ARIA'S POV
The text came at 5:03 AM, three minutes after my alarm screamed me awake.
Ethan: Need you to fix my English essay before first period. You're a lifesaver!
No "good morning." No "please." Just expectation wrapped in a compliment that stopped feeling good two years ago.
I stared at my cracked phone screen in the darkness of my tiny bedroom. Through the thin walls, I could hear Mom's alarm going off in the next room. She'd be leaving for her nursing shift in twenty minutes—another twelve-hour day at the hospital so I could go to a school where kids spent more on their shoes than we did on rent.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I should say no. I should tell Ethan Park to do his own work for once.
Me: Send it over.
I hated myself a little bit more.
The essay came through immediately—like he'd been waiting, knowing I'd cave. I always did. Six years of friendship trained me well. Be helpful. Be nice. Be invisible until Ethan needed something.
I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on my uniform. The gray skirt had a small stain near the hem that wouldn't come out no matter how many times I washed it. My white button-up was starting to yellow at the collar. But they were clean and pressed, and that had to be enough.
Crestwood Academy didn't care that some students took an hour-long bus ride from the poor side of town. They just cared that we maintained their precious image.
"You're up early," Mom said when I shuffled into our cramped kitchen. She was already in her scrubs, packing her lunch—leftover rice and vegetables from dinner.
"Ethan needs help with an essay."
Mom's lips pressed together. She'd never liked Ethan, not since freshman year when he'd picked me up once and wrinkled his nose at our apartment building. He'd tried to hide it, but I saw.
"That boy has you on call like you're his employee," she said quietly.
"He's my best friend."
"Best friends don't only call when they need something." Mom kissed my forehead. "You deserve people who show up for you the way you show up for them."
She left before I could argue. But her words stuck to me like the humidity in our apartment that no amount of fans could fix.
I made instant coffee in the chipped mug that said "World's Best Daughter"—a gift from Mom three birthdays ago—and opened Ethan's essay on my phone.
It was bad. Really bad.
The thesis made no sense. Half the quotes were wrong. The conclusion just repeated the introduction in different words. This wasn't something I could fix in an hour. This needed to be completely rewritten.
My phone buzzed with another text.
Ethan: Got it? Need it printed before homeroom. Thanks babe!
Babe. He'd started calling me that sophomore year. Everyone assumed we were dating. We weren't. Ethan never asked me to be his girlfriend. Never kissed me. Never even took me on a real date. We just... existed in this weird space where he held my hand at school events and called me when he needed something and everyone thought we were together.
I used to think that was enough. That being close to Ethan Park—golden boy, student council president, heir to a tech fortune—meant I mattered.
Now I just felt tired.
The bus ride to Crestwood took an hour, switching twice through neighborhoods that got progressively nicer. I edited Ethan's essay the entire time, rewriting whole paragraphs while teenagers around me shouted and laughed and lived lives that didn't involve waking up at 5 AM to fix someone else's mistakes.
By the time I reached school, my eyes hurt and my coffee was gone. But the essay was perfect.
Crestwood Academy rose up like a castle—all glass and steel and money. Sports fields stretched forever. The parking lot was full of cars that cost more than my entire life. I walked past them with my secondhand backpack and tried not to feel small.
"There you are!"
Maya Torres appeared beside me like a bright, loud guardian angel. Her hijab was royal blue today, matching her eyeshadow. Everything about Maya was bold—her makeup, her opinions, her complete refusal to let anyone make her feel less than.
"You look exhausted," she said, linking her arm through mine. "Let me guess. Ethan?"
"He needed help with his essay."
"Of course he did." Maya's voice dripped with disgust. "That boy treats you like a personal assistant. When are you going to tell him to do his own work?"
"He's stressed. College applications are hard—"
"For people who don't have you doing everything for them!" Maya stopped walking, forcing me to face her. "Aria. Listen to me. Ethan Park is using you. He's been using you since freshman year. You edit his papers, you help him study, you make him look good in front of teachers. What does he do for you?"
My throat felt tight. "He's my friend."
"Friends don't take and take and never give back." Maya's expression softened. "You're brilliant. You're in the top three of our entire class. You're going to get into an amazing college. And you're wasting your time making sure Ethan Park looks smart when everyone knows he's just coasting on his daddy's money."
I wanted to argue. But I couldn't. Because somewhere deep down, I knew Maya was right.
"I need to give him his essay," I mumbled.
Maya sighed but let me go.
I found Ethan by his locker, surrounded by his usual crowd—tennis teammates and student council members who laughed at everything he said. He saw me coming and smiled, that perfect politician smile his father probably taught him.
"Aria! Did you finish it?"
I handed him the printed essay without a word.
He flipped through it quickly. "This is perfect. You're amazing." He wasn't even really looking at me, already turning back to his friends. "I'll text you later!"
That was it. No real thank you. No acknowledgment that I'd spent two hours fixing his mess.
I stood there feeling invisible until the first bell rang.
Homeroom was buzzing with energy. Something was happening—everyone was whispering and checking their phones.
"What's going on?" I asked Maya as I slid into my seat.
"Assembly during third period. Principal Hart is making some big announcement." Maya leaned closer. "Rumor is there's a new transfer student."
"In January? That's weird."
"Rich people weird," Maya said. "Probably some CEO's kid who got kicked out of their last school."
I didn't think much of it. Transfer students came and went at Crestwood. Most of them were like Ethan—wealthy, entitled, temporary fixtures in a world I didn't really belong to.
But then I saw Ethan's face.
He was staring at his phone, and for the first time in months, he looked genuinely excited. Not the fake smile he wore for teachers. Real excitement that made his eyes bright.
"Who do you think it is?" one of his friends asked.
"I heard she's from Paris," another one said.
She. A girl.
Something cold settled in my stomach.
Ethan looked up and caught me watching. For just a second, guilt flashed across his face. Then it was gone, replaced by that smooth, easy smile.
"Ready for the assembly?" he called out to me.
I nodded, but I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready at all.
Because the way Ethan was smiling at his phone—like Christmas morning, like winning the lottery, like something precious he'd been waiting for—that was a smile he'd never given me.
And somehow, I knew with absolute certainty that everything was about to change.
The bell rang for third period. Students flooded toward the auditorium. Maya linked her arm through mine again, chattering about her plans after school.
But I couldn't focus on her words.
Because ahead of us, Ethan was walking with his friends, and I heard him say it:
"I can't wait for you guys to meet her. Isabella Laurent. She's... she's perfect."
Isabella.
He said her name like a prayer.
And just like that, I knew.
I knew that the girl walking into our school today was going to destroy everything I'd spent six years building.
I just didn't know how completely.
Not yet.