There was something in her eyes.
Something soft.
Something almost… apologetic?
Or maybe that was wishful thinking.
The crowd swallowed them.
And just like that, the hallway noise returned—louder than before.
“Did you see that?”
“Why her?”
“Maybe Sophia feels bad for her.”
The whispers burned.
I forced my face neutral and walked to class, spine stiff, pretending I couldn’t hear anything.
But Zoe’s words echoed.
Don’t get the wrong idea.
As if I would ever dare to.
—
By the time school ended, I felt emotionally wrung out.
Sophia had returned my notebook during third period with a quiet “Thank you,” her fingers lingering for half a second too long. My brain replayed it on loop.
But she hadn’t said anything else.
Hadn’t looked at me the rest of the day.
Maybe Zoe was right.
Maybe it had meant nothing.
I skipped the bus home and headed to the library instead. It was my sanctuary. Quiet. Safe. No one paid attention to the girl in the back corner sketching in pencil.
I slid into my usual seat by the window and pulled out my sketchbook.
I shouldn’t have.
I knew I shouldn’t.
But my hand moved on its own.
Within minutes, Sophia’s profile took shape on the page—the elegant slope of her nose, the focused set of her mouth when she read.
Drawing her was easier than talking to her.
On paper, I could control the distance.
I was so absorbed that I didn’t notice someone approach until a shadow fell across my desk.
My breath caught.
Sophia stood there.
Alone.
My heart nearly stopped.
She wasn’t smiling as brightly now. She looked… nervous.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“Hi,” I croaked.
She glanced down at my sketchbook.
At the drawing.
Of her.
My stomach dropped.
I hadn’t closed it.
I snapped it shut too late.
Silence.
Heat crawled up my neck.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I just— I draw people sometimes. It’s not weird. I mean—it is weird, but—”
“Lila.”
Her voice cut through my panic.
Gentle. Steady.
“I think it’s beautiful.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Your drawing.” Her eyes were shining. “It’s… really beautiful.”
She sat down across from me without asking.
Close enough that our knees almost touched under the table.
“I didn’t know you drew,” she continued.
“I don’t really show anyone.”
“Why not?”
Because it’s the only thing I’m good at, and if people hate it, I’ll have nothing left.
I shrugged instead. “It’s just a hobby.”
She studied me in a way that made my pulse spike.
“Could you draw me?” she asked quietly.
My brain shut down.
“I mean—properly,” she added quickly. “Like a portrait.”
“You want me to draw you?”
“Yes.”
The word was firm.
Certain.
“Why?” I whispered.
A flicker of vulnerability crossed her face.
“Because I want to see how you see me.”
The air between us shifted.
Thickened.
My chest tightened painfully.
She wanted to see how I saw her.
If she knew how I saw her—like sunlight and salvation and everything I couldn’t have—she’d run.
“I’m not that good,” I said, defaulting to self-defense.
“You are,” she insisted.
Our eyes locked.
For a second, the world narrowed to the space between us.
Then—
A phone camera shutter clicked.
Sophia stiffened.
We both turned.
Zoe stood near the entrance of the library, phone lowered slowly, a smile playing on her lips.
“Oh, sorry,” she said lightly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
But her eyes were cold.
Calculating.
“I was just looking for you, Soph.”
Sophia stood, shoulders tense. “I’ll be right there.”
Zoe’s gaze slid to me.
Lingering.
Assessing.
Threatening.
My skin prickled.
Sophia turned back to me. “Will you think about it? The portrait?”
I nodded mutely.
She hesitated, like she wanted to say more.
Then she left.
Zoe fell into step beside her, whispering something that made Sophia’s expression flicker.
They disappeared through the doors together.
And I was left alone at the table, heart racing, hands trembling.
She wants to see how you see her.
I pressed my palm against my chest.
Hope bloomed, fragile and dangerous.
But in the back of my mind, Zoe’s camera click echoed like a warning shot.
This wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Because girls like Sophia Carter didn’t just drift toward girls like me without consequences.
And girls like Zoe Miller didn’t lose without a fight.
I looked down at my closed sketchbook.
At the hundreds of pages filled with silent longing.
For the first time in a year, something inside me shifted.
Maybe this year wouldn’t be about watching from the sidelines.
Maybe—
Just maybe—
She had been watching me too.