The school smells like disinfectant and old books, which Aria decides is better than mildew and despair. Low bar, but still.
She steps through the front doors with the quiet awareness of someone entering a room mid-conversation. Voices bounce off lockers. Laughter ricochets. Someone argues loudly about a quiz she hasn't taken and already resents on principle.
Aria adjusts her backpack strap and keeps walking.
The main office is exactly where it's supposed to be—too bright, too official, lined with posters about attendance and "school pride" that feel aggressively optimistic for a Monday morning. The secretary greets her with practiced warmth and hands her a schedule printed on thin paper.
"Welcome, Aria," she says, like it's a promise instead of a sentence.
Aria nods. "Thanks. I'll try not to break anything."
The secretary blinks, then laughs. That's one small win.
Locker assignment. Combination memorized on the first try. Another quiet win. She moves through the hallway with purpose, not rushing, not hesitating. There's an art to not looking lost without pretending you belong somewhere you don't yet.
She finds her locker between two people mid-argument about prom committees—which feels ambitious considering it's September—and twists the dial. It opens cleanly.
Good. She can work with cooperative metal.
The bell rings, sharp and final. Hallways surge. Aria steps back instinctively, letting the current pass. Someone bumps her shoulder without apologizing. Someone else does apologize too much. It evens out.
Biology is on the second floor.
The classroom is half-full when she walks in. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the air smells faintly like marker ink and something chemical she hopes is educational. She hands the teacher her slip, takes the indicated seat near the window.
Window seats are strategic. You can look thoughtful instead of awkward.
She's flipping through the textbook when a voice drops into the empty chair beside her.
"Please tell me you're new."
Aria looks up.
The girl next to her has a messy bun that looks like it lost a fight with gravity and a smile that's open but not invasive. Alert eyes. Comfortable posture. Someone who takes up space without stealing it.
"I am," Aria says. "That obvious?"
"Only because you don't look dead inside yet," the girl replies cheerfully. "Give it a week. I'm Maya."
"Aria."
"Nice. Like the opera," Maya says. "Or the coffee shop downtown that overcharges for oat milk."
"Both very powerful associations."
Maya grins. "You picked a good seat. The lab tables wobble. Last year a kid lost an entire experiment and his dignity."
"Tragic," Aria says solemnly. "Did science recover?"
"Barely."
The teacher clears his throat, launching into a syllabus speech that sounds like it's been recycled since the invention of cells. Aria listens with half her attention, the other half cataloging details: the scratch on the desk, the way Maya taps her pen only when the teacher isn't looking, the faint buzz of nerves settling into something manageable.
When the teacher asks everyone to introduce themselves, Aria keeps it brief. Name. Transfer. Nothing else. She doesn't perform. She never has.
Maya's introduction is equally efficient, with a dry comment about surviving sophomore year "against all odds." A few people laugh. The room loosens.
After class, Maya falls into step beside her without making it a question.
"So," she says, "where to next?"
"English," Aria replies, checking her schedule. "You?"
"Chemistry. I'm already tired."
They stop at the stairs. For a moment, there's a natural pause—not awkward, not forced.
"Well," Maya says, "if you want a friendly face at lunch, I sit by the windows. Unless today is a 'brooding alone' kind of day. I respect the aesthetic."
Aria considers this. Then: "I'll stop by. Window seats are my brand."
"Excellent," Maya says. "Consistency matters."
They split off, easy. No promises. No pressure. Aria appreciates that more than she'd ever say out loud.
English is fine. History is louder. By the time lunch approaches, the building feels less hostile, more… neutral. That's progress.
She turns a corner too quickly.
Papers scatter across the floor like startled birds.
Aria freezes mid-step, heart jumping not from fear but from reflex. She looks down.
Sketches.
Charcoal lines. Sharp, intentional. Faces half-finished. Hands in motion. A city skyline bleeding into shadows. They're good—no, better than good. Honest.
"Sorry," she says immediately, already crouching. "That was my fault."
A pair of hands reaches for the drawings at the same time as hers. Long fingers, smudged with graphite.
"Wasn't watching where I was going," a voice says. Low. Controlled.
Aria looks up.
And for just a second—just long enough for something unnamed to settle between them—the hallway noise fades.
She holds one of the drawings carefully by the edges, like it might bruise if she grips too hard.
"These are incredible," she says, tone light but sincere. "You dropped your talent all over the floor."
The boy blinks.
Something in his expression shifts—not surprise exactly, but recognition. Like he wasn't expecting kindness to sound like humor.
"Uh," he says. "Thanks."
Aria hands him the sketch, her fingers brushing his by accident.
The contact is brief.
Not forgettable.