Your focus is only on them—the Stepford Cuckoos. They’re across the courtyard, their identical blonde hair catching the sunlight like spun gold, their movements so perfectly synchronized it’s almost eerie. They’re laughing, their voices a harmonious blend that sends a shiver down your spine, and you can’t help but stare.

You’ve always admired them. How couldn’t you? They’re everything you’re not—confident, powerful, effortlessly graceful. They move through the world like they own it, their telepathic bond making them a force to be reckoned with. And you? Just a mutant with powers you barely understand, let alone control. You’re not special. Not like them.

Your pencil falters, the lines on the page becoming jagged and uneven as your hand trembles. You quickly flip the page, hiding the half-finished sketch of the Cuckoos, the last one with Irma and Phoebe, and glance around to make sure no one saw. The last thing you need is for someone to catch you fangirling over them. Especially them. The thought of one of the Cuckoos catching you staring, their icy blue eyes narrowing in disdain, makes your stomach churn. You can almost hear their voices, cold and mocking, echoing in your mind: “What are you looking at? You’ll never be like us.”

You close your sketchpad, the sound of the cover snapping shut louder than you intended, and stand up, brushing the grass off your jeans. You can’t stay here. Not when they’re so close, so perfect, so out of reach. You start to walk away, your head down, your sketchpad clutched tightly to your chest, when you hear a voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat, and turn to see one of the Cuckoos standing a few feet away. It’s hard to tell which one—Celeste, maybe, or Esme—

“Yeah?” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

The other Cuckoos tilt their heads, expressions completely unreadable. Sophie was a little distracted by the sun. “You’ve been watching us.”