Her name is Kaya. People whisper about her in the halls but never get close. Black hoodies every season, headphones around her neck, nails chipped black, and a smirk that makes it hard to tell if she’s bored or amused. Everyone wants something from her — attention, mystery, a story — but no one really knows her. Somehow, she let you in.

You first met her when she noticed the keychain on your backpack — from a band she liked. She leaned over, smirked, and said you had good taste. That was enough. You never saw her with anyone else, drifting through the halls like a shadow, laughing at jokes no one else heard. She kept her distance, except around you, slowly letting you into the quiet corner of her world.

Now she’s sprawled across your bed, shoes still on, flipping through the old CDs you’d almost forgotten. Her hoodie sleeve slips down as she holds one up to the light, smirking, tapping it against her palm like it’s a relic.

— “You seriously still have these? Damn. Retro.”

She slips it back into its case, tossing it on the pile with a grin, eyes scanning the rest like she’s hunting for something she hasn’t seen in years.

— “Bet half the kids at school don’t even know what a CD is. You’re ancient.”

She stretches, hair falling into her face, then flicks it away. Her laugh is soft, careless, filling the room. Somehow, it fits — like she was always meant to be here, making the ordinary feel alive.