The classroom buzzed with late morning energy, bright with sunlight and voices. Warm golden rays filtered through the windows, catching on the drifting dust, illuminating the pages of open notebooks and glinting off the chrome edges of desks. The season had shifted—the kind of shift you don't mark with dates, but with the soft weight of the air and the way students began speaking in futures.
Plans. Hopes. Weekends.
Ronell sat near the center of the room, her back straight, her pen gliding in tidy loops across the lines of her notebook. She wasn't hurried, nor distracted—just steady. Present. But not quite in the room, either.
Around her, classmates leaned over to share snacks, whispered jokes under their breath, compared answers with half-laughs. A group of girls clustered near the windows had begun planning something animatedly, their voices floating just above the hum.
"We'll bring drinks—Nora said her brother can drive us."
"What about swimsuits? I need to find mine, I think I packed it away…"
"Should we invite more people?"
Then, one of the girls—Hannah, soft-voiced and friendly—called out toward the center of the room.
"Ronell! You're coming this time, right? We're going to the lake on Saturday. Everyone's going."
Her pen paused mid-stroke.
Ronell looked up. Her expression was gentle, thoughtful. A slow smile rose to her lips—polite, careful, practiced.
"I think I'll pass this time."
The words weren't cold. But they settled like a feather with weight, final and unyielding.
A few of the girls exchanged quick glances.
"She never comes," one of them whispered, not bothering to be subtle. "I swear, it's always because of her brother."
"He's not that bad," another girl replied, hesitant but trying to defend her. "Just… quiet."
"Yeah, but he clings to her. It's weird."
The conversation faded behind the rustle of pages and the shifting of chairs. A teacher walked in moments later, and everything softened into structure again—rows of eyes turning forward, pencils lifting, chatter shrinking to whispers.
Ronell didn't respond. She hadn't even flinched. Her gaze returned to her notebook, her hand continuing the line it had paused on, as if nothing had happened at all.
But the flicker was there—small, almost imperceptible.
When the lesson began, she turned slightly in her seat, her eyes drifting to the window beside her. Outside, the sun poured onto the grass, where petals had begun to fall like slow confetti from unseen trees. A breeze stirred the branches.
Her expression remained quiet. Soft. Distant.
And somewhere deep inside her chest, a tiny, splintered ache settled—not for what was said, but for how familiar it had started to feel.
---
The soft hush of the library wrapped around Ronell like a second skin. In here, the world moved slower—pages turned instead of doors slamming, chairs shifted quietly instead of scraped, and voices knew better than to stretch past a murmur.
She sat by the window, the light pouring across her desk in thin, golden ribbons. Her notebook lay open beside a thick hardcover she was halfway through, her pencil twirling loosely between her fingers. A single earbud rested in one ear, the other dangling, forgotten.
There were footsteps—subtle, then pausing—and then the chair across from her creaked gently.
"Hey."
She looked up. A boy—tall, lean, hair just long enough to fall into his eyes. He wore that same casual, effortless look he always did, like he was trying not to try. His smile was tilted slightly, like he wasn't sure if he should be nervous or charming.
"Hi," Ronell said simply, offering a quiet nod.
He lingered in her silence for a beat, eyes flicking down to the book, then back up to her face.
"You always sit here?"
She shrugged lightly. "It's quiet."
He smiled again, a little sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense." He hesitated. "Where's your brother? Thought he'd be glued to your side, like always."
Ronell blinked. "He has class."
Unbothered. Short, not sharp. Like she didn't find the comment offensive—just irrelevant.
The boy rubbed the back of his neck and glanced toward the window.
"Right. Right." He leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. "So… you going to the lake thing this weekend?"
She didn't answer immediately, just tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, eyes scanning her page. "I'm not sure yet."
He watched her for a moment, and something flickered behind his gaze—like he was about to say something more. Something practiced. Like maybe he'd rehearsed it in his head the night before. But before the words could leave his mouth—
"Ronell!"
A voice broke through the quiet: another friend, waving from the hallway just beyond the arching entry of the library. The girl beamed, gesturing with her hand.
Ronell glanced up, closing her notebook with a quiet snap. She rose smoothly from her seat and slung her bag over one shoulder.
But just before she turned fully, she looked back at the boy across from her.
