The car moved in silence, cutting through the sleepy streets of Maple Hill like a ghost. Layla Reyes pressed her forehead to the window, watching the houses blur past—each one a variation of red brick and white trim, front yards dusted with frost. It was the kind of town that looked borrowed from a snow globe. Perfect. Untouchable. False.
"This is a good move, Lay," her mom said, voice light but rehearsed. Like she'd practiced those same six words in the mirror, over and over, until they sounded almost real.
Layla didn't answer.
She didn't need to. Her silence had become a language between them—fluent, tired, and heavy.
Her fingers traced circles in the condensation forming on the glass. Chicago had been loud and complicated. But at least it had been familiar. Maple Hill was too quiet, too clean. Like it hadn't seen heartbreak in a while. Like it wouldn't know what to do with someone like her.
The car turned into the lot of Maple Hill High, where red brick buildings stood like guardians, ivy crawling up one side, a weathered flag fluttering above a garden shaped like a heart. Students clustered near the entrance, bundled in jackets and beanies, their laughter trailing into the icy morning air.
Layla's stomach turned.
"You want me to walk in with you?" her mom asked, hesitating with her hand still on the gearshift.
"No." Layla opened the door before her mom could say anything else. "I've got it."
She stepped out, closing the door behind her with a soft but certain click. The cold greeted her like a slap—sharp, bracing. Real.
Inside the main office, the walls smelled like new paint and lemon polish. A secretary with tight curls and tired eyes handed her a clipboard and a schedule printed on yellow paper.
"You must be Layla Reyes. Welcome to Maple Hill High," she said with a forced brightness.
Layla offered a polite nod. Words still felt too fragile to use.
"Homeroom's Room 204. History with Mr. Keane. English with Ms. Ramirez," the woman continued. "You're just in time for first period. I can call someone to show you around if you'd like."
"That's okay," Layla said quickly, clutching the schedule like a shield. "I'll find it."
It took two laps around the same hallway and one awkward run-in with a vending machine before she found her locker. The combination worked on the third try. The door opened with a squeak that felt louder than it had any right to be.
She shoved her books inside and shut it fast.
"Hey," a voice said beside her.
Layla startled, then turned.
A girl with a thick auburn braid and a coffee cup smiled at her like they were already friends.
"You look lost. I'm Tessa."
"I'm not lost," Layla lied.
Tessa laughed, not unkindly. "Sure you're not. First period?"
"History," Layla mumbled, offering her schedule like a peace treaty.
Tessa scanned it. "Mr. Keane. Brutal before coffee, decent after. I'm down the hall in Calc. I'll walk you."
They fell into step.
"Where'd you move from?"
"Chicago."
Tessa raised a brow. "Dang. Maple Hill's gotta feel like a padded room after that."
Layla smirked, just a little. "Pretty much."
They reached the classroom as the bell rang. Tessa pointed. "Lunch? I'll find you."
Layla hesitated. Then nodded. "Okay."
Mr. Keane had a mustache that looked like it fought back and a tired expression like he'd already taught the Cold War three times today.
"You must be our transfer. Layla, right?"
She nodded.
"Grab a seat. Presentations are starting."
Layla slid into a seat near the back. Eyes flicked toward her. Some curious. Some indifferent.
And one pair—dark, warm, too observant—held her gaze a second too long.
A boy. Pen tucked behind his ear. Sketchpad half-hidden under his notebook. His eyes met hers, calm and unreadable. Then he looked away.
By lunch, Layla's head ached from pretending not to care. She considered hiding in the library, earbuds in. But Tessa was waving from a table near the windows.
Layla slid into the seat opposite her. "You sure I'm not interrupting?"
Tessa shrugged. "This seat's cursed anyway. Last person who sat here choked on a grape."
Layla raised a brow.
"Okay, maybe it was just a dramatic cough. Still counts."
They both laughed.
"So," Tessa said, eyes glinting, "tell me something real."
"Like what?"
"Favorite color."
"Yellow."
"Sunshine or mustard?"
Layla blinked. "Sunshine."
Tessa grinned. "Good answer. My turn: I hate ketchup. Passionately."
Layla chuckled. "That's tragic."
A shadow fell across the table. Layla looked up.
It was him—the boy from history class.
"Hey, Tess. Who's your friend?"
"This is Layla. Layla, this is Cody. He's mostly harmless."
Cody smiled, slow and easy. "Chicago, right?"
Layla narrowed her eyes. "How do you know that?"
"I have sources." He smirked. "Also, Mr. Keane said so. Plus, you dress like you haven't given up yet."
Layla glanced at her hoodie, jacket, jeans. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing bad. Just… not Maple Hill."
She flushed but said nothing.
Tessa rolled her eyes. "Don't mind him. He flirts like it's his job."
"Who said I was flirting?" Cody replied, mock-offended.
"You always flirt."
Layla couldn't help the small smile curling at her lips.
That night, in her room—walls still bare, sheets still stiff from packaging—she opened her journal for the first time in months.
Maple Hill smells like pine and second chances. There's a girl who talks too much but means well. And a boy with eyes that ask questions instead of offering answers. I'm not ready to trust again. But maybe… I don't have to decide that yet.
She closed the notebook gently.
Outside, the wind tapped against the window like it had something to say.
Layla didn't answer.
But she was listening.