The late-afternoon sun streamed through the high windows of Eastborough High like melted amber, gilding the long corridor in warm gold. The final bell had rung nearly half an hour ago, and now the school exhaled the stillness of near-abandonment. Footsteps echoed distantly—janitorial, maybe a few lingering athletes—but up here, on the second floor near the east wing lockers, Lila Hart walked alone.
Her patent leather flats clicked in a measured rhythm, the sound soft and sharp at once, perfectly aligned with the neat little checklists that lived in her mind. Locker doors were all closed. Hallway clear. No contraband gum-chewing, sneaking back into classrooms, or suspicious loitering. Order held, and the silence was sweet.
Lila smiled to herself—not the tight, polite smile she wore when speaking with teachers or doling out detentions—but the relaxed, secret kind that only surfaced when no one was watching.
Her steps slowed near her favorite window alcove: a shallow nook overlooking the staff parking lot, its ledge wide enough to sit on if she tucked her legs just right. She checked the hallway to make sure it was empty pulling the worn notebook from beneath her cardigan, pressed snug against her ribs like a second heartbeat.
The lock was a simple brass thing, symbolic more than secure, but she twisted it open with practiced ease. The pages inside smelled faintly of lavender from the sachet she kept in her desk. Her pen slid easily into her fingers, her thoughts already tumbling into rhythm.
She flipped to the newest entry—Scene 6: The Art Room, After Dark—and let her imagination unfold.
"He watches her from the shadows, that wicked gleam in his eyes like the flash of a blade. 'You forgot your brush,' he says, voice low and thick. 'Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to come back.'"
Lila wrote in long, looping strokes, her pen gliding like a caress across the page. The real world thinned. The tension in her spine eased, her mind drifting toward the imagined press of hands against skin, the breathless pauses between dialogue. There was power in this place inside her—a sacred space where she wasn't the hall monitor or the top student or the good girl everyone trusted.
Here, she was daring, desired and free.
The late sun slanted across the floor in ribbons, dust drifting through the air like slow-dancing fireflies. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut. Lila didn't flinch. She'd learned the timing of the building like a second language—she had at least five minutes before the next adult would appear. Her pen continued its slow, sultry arc across the page.
Her lower lip caught gently between her teeth as she wrote the next line. "She doesn't answer—not with words. Her response is the soft sound of surrender as his fingers trail over the buttons of her blouse, one by one..."
Her breath caught, just a little.
Then—
A sound. That was not distant neither did it sound like a janitor.
It sounded like a shoe scuff and it was close.
Lila blinked. The pen stilled. Her heartbeat picked up—not from the story now, but from the sudden, electric awareness of presence.
She turned her head slowly, cautiously, still tucked in the window alcove, still framed by the golden light.
The hallway looked empty.
Still, she snapped the notebook closed. Locked it. Slid it back beneath her sweater, against the warmth of her chest. And as she stepped back into her role—hall monitor, Eastborough High's golden girl—her expression had already rearranged itself into that familiar composed smile.
But deep inside, under the soft cotton of her cardigan and the tight perfection of her posture, the story was still burning.
She stood still, with her breath held just behind her ribcage as the soft scrape of rubber soles moved closer. The hallway remained cloaked in silence, but the sound was unmistakable now—careful, deliberate steps pacing toward her from the north stairwell.
Lila Hart tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a steady hand, though her pulse betrayed her, thudding against the locked notebook pressed flush against her ribs.
It was not a student.
The steps were too confident. Too sanctioned.
Then, around the corner, the familiar navy uniform came into view—pressed slacks, walkie clipped to the hip, black boots that dulled the shine of the waxed floors. Mr. Dunley. One of the night watch guards. Mid-fifties, patient in a tired kind of way, with a habit of humming to himself when he thought no one could hear.
Lila exhaled slowly.
She pulled her cardigan closer and adjusted the lanyard around her neck—official hall monitor badge swinging lightly as if to remind the world who she was.
"Evening, Mr. Dunley," she said, her voice cool and practiced.
The guard paused mid-step, his posture easing the moment his eyes registered her.
"Miss Hart." He tipped his head respectfully, one brow lifted. "Still walking the beat?"
She gave him the same clipped smile she'd been wearing since freshman year. "Making sure no one snuck back into classrooms. You know how it is."
He nodded, casting a glance down the long hallway. "You're one of the good ones. Wish we had more like you." His voice, gravelly and kind, carried a little too far in the stillness.
"I was just finishing up," she added, casually stepping sideways to lean her hip against the windowsill, masking the slight bulge of her hidden notebook. "Didn't realize how late it got."
Mr. Dunley chuckled softly. "I know the feeling. I'm on final round—clearing second floor before I head down. You're fine up here. I'll sweep the ground level and lock up."
Lila nodded, offering the kind of grateful look that said I'm trustworthy, I belong here, and you don't need to ask any questions.
He gave one last glance toward the stairwell before continuing down the corridor, his footsteps echoing once more, now retreating. When he turned the corner, humming low under his breath, she let herself breathe.
Only then did her fingers curl tight around the edge of her cardigan, pressing the hidden notebook even closer to her body as if willing it to disappear.
No one could know.
Not the teachers. Not her peers. And certainly not Mr. Dunley, who still saw her as the school's poster girl for responsibility and rules. If he—or anyone—read even a single line of what she'd written…
"His breath, rough against her neck, made her legs tremble as his hands slid beneath her skirt..."
Lila squeezed her eyes shut.
The notebook was locked for a reason.
Because what she wrote—what she imagined—wasn't meant for anyone to know. It was messy, aching and too vivid. It was a secret world with no grades, no rules, and no judgment. A world where she could want. Where she didn't have to smile.
Footsteps faded and then a door opened and shut far below.
She remained there for another moment, heart slowly steadying.
Then she turned, her silhouette framed briefly by the light slicing through the window, and walked in the opposite direction—her flats silent now, every step weighted with something more than responsibility.