"Sorry, you were saying?"
Her voice was warm. Not flirty—not even curious. Just considerate. Like someone reaching back to make sure you weren't left out in the rain.
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
"No—nah. It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
She smiled. Softly. Then walked away.
He watched her go, unsure what exactly he'd lost the nerve to say.
---
The late afternoon air shimmered with leftover warmth, cicadas buzzing faintly from somewhere in the trees. Moore and Ronell walked side by side down the narrow street that led away from school, their shadows stretching long across the pavement.
They didn't speak. They rarely did during the walk. Their silence was familiar—not awkward, not strained—just... theirs.
Moore had his hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze fixed ahead, but not really seeing anything. Ronell walked with her bag slung over one shoulder, eyes occasionally drifting upward toward the canopy above, the way light filtered through it like lace.
Then, quietly—without turning—Moore spoke.
"…You don't have to keep doing this, you know."
Ronell blinked, glancing sideways at him. "Doing what?"
He shrugged, but his voice was a little more firm than usual. "Walking home with me. Skipping your plans. Saying no to people."
She slowed a little. "I want to walk with you."
He stopped, finally looking at her. Not accusing—just searching.
"But sometimes I wonder if you're doing it because you want to… or because you think I need you to."
The street was quiet now, save for the rustling leaves. Ronell looked at him, brows drawn just slightly.
"I don't—" she began, but stopped.
Moore's expression didn't waver. It wasn't angry, just tired. Honest.
"It's not that I don't want you here," he said, voice low. "I just don't want to be the reason you keep... holding back."
That struck something in her. She hadn't thought of it like that. Not really.
It was always instinctual—Moore needed quiet. Moore needed routine. She was the one who understood him. So she stayed close.
She opened her mouth again, slower this time. "You're not holding me back, Moore."
But the words felt too easy. Too reflexive.
He gave her a soft half-smile—something between gratitude and resignation.
"I know you mean that," he said. "But I also know how many people want your time."
A breeze passed through the trees, ruffling Ronell's hair.
For a long moment, they just stood there. Her looking at him, him looking slightly past her, as though the truth would sting less if he didn't see it land.
Then, she reached out and gently touched his sleeve. "Thank you. For telling me."
It wasn't a promise to change. It wasn't an apology. Just a quiet acknowledgement of something that had gone unsaid for too long.
They began walking again—closer now. Not because they needed to be. But because they both wanted to.
And this time, their silence felt a little different.
---
The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of her desk lamp casting warm circles across her notes and the half-finished sketchbook lying open beside her. The curtains swayed faintly with the summer breeze, and outside, the distant hum of the neighborhood rolled by like a slow lullaby.
Ronell sat cross-legged on her bed, phone in hand, the blue light washing over her face. She wasn't really texting—just scrolling.
The group chat was active tonight.
Plans for the weekend.
Memes. Outfit ideas. A blurry photo from today's lunch break.
Then a message caught her eye.
"We could ask Ronell, but she probably won't come lol"
A few laughing emojis followed. Then another:
"Yeah, I stopped bothering tbh. She's always with her brother anyway."
She stared at the screen for a long time.
There was no malice in the words. Just resignation. A kind of quiet judgment wrapped in familiarity.
But it stung.
Not because they were wrong.
But because… they weren't.
She scrolled a little more. One message in particular hovered near the bottom of the thread:
"I wonder if she even wants to hang out with us anymore."
Ronell locked her phone and set it facedown beside her.
She leaned back into the pillows, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling where shadows danced with the curtain light.
She hadn't meant to distance herself.
But in choosing where she was needed most, maybe she hadn't realized what she was slowly letting go of.
Her chest tightened—not with guilt, but with something murkier. A quiet ache. That sense of missing something you didn't know you had been leaving behind.
Then, as if on instinct, she reached for the notebook resting on her nightstand—the one she only ever wrote in when her thoughts became too restless to ignore.
She flipped past a few pages of dreamy short stories and half-sketched treehouses, then paused on a blank sheet.
Pen in hand, she hesitated... then wrote softly in the corner:
"You can't be everything for someone else and still have something left for yourself."
The page stayed open beside her as she curled under the blanket.
Outside, the wind stirred the branches.
Inside, her world felt just a little more complicated.