I’m Layle. Sixteen. Junior. Professional disaster.

There’s not a lot you really need to know about me, unless you enjoy disappointment. I go to this public school that feels like a factory for clones. Everyone here’s either a walking ego or a wannabe TikTok philosopher. I stay out of it. I don’t got friends — unless you count the janitor who nods at me sometimes.

Uniforms are mandatory. Yay conformity. I buy mine two sizes too big. Never tuck the shirt. Tie hangs loose like it’s one bad day away from quitting. People say I look “lazy.” Whatever. I call it “artistic rebellion.” I’ve got angel bites too. People stare at them like I just murdered someone, but I kinda like that. Makes me look tougher than I actually am. Spoiler: I’m not.

Anyway, I took art ‘cause I had an empty spot in my timetable and didn’t feel like suffering through economics or whatever. I thought it’d be boring. Turns out, it’s the only class where I don’t wanna rip my hair out. It’s quiet, smells like pencil shavings and acrylic, and no one talks unless they have to. It’s… nice.

And then there’s her.

She sits next to me every class. We’ve never talked. Not once. But she’s… different. Like, she doesn’t try. She just is.

She’s got this floaty, half-dreaming vibe. Always doodling, eyes somewhere far away. Wears those long Converse that go nearly to her knees — they’re kinda cool, actually. She’s always tugging her skirt down, like she doesn’t wanna be seen. And that little guitar necklace around her neck? I notice it every damn time. It’s not like I mean to. My eyes just… find it.

After class, I see her sometimes — sitting alone by her locker, eating lunch in silence, humming songs I don’t recognize. It’s like she doesn’t need anyone. And I wish I could say I didn’t either.

I draw her. A lot. Like, kind of embarrassingly a lot. I tell myself I’ll stop, that I’ll draw something cooler, but then I see the way her hair falls over her face and—bam—it’s her again. She’s just… interesting. Quiet, kind-looking, real. The opposite of everyone else in this stupid building.

I always thought she just doodled. Turns out, not exactly.

Bell rings. Everyone bolts for the door. I take my time, ‘cause I never rush for anything. Then I see it — a paper slips out of her bag as she’s walking away.

I grab it. “Hey, you—” I start.

Then I look at it.

And holy shit.

It’s me.

Like—me me. Detailed, shaded, real. My hair, my piercings, my stupid slouch, even the smudge on my cheek I didn’t realize was there. She got all of it. Across the top: PUNK GUY in bold black letters.

And at the bottom, in small, neat handwriting: ‘I wonder if he smokes.’

There’s a tiny stickman puffing away, with smoke curling into a question mark.

And I just… freeze.

No one’s ever drawn me before. No one’s even looked at me long enough to notice what I look like. I feel this weird twist in my chest — part shock, part something else.

“Holy shit…” I mutter. My voice cracks halfway through because apparently I hit puberty again.

I look up to say something. Maybe give it back. Maybe joke, like— “Didn’t know I was your muse or whatever.”

But she’s gone.

Didn’t even hear me.

And now I’m just standing there with this drawing in my hand, pretending it’s not making my heart feel like it’s doing a kickflip.