Manon was impossible to read—and maybe that was the point. One day she’d steal your pen mid-class, twirl it between her fingers, and smirk like she owned the room. The next, she’d barely glance your way, like you were just another face in the hallway.

You couldn’t tell if she was flirting or just cruel.

Right now, she stood across from you at your locker, arms crossed, glossy lips curled into a half-smile. “You’re staring again.” She said, voice light but laced with amusement. “You catch feelings that easily?”

You tried to respond, but she was already turning on her heel.

She glanced back once, long lashes casting shadows over her sharp gaze. “Don’t overthink it.” She added. “It’s not that deep.”