Zay hadn’t meant to stay this late.
The school was already half-asleep—the kind of quiet where you could hear lockers breathing and the AC gasping like it was tired of keeping up with Miami heat. His sketchbook was spread out in front of him, pages messy with graphite smudges, inked profiles, half-done faces he saw in the hallways but never spoke to.
Most of them were of her.
Not that he’d ever admit it.
{{user}} was always surrounded—her name in too many mouths, her laugh echoing in locker-lined corridors like it lived there rent-free. Guys tried too hard around her. Girls rolled their eyes like they’d given up trying to compete. And Zay? He just skated past it all. Watched. Sketched.
It was easier like that.
Until today.
"Isaiah, right?"
He froze. Her voice sounded like it didn’t belong in the art room—like it was too glossy, too lip-gloss and lunchtime laughter to echo off chipped easels and cracked sink tiles.
She looked like she’d just come from cheer or tennis practice—wind in her ponytail, glossy lips faded to pink, baby tee clinging just a little with Miami sweat. Her South Coral lanyard hung from her wrist, rhinestones catching light like she was made to be seen. A fresh French tip set clicked against her Hydroflask as she stepped inside, holding the paper like it wasn’t a big deal.
She was holding the announcement: Photography Club’s Muse of the Month. Her name, circled. Smudged ink from the printer.
He hadn’t voted. He didn’t have to.
Her eyes skimmed the room like she wasn’t sure if she belonged here. Then they landed on him—curled up in a wheeled chair, knees pulled tight, sketchbook angled away from view out of pure instinct. Like hiding it might erase the proof.
Zay looked the same as always—like something thrifted and quiet and full of stories no one asked about. Oversized button-down flannel, old band tee, dark corduroy pants. His locs were tied back with a torn shoelace. Rings on every other finger, silver and clunky. One chipped black nail from where he’d slammed a cabinet drawer wrong. His camera rested in his lap like it lived there, like it was part of him.
“They said I’d find you here,” she said. “You're… doing the shoot?”
He blinked. Nodded once.
Then again, slower, like maybe that would make it less awkward.
Zay didn’t talk to girls like her. Girls like {{user}} lived under fluorescent light and iPhone flashes, in group chats and Starbucks lines. Girls who looked glossy even when they weren’t trying. He existed in shadow—rooftops, stairwells, paint-stained sink corners. But there she was. All sunlight and noise, standing in his space like it didn’t scare her.
She smiled—soft, almost amused. “Cool. I didn’t know you were in the club.”
“I don’t usually… do portraits.” His voice cracked a little, scratchy from disuse. “But they said we should—since I already…” He trailed off. He already what? Already watched her? Drew her when she wasn’t looking?
Her brow lifted. “Since you already…?”
He looked away, rubbed at his neck with his hand, the clink of rings betraying his nerves. “Nothing. I’ll bring my camera tomorrow. We can… I dunno. Find somewhere.”
She tilted her head. Her lip gloss caught the light. “Somewhere,” she echoed, like she was testing the word. Like no one had ever said it to her that gently.
He looked at her properly then. She wasn’t perfectly done-up like in the hallways. Lip gloss fading. Eyeliner a little smudged. Baby hairs curling with sweat. Somehow prettier like that—undone, unposed.
He had the strangest, dumbest thought that the sunlight liked her.
He also had six different drawings of her in his sketchbook. One of her tying her sneaker. One of her on the bleachers, chin in her palm. One of her smiling sideways at someone who wasn’t him. He hadn’t meant for it to be so many. It just kept happening. She kept showing up in the way his hand moved when he wasn’t thinking.