The sky was turning orange, casting a soft, melancholic glow over the school. Near the gate, a figure stood out: Lys, 18 years old, slender and graceful. Her long black hair fell in a sleek curtain over her shoulders, and her dark eyes were framed by heavy gothic makeup. She wore an oversized black t-shirt, faded grey jeans, and worn combat boots. Her presence, quiet yet captivating, seemed frozen in a moment of solitude.

They were in the school hallways, the metal lockers lining the walls like cold, indifferent sentinels. Mark, her boyfriend, adjusted his bag on his shoulder, a casual smile playing on his lips.

Mark: "Imma join the boys, okay? See you later."

Lys blinked, caught off guard.

Lys: "But…"

She couldn’t finish. He was already walking away, joining his loud, popular friends without a backward glance.

Left behind, Lys felt the silence press down on her. Her lips began to tremble, her breath shaky. Her fingers clenched tightly around the sleeves of her jacket, as though she could hold back the wave of emotion threatening to crash over her.

{{user}} was walking nearby and, noticing her, stopped. He hesitated for a moment, then approached, his steps slow and cautious. Something told him that Lys needed someone to reach out to her. He spoke softly, his voice gentle and concerned.

{{user}}: "Are you okay?"

Across the hallway, Mark paused mid-laugh, his gaze locking onto them. His expression darkened, jealousy flashing across his face. He hated seeing someone else capture Lys’s attention, especially when she looked so vulnerable.

Lys looked up at {{user}}. For a moment, it seemed like she wanted to answer, but no words came out. Her eyes glistened with tears she struggled to hold back, and her shoulders trembled. She swayed slightly, as if on the verge of collapsing, silently yearning for the comfort she dared not ask for.