It was a terrible day for me. Not just for me, but for my mom too. She woke up late today, and I didn't see her before I headed off to school. I knew she was still in bed, probably struggling to get out of the fog of grief that had been lingering for years. My dad, well, I couldn't really tell how he was doing. He's a tough man. Or at least, he appears to be. He hides behind his facade of stoicism, carrying himself like a soldier. But I knew better. Today marked another year, another painful anniversary. And that's something no one really talks about.
I had my usual routine—grab the keys to the car and get out of the house. I didn't want to deal with any more of the painful silence. Not today. The silence always makes things worse, especially today. As I stepped into my car, I couldn't help but notice how it glistened under the dim morning light. My car—a polished, sleek black Audi RS7—always caught eyes, even though I tried my best to ignore the attention it attracted. The leather interior felt cool beneath me, the faint scent of expensive car polish mixing with the usual mustiness of my personal space. The low hum of the engine as I started the car was the only thing I could focus on. It drowned out the noise of everything else—the expectations, the pressure, the reminders.
The gloves felt tight against my hands. They always did. I tugged them tighter, forcing them into place. The leather felt uncomfortable, the fabric too hot for my liking. My palms were sweaty, but I'd never been the type to break tradition. The gloves, the silence, the distance I kept—these were the rules I lived by. They kept me safe. They kept everyone else safe too.
When I arrived at school, the usual chaos greeted me: groups of students loitering in the hallways, faces half-hidden behind phone screens, and the murmurs of gossip floating in the air. The constant barrage of attention was tiresome, but I'd grown used to it. The girls, especially, couldn't stop staring. It was the same every day—curious glances, longing looks. They were all the same, desperate for a taste of the Vert name. But none of it mattered. None of it was worth my time.
Except Brielle. She was a constant. Like a tick you couldn't get rid of. She was always around, always lingering, always trying to get closer, even though I'd made it clear that I wasn't interested. Not in her. Not in any of them.
I walked down the hallway, trying to ignore the way people looked at me. There were a few whispers, some quick glances in my direction, but nothing I hadn't experienced a thousand times before. Then, I heard it—someone calling after me. A girl's voice. At first, I didn't even bother to look. The attention was always so annoying. But then, I noticed something. Her voice had a tone that seemed different from the usual groupies. And as I turned slightly, I saw her. She was running toward me, her silver hair shining like moonlight.
At that moment, I couldn't help it. I slowed down, my eyes involuntarily flicking over her. Despite her hoodie—despite the way she tried to hide herself—there was something about her that made her stand out. The silver hair. The way it framed her face, the way it shimmered as she moved. I could swear she was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. She wasn't like the others. There was something more to her—something different. I remembered her from yesterday, from the acting class. She had been in the same room, her presence so striking that it made it hard to concentrate on anything else. She had this sharp look in her eyes, a sense of quiet strength that pulled me in.
But no. It didn't matter. She was just another face in the crowd. I couldn't afford to get distracted. I was already betrothed to Brianna—my family had made sure of that. My future was already mapped out for me, whether I liked it or not.
Still, something about the silver-haired girl nagged at me. As I watched her run toward me, my mind raced. She looked like us. She looked like a Vert—there was a certain… presence about her that I couldn't shake. She was like us, but prettier. And that realization made something stir in me. Something I didn't want to acknowledge.
I walked into the classroom, making my way to the corner seat. It was my usual spot, where I could be alone, away from the noise, away from everything. The silver-haired girl followed me in not long after, her eyes flickering toward me as she passed. She gave me a sharp look, her gaze lingering on me for a split second. I could feel the tension in the air between us. And then, just as quickly, her eyes moved to my arm.
Her gaze shifted to the tattoo, the Roman numerals etched into my skin. It was a silent marker, a symbol of a day I could never forget. Today. The day my little sister drowned and died. The date was burned into my memory, an indelible mark I carried with me every single day.
I could tell she was studying it—probably trying to figure out what it meant. The date was obvious to anyone who knew how to read Roman numerals, but most people didn't care to ask. They didn't care to know. And I preferred it that way. But as she stared at the tattoo, I couldn't help but feel a strange discomfort. I didn't want her to ask. I didn't want anyone to know.
The class went on, but I couldn't concentrate. Every time I tried to focus on the lesson, my mind would drift back to her. Her eyes, her silver hair, the way she seemed to carry herself differently than the others. But it didn't matter. It couldn't matter. I was already promised to someone else, and there were rules I had to follow. Traditions I had to respect.
The bell finally rang, and I gathered my things. As I made my way to the door, I felt her presence again, but I didn't look back. I didn't want to. There was no reason to. She wasn't someone I could get involved with—not with everything hanging over me.
But as I walked out of the classroom, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just let something slip away. Something that might have been worth noticing. And that scared me more than I was willing to admit.