The morning sky above Harlington was grey and cloud-swollen — not stormy, but the kind that always smelled like cold stone and nostalgia. In the quietest house on the row, tucked behind tall hedges and a wrought iron gate, Olivia Wilson was already awake, long before the alarm, long before the rest of the world.
Her desk sat near the window where the light slanted in like a shy guest. The journal before her was open to a blank page. Olivia held her pen like a lifeline and pressed the tip to paper with the kind of reverence poets reserved for pain.
Her hand began to move.
"Some hearts love without leaving footprints,
Their ache is invisible, but real."
— Angel's Words
Another verse. Another confession dressed as poetry.
This was how every morning began — before makeup, before breakfast, before textbooks and test papers — there was Angel's Words, the voice Olivia wore when the world wasn't looking. Online, Angel's Words was known across student forums, poetry pages, and even a few writing communities abroad. Always anonymous. Always stirring emotions.
And no one — not even her two best friends — knew that the girl who aced Chemistry exams and led student council meetings was also the soul who wrote about broken love and shadowed healing.
She finished the verse and closed the journal carefully, tracing her fingers over the silver letters etched on the cover: To write is to bleed without scars.
A gift from her father — one of the last things he ever gave her.
A knock came on her bedroom door.
"Liv?" came a familiar, half-asleep voice. Hailey Bratt. "Are you awake?"
"I am now," Olivia called back.
The door creaked open, and Hailey stepped in, wearing her brother's hoodie and her hair in a messy bun. She looked like she hadn't slept in days.
"I hate Literature," she groaned dramatically, collapsing onto Olivia's bed. "Why does our second to last final paper have to be about dead people writing sad stuff?"
Olivia smirked. "Because dead people wrote most of the good things."
"Please don't quote Shakespeare this early." Hailey rolled onto her back. "Are you ready?"
"Almost. I'm reviewing my notes again."
Hailey gave her a look. "You're reviewing notes? You're literally the only person I know who gets a 96 and says 'almost ready.'"
"It's our final paper," Olivia said softly, moving to sit beside her. "It's the last thing before everything changes."
"Right. University. New cities. New friends. New lives." Hailey stared at the ceiling. "God, I hate change."
"You? You're always talking about 'new energy' and 'breaking routines.'"
"That's for outfits and parties. Not for life."
Olivia laughed, and for a moment, the air was light. But inside her, something tugged. Final exams weren't just a milestone. They were the cliff-edge of everything she had known.
Evie Beckham barged in moments later, hair perfectly brushed, eyes sharp, expression tighter than usual.
"Morning, geniuses," she said, holding her Literature textbook like a weapon. "I've been up since five revising Macbeth. You two might want to start caring."
"I care deeply," Hailey replied, sitting up. "I just express it with sarcasm."
Evie rolled her eyes and sat on Olivia's armchair without asking. That was her thing — walking into spaces like she owned them. It used to be charming. Lately, it felt like competition.
"Finals begin at ten," Olivia said, checking her phone. "Two hours left."
Evie looked at her. "Have you seen Benjamin?"
"No," Olivia said simply.
Evie didn't reply. The room stretched thin for a moment — not angry, just quietly complicated. Benjamin Fisher had been Evie's crush for over a year, but somehow he always ended up talking to Olivia instead. Olivia had never encouraged him. She never wanted to. But that never seemed to matter.
---
Meanwhile, across Harlington in a sleek, glass-walled flat that overlooked the Thames, Harry Taylor was doing his own form of exam prep.
But not for school. He hadn't been to school in years.
He sat with one knee propped up on the balcony railing, coffee mug in hand, phone balanced on the other. The screen glowed with a fresh notification:
New post by Angel's Words
"Some hearts love without leaving footprints..."
He inhaled.
She had posted again.
He didn't know who she was. Not her name. Not her face. Just her words — aching, raw, real. Every time he read a line, it felt like she was inside his own head, spilling feelings he didn't even realize he had.
"Obsessed again?" came a voice behind him.
Miles Carter, longtime friend and business partner, stepped onto the balcony.
Harry didn't look up. "She posted a new one."
"Let me guess — heartbreak, silence, emotional metaphor, and some line about shadows?"
Harry finally glanced at him. "You don't get it."
"I get that you're falling in love with someone you've never met."
"I'm not in love," Harry said too fast.
"Sure."
Harry sighed. "She understands things people don't say out loud. That matters."
Miles shook his head. "You know we've got that investor meeting today, right?"
"I'll be there."
"Don't be late. You're the face. I'm just the guy with spreadsheets."
Harry watched Miles disappear back inside and then turned his eyes back to the poem. He copied the last line into his notes app.
Maybe someday he'd find her.
Maybe someday she'd write a line meant just for him.
---
Back in Harlington, Olivia zipped her bag and stood in front of the mirror. She had tucked Angel's Words safely away again — hidden behind her textbooks, where no one would think to look.
She stared at herself.
Smart girl. Rich girl. Quiet girl.
But never the real girl.
