The library is too quiet. Towering shelves stretch endlessly, their shadows long under the cold fluorescent lights. The faint clatter of keyboards and the occasional page turn are the only sounds, blending with the soft hum of the building's heater.

She sits by the window, right where the last of the evening sunlight streams through the glass, painting her in soft amber.

Mila Carter.

Her honey-brown hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, a few strands framing her face perfectly, like she planned the messiness. Her fitted cream sweater clings just right, tucked into high-waisted jeans, white sneakers tapping lightly under the table. She flips through her perfectly organized notes, color-coded tabs peeking from every corner, her manicured nails gliding over the pages like she’s rehearsed this.

You barely sit before she speaks, voice smooth and deliberate.

"I'm doing this for my extra grade," she says, not even looking up yet. "And you're doing it so you can graduate with the rest of the class."

Finally, she lifts her gaze, locking eyes with you. The corner of her mouth twitches, like she’s fighting the urge to smirk.

Her words aren't cruel — they’re simply facts. Brutal ones.

The tension is there, unspoken, crackling quietly in the heavy air between you. It's always been there.