When I woke the next morning, the world beyond my window had softened beneath a veil of rain.
It wasn't much—just a gentle sprinkle—but it carried with it the kind of melancholy hush that made the earth feel sacred. The streets glistened as though newly forged, and every branch and rooftop shimmered beneath a sheen of silver mist. I loved the rain. I always had. It whispered of distant places, of cobblestone lanes and ancient forests, of far-off cities with names that curled on your tongue like poetry. Somewhere in the marrow of my bones, it made me think of Europe, though I'd never stepped foot on foreign soil.
I dressed quickly, tugging on my worn jeans and brown jacket, my ritual armor against both the cold and the world. I didn't bother with much else—just a quick twist of mascara and a swipe of tinted balm. It didn't matter. No one was looking.
By the time I slipped into the driver's seat and turned the key, the windows were streaked with raindrops chasing one another like tiny meteor showers. Andrew climbed into the passenger side, backpack slung over one shoulder, his hoodie pulled halfway up like some moody prince of suburbia.
He was quiet this morning, which was rare. Usually, our drives to school were filled with half-hearted complaints about our parents—Mom's short fuse, Dad's long silences—but today even those gripes felt too heavy to lift. We sat in silence, the radio humming faintly between us, a lullaby for the sleep-deprived.
Andrew was only thirteen, still round-faced and broad-shouldered, with corn-silk hair and ocean eyes that had won him more compliments than he knew what to do with. He had the kind of beauty that made you think he'd grow into something remarkable one day, if the world didn't steal it first.
I dropped him off a few blocks from the middle school, avoiding the chaos of the parking lot, and then drove on toward my own purgatory: the high school. I parked in my usual space behind the theater building, the place where misfits and dreamers seemed to congregate as if drawn by some unseen magnet.
The morning passed in a blur of fluorescent lights and murmured lectures, of pencils scratching paper and the ceaseless drone of adolescent discontent. I drifted through it like a ghost, not quite tethered to my body, not quite part of the world around me.
At lunch, I found Miranda in the library, as usual. We sat at our corner table, each of us pretending to read, though our eyes wandered. We didn't speak much—never did. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that blooms between people who have seen one another cry and stayed anyway. We weren't hiding from anyone, not really. Just… avoiding contact. People expected too much. They wanted too much. And some days, we had nothing left to give.
Fifth period was gym. The gods of Southern California, in their rare mercy, had delivered the first rain of the year, so we weren't forced to change. Instead, the entire class filed into the Big Gym, a cavernous space that always smelled of paint and sweat—fresh coats slapped over graffiti, and generations of hormonal effort clinging to the air like ghosts.
The sky outside had turned the color of slate, and the pitter-patter of rain against the high windows lent the space an almost sacred hush. I loved it. I loved the way the clouds swallowed the sun and ruled the sky like storm-born monarchs. I loved the cold breeze that slipped beneath the gym doors and kissed the back of my neck.
Maybe I loved it most because it gave me permission to disappear. When it rained, everyone vanished beneath hoods and jackets, and no one expected you to shine. You could hide without excuse. You could exist quietly, without being told to be something you weren't.
Wrapped in my eternally oversized jacket, I perched on the bleachers beside Miranda, watching the popular girls across the gym preen in front of compact mirrors. They touched up mascara, pouted lips, adjusted their headbands just so—effortless and glowing, even in the dim, watery light.
Hayden walked by.
He always traveled in a pack, like some mythic beast surrounded by lesser creatures. The air changed when he passed—girls leaned closer, whispers flared like flames. Miranda and I didn't speak, but we both felt it.
His hair was a careless tumble of gold, his eyes the color of storm clouds before they broke. He had a jawline you could sculpt marble with and a smile that could break a thousand carefully guarded hearts.
And yet, somehow, he didn't seem to know it.
He glanced our way.
Miranda's sharp elbow landed in my side. "Don't look," she hissed, barely hiding a grin. "He's looking at you again."
I froze.
He was. For just a breath—a single, impossible moment—his gaze caught mine. And then he turned away, as though it had never happened at all.
"Twice in one week," Miranda muttered. "That's a sign."
"Of what?" I asked, voice flat.
"That you're about to marry the love of your life, obviously."
I rolled my eyes, but the flush in my cheeks betrayed me. She meant well. She always did.
"Thanks, Miranda. As always, your wisdom astounds me."
We laughed. It wasn't loud, but it was real.
The teachers sat along the far wall, a line of folding chairs and lukewarm authority. The male coaches hid behind newspapers, while the two women—Mrs. Edwards and Mrs. Phillips—whispered to each other like tired witches brewing gossip. I doubted they even remembered we existed unless someone broke a bone.
Miranda leaned in. "Maybe he thought we were janitors. Or lunch ladies. That would explain the staring."
I chuckled, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. I never knew what to do with it—thick and wild and long enough to sit on. People were always complimenting it, but none of them had to live with it. Still, it was mine. Like the eyes I'd inherited from my mother—green, deep, ringed with lashes so dark I rarely wore mascara. Some days, those were the only parts of me I liked.
Across the gym, the girls had resumed their beauty rituals. I wondered if they'd ever had to try. If they'd ever looked in the mirror and winced. If they knew what it was like to feel like the sum of all the wrong shapes—too broad, too soft, too strange. I often joked that I looked like someone had started building a boy and then changed their mind halfway through. No hips. No waist. Just shoulders and curves in all the wrong places.
Still, Miranda always said I was beautiful. I didn't believe her. But I loved her for saying it.
She had that librarian-chic charm, all big glasses and quirky socks. If I were braver, I'd convince her to let me do her hair, just once. I could make her look like the heroine she didn't know she already was.
We were misfits. Dreamers. Girls with books piled higher than their hope, surviving high school one page at a time. We lived more lives in fiction than we ever would in reality. But somehow, that made us feel powerful. Like maybe, someday, the stories we loved would bleed into our own. Like maybe, one day, someone would write us into something better.
We sat there until the bell rang, just two girls in a storm, reading like royalty in disguise.