The scooter ride home was quiet.
Zara didn't push her to talk, which Liana was thankful for. Her thoughts were still tangled—like her heart hadn't caught up to the rest of her body. The wind stung her cheeks as they rode through empty streets, but she didn't mind. It helped her feel awake. Real.
When they reached her house, Zara pulled up a little past the driveway, parking under the shadow of a tall oak tree.
"Still breathing?" she whispered with a grin.
Liana nodded, pulling the helmet off and letting out a shaky laugh. "Barely."
Zara leaned in and nudged her shoulder. "You did it. You lived. And you looked like a whole main character in there."
"I spilled some of my chai down my hoodie."
"Exactly. Real, raw cinema."
Liana smiled despite herself. The street was dark, hushed, the kind of silence that felt deeper than sound. Her house loomed just ahead, every window blacked out like it had eyes and was waiting for her.
"I should go," she said, voice softer now.
Zara handed her the helmet. "Same way in?"
"Yeah. If I'm lucky, no one noticed."
Zara hesitated, then gave her a gentle look. "Text me when you're safe. And hey—I'm proud of you."
Liana nodded, heart full and aching at the same time. She moved quickly, sneakers crunching lightly over the grass as she circled around the side of the house. The window she'd slipped through earlier was still open a crack, just as she'd left it.
Getting back inside took more effort. Her arms trembled as she hoisted herself up, catching the edge of the frame and pulling herself through. She landed on the carpet with a soft thud and froze, breath held.
Silence.
She crawled across the room and eased the window shut, locking it with shaking fingers. Her heart didn't slow until she was under the covers again, hoodie still on, the faint smell of cinnamon from the café lingering like a memory.
She stared at the ceiling, wide awake.
One hour. That was the deal.
But it felt like something had stretched inside her, and now, it wouldn't go back.
Morning came too soon.
The soft knock on her door felt like thunder after the night she'd had.
"Liana," her mother called, "time to get up."
"I'm awake," she answered quickly, hoping her voice didn't sound strange. She sat up, brushing her hair with her fingers and checking her reflection in the mirror. She didn't look different. Not really. But she felt like she should.
As if last night had written something new in her eyes.
She got dressed and headed downstairs, the scent of scrambled eggs and toast already filling the kitchen. Her father sat at the table reading the newspaper, glasses perched low on his nose. Her mother moved between the stove and the counter, calm and practiced.
Routine. Every movement familiar.
Liana took her usual seat, trying not to seem different. Trying not to let the entire night leak out of her expression.
"You slept well?" her father asked without looking up.
She nodded. "Yeah."
Her mother set a plate in front of her and kissed the top of her head. "You were quiet. That's good. It means your rest wasn't broken."
Liana's throat tightened. She forced a smile and took a bite of toast.
Nothing had changed. And yet everything had.
Later that day, Liana sat by her window, sunlight warming the sill beneath her arms. She rested her chin on her folded hands, watching the neighborhood move at its usual, sleepy pace.
She kept thinking about the boy in the café.
About the way he'd looked up and seen her—not through a screen or through stories her parents had shaped—but just her. Her as she was.
And how something in her had fluttered at the weight of his gaze.
She didn't even know his name.
Her phone buzzed beside her. A message from Zara.
Zara: Did your parents say anything?
Liana: Nothing. I think I made it.
Zara: Legend. Ready for Phase 2?
Liana: I don't know. I feel... like I'm still catching up.
Zara: That's okay. But just so you know—one hour? It looked good on you.
Liana stared at that message for a long time, fingers hovering above the screen.
She wanted more. She wasn't even sure what "more" meant yet—but she wanted it.
Maybe it was another night out. Maybe it was the boy with the guitar. Or maybe it was simply this: the freedom to want.
Liana stared at Zara's message for a long time.
One hour? It looked good on you.
She bit her lip, fighting a smile. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard again, but instead of replying, she set the phone down and looked out the window.
The sun was starting to rise higher now, gold light streaming through the branches and painting her room in soft streaks of morning. Somewhere down the street, someone was mowing their lawn. A dog barked once and then stopped.
She glanced at the clock.
8:14 a.m.
Her homeschool teacher usually arrived by 8:30.
A subtle pit opened in her stomach.
Even though her parents insisted homeschooling was the best way to "preserve focus," Liana knew the real reason. It was about control. About keeping her world small enough that she wouldn't wander off course. That she wouldn't be "influenced."
They hadn't always been this strict.
Back in middle school, she and Zara had shared lockers and late-night phone calls and after-school smoothies. From sixth to eighth grade, they'd been inseparable—braiding each other's hair, making secret codes in the margins of their notebooks, whispering about crushes they never had the courage to say out loud.
But then came freshman year. The year everything changed.
Her parents called it a "temporary academic redirection."
She called it house arrest.
They pulled her out just before high school began, saying public school had become "a breeding ground for distractions." No more crowded hallways. No more birthday invites. No more Zara waiting by her locker with a second bag of chips "just in case" Liana forgot hers.
Zara had cried when she found out. Liana had pretended not to.
Now the only teacher she saw face-to-face was Mrs. Devlin—a quiet, tired woman in her fifties who smelled like lavender hand cream and only stayed long enough to drop off assignments and review grades.
No lunch breaks. No classmates. Just lesson plans and deadlines and the quiet hum of her own thoughts.
The clock ticked again.
8:17 a.m.
Liana ran a hand through her hair, still tangled from sleep, and stood from the window. Her body moved on autopilot as she grabbed her notebooks, smoothed the blankets on her bed, and sat down at her desk like she was supposed to.
But nothing about her felt the same.
Not after last night.
She wasn't the version of herself her parents thought they'd kept safe behind closed doors. Not anymore. She couldn't erase the sound of the café doorbell or the feeling of the night wind in her hair or the way that boy had looked at her—like she wasn't invisible.
There was a knock at the front door downstairs.
Punctual as always.
Her mother's voice floated through the walls, soft and polite as she greeted Mrs. Devlin.
Liana straightened her back and opened her binder. She uncapped her pen.
But even as the familiar routine settled around her, something inside her stayed unsettled
The girl who snuck out wasn't gone.
She was just waiting.
And deep down, Liana knew she couldn't keep her hidden forever.