The air was thick, like static clinging to the walls, waiting for someone reckless enough to touch the switch. Reyna sat there, calm as a chess master who already knows the endgame. Her silence wasn't empty—it was loaded, like a gun on the table no one dared to pick up.
Then came Amantha. The new girl. She didn't walk into the room so much as crash through it, like a wall deciding it had had enough of being a wall. Her eyes carried the weight of someone who's either seen too much or plans to make you see too much. Honestly, she had the look of a seasoned killer—or maybe that was just my sleep-deprived brain turning paranoia into poetry.
The surroundings didn't help. The room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and old wood polish, the kind of scent that makes you wonder if the furniture has been plotting against you for decades. A single bulb flickered overhead, buzzing like it was auditioning for a horror movie. Shadows stretched long across the floor, exaggerating every movement, every glance.
When Reyna and Amantha's gazes met, it was like two storms sizing each other up. Attraction? Hatred? Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe just the universe laughing at me for trying to decode it. My heart thumped like a drum solo nobody asked for, and I swear the silence between them was louder than the bulb's buzz.
And me? I was stuck in the middle, wondering if I should grab popcorn or a shield. Midnight thoughts are dangerous—they turn queens into killers, killers into comedians, and me into the insomniac narrator of a story that may or may not exist.
P.S. It definitely doesn't.
These cursed halls are my prison, my sense of freedom yet the only barrier between me and the outside.
It was well past curfew, the hour when the Wi‑Fi mysteriously slowed to a crawl and the vending machines hummed like ominous sentinels. I crept along the corridor, the fluorescent lights flickering just enough to make me feel like I was in a low‑budget horror film.
Up ahead, voices echoed. One was Sam — poor Sam, who had been caught sneaking out of the dorms with all the stealth of a marching band. The other belonged to our Headmistress, whose reputation for discipline was legendary. Rumor had it she once gave detention to a student for thinking about chewing gum.
"Samuel!" she barked, her voice reverberating off the linoleum. "Do you not comprehend the gravity of your crime? Sneaking out at midnight! The very foundation of order trembles!"
Sam, caught mid‑stride with his hoodie half‑zipped, muttered something about needing fresh air. The Headmistress's eyes widened as though he'd confessed to plotting a coup.
I pressed myself against the wall, hidden behind a trophy case filled with dusty relics of long‑forgotten sports victories. The Headmistress paced furiously, her sensible shoes squeaking with each step, while Sam stood frozen like a deer in headlights.
The whole scene was absurdly traumatic in that boarding‑school way: a minor infraction treated like a national scandal. Sam's fate seemed sealed — a week of detention, perhaps even the dreaded "Reflection Essay on the Moral Perils of Midnight Wandering."
From my hiding spot, I stifled a laugh. The institution thrived on melodrama, and tonight's episode was no exception. Perhaps tomorrow's assembly would feature a stern lecture titled "Dormitory Discipline: A Case Study in Sneaker‑Clad Rebellion."
If only, it's students were that simple minded. Perhaps I wouldn't be stuck in this tragedy. And I really do need to look into this matter, headmistress is acting quite weird.
" Connor- We know you're there. Come on out. You deserve an explanation."
And suddenly it was like my whole world was crumbling into pieces, they knew. Was all that a facade. Sam- Sam called me out?? My sanity is fighting to break.
This explanation better be DAMN GOOD.