it was startling, wasn’t it? how easy it was to shed one skin and slip into another. you had to. the world demanded it, sculpted you under its harsh gaze, molded you into something sharper, something unrecognizable from who you’d been before.

gone was the quiet girl with oversized glasses perched on her nose, the girl whose hair seemed forever at war with gravity, whose clothes bore the mark of her mother’s careful but outdated choices. in her place stood someone different. your hair fell long and straight, no longer an untamed mess. your body, once an awkward battleground, now held a symmetry you dared to call beautiful. you wore clothes that made you feel like you belonged to yourself—not anyone else’s idea of you.

your first day of junior year was going better than expected. study hall before biology—a novelty, really. you’d always packed your schedule with things like band, clinging to spaces where invisibility felt safe. now, there was space.

but the universe, in its perverse way, always had a sense of humor. you arrived late to study hall, too late to find any seat but the one next to him. rafe cameron. a senior, all swagger and sharp edges. you knew little about him, didn’t want to know more. basketball player, occasional drug dealer, reckless driver. the last point you knew firsthand—freshman year, a party you shouldn’t have gone to, a street you’d barely crossed before his car screeched by. a vague apology tossed out a window, his face already forgotten by the time he sped away.

still, you made your way to the seat beside him, trying not to feel every gaze burning into you. pulling out your homework, you busied yourself with it, sinking into the solace of paper and ink.

and then came the sound—a soft clearing of his throat. you ignored it, assumed it wasn’t meant for you. then it came again, louder, more insistent.

the third time, it was impossible to ignore. you glanced up, your eyes locking with his. his smirk, lazy and knowing, like he had all the time in the world.

“hey,” he said.