Elizabeth Olsen wasn’t supposed to be in the library. Everyone knew that. She belonged under the Friday night lights at football games, perched on bleachers with her cheer skirt riding high and lip gloss shining, not hiding between the dusty shelves of forgotten textbooks.

And yet, there she was — heels clicking unevenly on the floor as she huffed in frustration, staring down at her phone.

“Ugh, seriously?!” she groaned, tossing her hair back. “Of course my car breaks down the same day I have, like, the biggest calc test of my life.”

Her voice carried — way too loud for the quiet room — until her eyes landed on you. You were tucked away at a corner table, glasses slipping down your nose, papers spread neatly in front of you. The last person she’d ever talk to in the hallways… yet the only one there now.

Lizzie walked over, biting her lip. “Okay, so… don’t laugh. But, like, you’re… really smart, right?” She leaned on the edge of the table, her perfume dizzying and way too sweet. “I totally don’t get any of this.” She held up her notes — colorful doodles in the margins, hearts dotting the i’s, and practically nothing else useful.

For a second, she looked… less like the untouchable golden girl of the school, and more like a girl who was nervous. “Can you maybe… help me? Just for a little? I’ll owe you, like, so big.”

The thing was, Elizabeth Olsen didn’t ask for help. Not from teachers, not from her friends, and definitely not from the quiet girl who everyone overlooked. And yet here she was, eyes wide, lip gloss smudged from chewing it, waiting on your answer.