Sam's POV
The iron gate creaked when I pushed it open. The sun had dipped low, painting the street in an orange glow, but my chest still carried the heaviness of detention. I wished I could just leave the day behind, pretend it never happened.
The little house stood waiting — warm, modest, and safe. At least, it looked that way from the outside. My fingers tightened on my bag strap. The moment I stepped in, I was greeted by the smell of chamomile tea and the clatter of pans in the kitchen.
"Ay, Sam, you're early!" Aunt Luna's voice floated from the sofa. She had her glasses perched at the tip of her nose, a thick book in her lap. Beside her, Aunt Dena folded laundry, her delicate hands moving with practiced ease.
My throat tightened.
"First day, huh?" Aunt Dena looked up, smiling softly. "Why so soon? Don't classes usually go till late?"
I forced a smile, shifting my bag behind me so they wouldn't notice the crumpled papers sticking out. "They let us go early. Orientation stuff."
Both women exchanged a glance. Aunt Luna raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
I walked past them quickly, pretending to kick off my shoes, pretending the weight in my chest wasn't guilt. I couldn't tell them. Not about the fight. Not about detention.
And not Liam.
My gaze drifted to Aunt Dena as she set down the laundry basket. The gentle curve of her face, the kindness in her eyes — it all felt too fragile, too precious. A pang hit me, sharp and merciless.
Because every time I looked at her, I remembered the fire.
The flames. The night her house burned to the ground.
And me, standing there, convinced it was all my fault.
My chest ached, the memory wrapping around me like smoke.
I gripped the strap of my bag harder, nails digging into the fabric. If only I had… If I hadn't…
But then —
A whisper.
It was not your fault.
I froze. My breath caught. The voice was faint, almost gentle this time, curling around me like a thread of wind.
My heart thudded. I looked around, but the living room was just the same: Aunt Luna flipping a page, Aunt Dena humming faintly as she stacked clothes. Neither of them heard it. Neither of them saw me stiffen.
"Sam?" Aunt Luna's voice broke my trance. She was watching me now, her sharp eyes narrowing. "You okay?"
I nodded quickly, forcing another smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
Her gaze lingered, but she didn't push.
I slipped away to my room, shutting the door softly behind me. My bag landed on the chair with a dull thud. I sank onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, willing my heart to calm down.
That voice. Again.
Why me? Why now?
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, wishing I could block out the world, wishing I could stop hearing things that made no sense.
But deep down, a small part of me wondered if it was right. If it was trying to tell me something.
Not your fault.
Then why did it still feel like it was?
The next morning, the whispers followed me back into school.
The hallway stretched long and crowded, lockers slamming, shoes squeaking, laughter bouncing off the walls. But over it all, I could hear them.
"That's her—the new girl.""She fought Liam Fernandez.""She's either brave or stupid."
Heat crawled up my neck. I kept my eyes low, my steps quick.
My first day hadn't just been bad. It had been catastrophic.
And when I entered the classroom, silence rippled like a wave. Eyes turned, heads tilted, mouths curved in half-hidden smirks. I slid into my desk by the window, sunlight spilling over my notebook like it wanted me to write again. My fingers itched. That voice tugged at me faintly, like it lived inside the pen.
But before I could gather my thoughts, the air shifted.
He walked in.
Liam Fernandez.
The boy who had turned me into the headline of every whisper.
His presence filled the doorway effortlessly, pulling attention the way gravity does. His hair was just as messy, his jaw just as sharp, his shoulders squared like he ruled the space. He barely glanced around — but for the briefest second, his gaze brushed mine.
And my heart betrayed me, stuttering before I quickly looked away.
I hated myself for it.
Liam's POV
Whispers. Always whispers.
I could feel them clinging to me as I entered the classroom.
"That's him.""The fight yesterday…""Did you see how she hit him?"
My fists clenched, but I didn't let it show.
I walked to my desk, steps steady, expression locked. The less I reacted, the less satisfaction they got. That was the rule.
But then I saw her.
Sam.
The girl who stormed into my life like a spark in dry grass.
She sat by the window, pretending to be absorbed in her notebook, but her pen trembled against the paper. She thought she was hiding it, but I noticed. I always noticed.
Why did she keep pulling my attention? Why did I remember her fire, her voice snapping at me, the way her fists actually landed?
I told myself it was anger. Resentment.
But when the sunlight caught her hair and turned it into something I couldn't name, I felt something else. Something I hated.
I forced my eyes away, jaw tight.
I had enough weight to carry already. My stepmother's voice from this morning still rang in my ears:"Temper, Liam. You'll end up like your mother."
I swallowed hard, biting the inside of my cheek. Not now. Not here.
But as I sat down, I couldn't ignore her presence.
Damn it.
Author's POV
The classroom hummed with undercurrents no one could name. Students pretended to focus on their lessons, but their eyes kept flicking between Sam and Liam. Two storms forced into the same sky, clashing without words.
Sam's heart wrestled with guilt — for her aunts, for the fire, for yesterday's fight. The mysterious voice haunted her like a shadow she couldn't shake, whispering truths she wasn't ready to believe.
Liam carried his own shadows. The weight of a family that cut deeper than any bruise, the suffocating silence of a father too distant to notice, and the sharp edge of a girl who had dared to stand up to him.
Between them, something unspoken brewed. Not friendship. Not hate. Something far more dangerous.
Because when enemies collide, sparks don't just fade. They ignite.
And as Liam's gaze drifted once more — against his will — to Sam, and she felt it before even looking up, the thread between them tightened.
Neither of them knew it yet.
But this was only the beginning.