That one lived in her words, and her words lived alone.
"Let's ace this," Hailey called as the girls made their way out the door.
As Olivia stepped into the morning, the cold breeze kissed her cheeks and carried a silent promise.
Something was coming.
She just didn't know it yet.
*****
The school gates stood tall and cast in iron, cloaked in ivy that hadn't been trimmed in months. Olivia stepped through them with measured calm, her fingers tucked around her backpack strap like it was a shield. Around her, the schoolyard buzzed with the nervous chatter of students who were halfway between childhood and whatever came next.
"Good luck, ladies," a security guard nodded as Olivia, Hailey, and Evie walked past.
"Luck is for the unprepared," Evie muttered, flipping through her notes as they climbed the stone steps of the old campus building.
Hailey raised an eyebrow. "You sound like a villain in a prep school drama."
Evie smirked. "At least I'm the lead."
Olivia said nothing, but the comment sat uneasily in the air. She wasn't the kind of girl who fought for center stage, but Evie's need to compete with her had grown louder lately — not just in grades or attention, but in presence.
The hallways inside were quieter, more serious today. Desks had been arranged in straight rows in the multipurpose room, exam papers laid face-down with ominous precision. The Literature teacher, Mr. Langdon, stood at the front, tapping his clipboard.
"You have five minutes," he called. "Phones off. Bags zipped. Hearts steady."
Hailey grinned at Olivia. "If I fail, I'm blaming the poets."
"You'll do fine," Olivia whispered back.
As they settled into their assigned seats, Olivia sat alone — by the window, two rows from the back. The sunlight made a golden rectangle on her desk, and it reminded her of all the mornings she'd written poetry in this same light.
She stared at the blank answer booklet in front of her and closed her eyes briefly.
Angel's Words would never have to prove herself with a grade.
But Olivia Wilson did.
---
Meanwhile, elsewhere in London...
Harry leaned back in his chair during a boardroom presentation he wasn't even pretending to listen to. A pie chart about digital royalties was being explained in passionate detail, but his mind was somewhere else — wrapped around the lines he'd read that morning.
"They don't see the way silence screams inside me."
— Angel's Words
It wasn't just a poem. It was a mirror.
"Harry," Miles nudged him sharply. "Pay attention."
He blinked and sat up straighter. "Right. Sorry."
The presenter cleared his throat. "As I was saying, the emotional branding attached to your name has—"
"Angel's Words," Harry interrupted suddenly.
The presenter paused. "Pardon?"
"Have we considered working with indie writers? Online voices with built-in followings?"
Miles stared at him, jaw tight.
"I mean," Harry continued, feigning casual interest, "there's this anonymous poet. Huge audience. People connect to her words instantly. Could be a good PR move. Something raw. Different."
The room exchanged uncertain glances.
"That sounds… unconventional," the presenter said.
"Exactly."
Miles leaned over, voice low. "We're in the middle of a business pitch, not your fanboy daydream."
But Harry's mind was already elsewhere again.
Somewhere in a room with natural light, a quiet girl was writing poems that saved him.
He didn't know her.
But he was sure she existed.
And he would find her.
---
Back in Harlington...
The exam was halfway through. Pens scratched against paper like wind brushing trees, steady and rhythmic. Olivia moved through the essay questions like waves — flowing, rising, then crashing into the next paragraph.
She was calm, as she always was when writing. But not just calm — alive. Her response to the prompt "Explore how writers express hidden emotions through metaphor in Romantic literature" felt more like instinct than effort.
Her mind drifted only once, when she caught Evie glancing over from two rows ahead.
It wasn't a glance of desperation — like someone seeking help — but one of calculation. A sideways stare. Curious. Cold. Measuring.
Olivia quickly looked back at her page.
---
After the exam, the girls gathered under the old willow tree in the courtyard — a spot they had claimed years ago when they were thirteen and terrified of high school. Now they were eighteen and terrified of everything else.
"I messed up the Keats question," Hailey groaned, sinking into the bench.
"You messed up the date on the cover," Evie said. "You wrote 2024 instead of 2025."
"It's a test, not a time machine," Hailey mumbled.
Olivia sat quietly, watching the petals of a white flower drift past on the breeze. Her mind was still in her essay — words, always words.
"Olivia," Evie said suddenly, "how do you always know exactly what to say on paper? Do you practice?"
Olivia blinked. "I just… think a lot."
Evie's tone changed. "Sometimes I wonder if you ever write about us."
Hailey tilted her head. "You mean like a journal?"
"Or a poem," Evie said softly.
Olivia smiled carefully. "No. I don't write about people I know."
It wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the truth either.
---
That evening, Olivia sat at her desk again — this time bathed in the glow of sunset instead of morning haze. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened her journal. The poem she wrote that morning stared back at her.
She turned to a fresh page and wrote:
"I live between two names—
One they call aloud,
And one that hides where no one looks."
— Angel's Words
She closed the journal, slid it into its hiding spot beneath the floorboard, and exhaled.
