than me trying to say something and sounding like a robot."
Relief floods me, and I manage a small smile back. "So… chair?"
She nods, standing up carefully. "Chair."
We sit. Not close—not far either. That weird distance people keep when they're not quite strangers, but also not sure what the hell to do with each other yet and I make a conscious effort not to say anything else stupid for at least five minutes. Maybe then I'll earn some points back for basic human decency.
The breeze plays with a loose strand of my hair, and I tuck it behind my ear just to do something with my hands. I pick at the edge of my lunchbox with my nail. She folds and unfolds her sleeves. Neither of us looks directly at the other.
"So..." I try, voice way too loud in the still rooftop air, "you come up here often?"
GOD. What am I, flirting?
I want to shove myself off the chair.
She gives me a weird little side glance. "Like it's a coffee shop?"
I flush, gripping the edge of my seat like it's a lifeline. "I meant… you know. To be alone."
She pauses. And then nods. "Yeah. Sometimes. I didn't think someone like you would come here," she says softly, like she's trying not to sound like she's judging, even though she kind of is.
I raise an eyebrow. "Someone like me?"
"You know. Quiet. But... not sad quiet." She scrunches her face. "That sounded worse than I meant. I mean, you're always with that girl—Zoe, right? You guys seem like you have your own world."
My throat tightens a little at that. Because she's right. We do. And I don't know what it says about me that I've never thought about how that must look to other people. "Yeah, well," I say, half-smiling, "our world doesn't come with a mop smell either. Most days."
She huffs a tiny laugh, a real one this time, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her headband has shifted slightly to the left, and I resist the urge to fix it. It would be weird. We're not there.
Another silence crawls in.
I sneak a glance at her, and… yeah. She still looks like someone who's been crying, even if she's trying to act like she hasn't. Eyes puffy. A little red. Lips bitten raw. It's strange, because Jazzlyn is the kind of girl who always seems like she's... composed. Balanced. Like her days come color-coded and shrink-wrapped in peace.
"Do you…" I begin, then immediately regret it, but now I've started so I might as well finish, "...wanna talk about it?"
Jazzlyn shifts, just a little, like the question surprised her even though it probably shouldn't have. Her fingers fiddle with the frayed end of her sleeve, twisting it around and around.
For a second, I think she won't answer.
Then she exhales through her nose, soft and tired. "It's stupid."
"Everything feels stupid until it isn't," I say, quietly. "You can still say it."
She's chewing on the inside of her cheek, eyes flicking to the edge of the rooftop las if she's weighing the risk of jumping just to avoid this conversation. Finally, she murmurs, "It's just… sometimes I feel like I'm holding this version of myself together with string. And duct tape. And everyone thinks I've got it all figured out just because I don't... fall apart in public."
I blink.
That was not the answer I expected.
Jazzlyn's voice drops lower. She's confessing something she's never told anyone. "I'm the nice one. The quiet one. But sometimes I just want to scream. Or disappear. Or do something reckless. Just to stop feeling so—" she falters, then shrugs helplessly, "—so invisible."
I don't know what to say for a second. My brain is flipping through pages of responses, but nothing sounds right. So I offer the only thing that feels honest: "You're not invisible."
She looks at me sharply, like she wants to believe it but can't.
"I mean it," I add. "You sit in front of me in Lit. You always answer when the teacher asks something no one else dares to. You write with that smooth blue pen. You twist your rings when you're nervous. You once held the door open for someone who didn't say thank you and still smiled at them anyway. That's not invisible. That's... noticed."
Her mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. Her fingers freeze on the sleeve. For the first time since I found her up here, she looks like she might cry again—but not from sadness. Then she says, voice barely a whisper, "You really notice all that?"
I shrug, cheeks warm. "I read people. It's kind of my thing. Writers do that, right?"
Her eyes start to shine, and her chin wobbles the tiniest bit before she bites it down hard. And then—quietly, like it takes more strength than it should—she says, "No one ever notices me like that. They see what I let them see. The clean version. The one who's useful. But you…"
She swallows.
"You saw things I didn't even know were visible."
It's a strange thing, watching someone fall apart without actually falling to pieces. Jazzlyn isn't crying exactly—there are no sobs, no dramatic gasps—but her voice is breaking at the seams, and I can see it. The way she's crumpling in on herself, not from weakness, but from being strong for way too long.
And it hurts. God, it actually hurts to look at her like that. Like maybe she's been waiting for someone to say exactly this for years and didn't know it until now.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," she mumbles, rubbing at her eyes with the sleeves of her cardigan. "We don't even talk."
I offer the gentlest smile I can manage. "We are now."
She lets out a soft laugh that sounds like it surprised even her. "Right." She covers her face with both hands now.
There's a pause. Just the wind rustling over the rooftop and the sound of her breathing through her palms.
Then, almost inaudible: "Thank you."