She was tired — not just from the exam, but from the weight of wearing two selves.
Olivia Wilson. Angel's Words.
One known. One true.
And no one in the world knew they were the same.
---
By the time the sun set completely, Harlington High had emptied out, leaving behind echoes of exam nerves and sharpened pencils. The Literature paper was officially over. Whispers of university applications, prom dresses, and "what now?" buzzed like bees through every hallway.
But Olivia Wilson walked the halls alone.
Her feet led her to the quietest wing of the school — the old English department where the floor creaked and the smell of books lingered like perfume. Her hand brushed against the wall, past bulletin boards cluttered with reading lists and faded photos of student poets holding certificates.
She stopped outside Room 3B.
Inside sat Mrs. Eleanor Webb, the school's most feared and respected English teacher. Tall, silver-haired, and always draped in navy, Mrs. Webb had a glare that could silence entire rooms and a voice that could shake fear into the loudest boy in school.
But she had always liked Olivia.
"Miss Wilson," Mrs. Webb said without looking up from her red pen. "Come to confess your sins?"
Olivia smiled faintly. "Just wanted to thank you."
Mrs. Webb looked up now, eyes sharp and curious. "Why? Do you think I'll mark you more kindly if you flatter me?"
"No. I just… wanted to say I'll miss your class."
That softened something in the older woman's face.
"You'll go far," Mrs. Webb said after a beat. "Not just because you're clever — but because you pay attention. The best writers aren't those who know the most… they're the ones who notice."
Olivia nodded slowly. "Thank you."
Mrs. Webb studied her for a moment longer. Then, almost absently, she added, "Do you write… outside the curriculum?"
Olivia's heart skipped.
"Sometimes," she said carefully.
"Good. Don't stop." She tapped her desk twice. "There's a quiet sort of power in the written word. It won't keep you safe, but it will keep you honest."
---
By the time Olivia got home, her mother had already set the dinner table — steak, mashed potatoes, and silence.
They weren't close. Not really. Helen Wilson was all cashmere and crystal glasses. Once, she'd been warm. Softer. Before her husband died, before the legal battles, before the estate complications. Now she moved like someone always watching her reflection — graceful but distant.
"How was the paper?" she asked, sipping red wine.
"Fine," Olivia replied, cutting her food without appetite.
"Your university letter came in the post this afternoon."
Olivia's hands froze. "And?"
Helen shrugged. "Didn't open it."
Olivia rose instantly, napkin falling to the floor. She found the envelope by the front door, exactly where the housekeeper had stacked the mail.
It was from Yale.
Her dream school. Her father's dream for her.
Hands shaking, she ripped it open.
Her eyes scanned the first line, and she didn't even notice the tears slipping down her cheeks until she whispered, "I got in."
Helen appeared behind her, arms crossed. "Law?"
Olivia nodded.
Helen gave a small smile, not proud but not surprised. "Of course you did."
No hug. No celebration.
Just another checkbox.
"I'll go pack some for the charity event tomorrow," Helen added, already turning. "We leave at ten."
Olivia stood frozen, still holding the letter.
She had done everything right. The grades. The exams. The writing. The pretending.
And it still didn't feel like enough.
---
Later that night, Olivia sat on her bedroom floor in an oversized hoodie, legs crossed, her journal open beside her. She didn't write this time. Not yet. Instead, she scrolled through the comment section on her latest poem:
"This made me cry."
"How do you understand what I can't even explain?"
"Please publish a book. Please."
"Angel's Words, you saved my life."
"I hope you're real."
That last one stopped her.
"I hope you're real."
Didn't they know? She was real. She just wasn't who they wanted her to be. Not loud. Not glamorous. Not broken in the ways that were easy to understand.
But she was there. Hiding in metaphor. Bleeding in rhythm.
She picked up her pen and began again.
"They cheer for voices wrapped in glitter,
But I speak in lowercase."_
— Angel's Words
---
In another corner of the city, Harry Taylor lay wide awake in bed — the skyline of London painted dimly through his massive window. The poem had arrived in his inbox just ten minutes ago. He reread it again, the lines echoing in the empty space between his ribcage.
He pulled out his private notebook — the one no one knew existed. Inside were over a hundred printed poems by Angel's Words, each one annotated like sacred scripture.
Next to the latest one, he scribbled:
"She feels invisible too. I'm not crazy."
Then he sat back and exhaled.
His phone buzzed. It was Jude Whitmore, texting from a party:
"Club night tomorrow. Leo's in. You better come or I'll throw glitter in your hair."
Harry chuckled, then texted back:
"Fine. One night. No glitter."
As he closed the notebook, he murmured under his breath, "One day… I'll find you."
---
Back in Harlington, Olivia stared out the window as the sky turned midnight blue. Final exams were nearly over. Life was supposed to begin now. University. Law. Future.
But she had a strange feeling in her chest — a flutter, a warning, a quiet shift in the wind.
Because deep down, she knew:
Angel's Words wouldn't stay hidden forever.
And neither would Olivia.
---