MIRA
Shaking takes hold of me before my feet even touch the diner floor.
Shivers ran down my spine, but it wasn't the icy bus air or leaving my gloves behind. It was the rush, sharp and sudden. The fear of standing out, of being noticed. How Damen Blackwood watched me - as if I mattered - set every nerve on edge.
Something feels wrong here. This can't just happen by chance.
Each time, I say it again while stepping into the diner, glass swinging behind. The usual mix of burnt beans and frying pans settles on my clothes. Marcus glances over the counter, his face tight. That moment, he does not smile.
"You okay, kid?"
Fine. My coat goes on the hook near the kitchen. The bus came slow. That is why I am late
"You're not late. You're early." He studies me with those sharp brown eyes that miss nothing. "You sure you're okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"I saw a Blackwood."
A flicker crosses Marcus's face. Life in The Shallows - that's all he's ever known, just like me. The weight of Blackwood isn't something you explain. It settles. Lives in the air. Always has.
"Which one?"
"Damen."
"The son?" He whistles low. "What'd he want?"
"I don't know. To talk to me, I guess. Walk me to the bus stop." I grab an apron, tie it around my waist. "It's weird, right? It has to be weird."
For a second, Marcus says nothing, moving the cloth across the surface again, though there's no need. Perhaps he only needs to speak
"Rich kids don't just want to talk to girls like me."
"Maybe this one does."
I snort. "Since when are you optimistic?"
"Since I watched you work yourself to the bone for three years without complaining once." He meets my eyes. "You deserve good things, Mira. Even if they come in unexpected packages."
That one's unclear. Off comes the notebook, fingers moving fast.
A steady stream rolls in for dinner - trucks stopping over, locals dropping by, some teenagers from Westbrook chasing bargain fries. Tables shift under my feet as I glide through them without thinking, grabbing orders, bringing meals, hauling away dirty dishes. The routine feels blank, almost welcome. That emptiness gives space - for thoughts to twist, wander, dig.
Damen Blackwood.
Three years he's been there, moving through hallways like smoke. All eyes find him, even when he doesn't look up. Tall frame, easy laugh - he fills space whether he wants to or not. Crowds form around his shadow, shifting with him down corridors. From far away, I've studied the rhythm of it - the tilt of his head, the way voices rise when he speaks. Like something staged, rehearsed until perfect. Not flesh and bone, more like an image flickering on a screen. The type you know can't exist outside glass and light.
Now here he stood, flesh and bone. His eyes met mine without turning away. Spoke my name as if weight lived inside it.
Then I said he should just go away.
Okay. It felt right. Invisible girls act like that.
When the bell above the door jingles near eight, winter slips inside. At table four, I write down what Mr. Henderson wants - apple pie, usual request. My eyes stay on the pad until sound cuts through - the first word spoken. A figure stands just past the threshold, coat dusted with snow.
"Booth in the back, if it's free."
A line stops short on the page. The ink just gives up halfway through a letter.
That sound rings a bell. For hours now, it's played on repeat inside my thoughts.
Slowly, I turn.
Damen Blackwood lingers near the entrance, fingers buried in the deep pockets of a costly coat, eyes sweeping across the diner as if it were some alien place. Maybe because, truthfully, it might be. Cracked leather lines the booth seats. Underfoot, the tiles cling with old spills. That same worn menu hangs above the counter - unchanged, frozen in time since ninety-eight.
A glance pulls me in - his eyes meet mine, a quiet smile blooming. Then stillness.
"Hi."
Holding back a cough, Mr. Henderson speaks up. Hey there, miss - what about my slice of pie?
I blink, force myself to focus. "Right. Sorry. Apple, right? With ice cream?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Down on paper it goes, ripped free, passed through the serving hatch - eyes never lifting toward Damen. Perhaps ignoring means vanishing. Pretending absence might make him fade like smoke.
No such luck.
When I get around to checking the other tables, there he is, tucked into the corner booth - the spot I usually claim when grading papers between orders. His gaze follows me, pale eyes sharp, noticing things most wouldn't.
Marcus shows up beside me. He asks if I've met the guy before
"He goes to my school."
"That the Blackwood son?"
"Yes."
Marcus pauses, just for a moment. After that silence comes his voice - low, careful - "What does he need?"
"I don't know. He won't tell me."
"Well, you're about to find out." He nods toward the booth. "He's waving you over."
My eyes move his way. His arm lifts, two fingers curling in my direction. As if I answer to him. This space belongs to him, apparently.
Heat rises inside me, building fast. Over I go, notebook tight in grip, eyes locking on his face. A grin stretches across mine - practiced, bright, just like training taught.
"What can I get you?"
"Coffee. Black." He pauses. "And you. Sit with me."
"Can't. I'm working."
"For five minutes. Please."
That word trips me up. Wealthy children rarely use it. Instead they grab whatever's in front of them, name it fate.
"I have other tables."
Time won't run out," he says, waving a hand toward the quiet diner. Only three people sit inside, each with plates in front of them. A short pause is all it takes. Just five minutes. Nothing more
Maybe saying no is right. Walking off might be better. Staying unseen could work.
Down I slip into the seat opposite his, quiet like a shadow falling at noon.
"What do you want, Damen?"
He leans back, studying me with that unnerving focus. "I wanted to apologize. For earlier. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't make me uncomfortable. You made me confused. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Uncomfortable I can handle. Confused means I have to think about you, and I don't have time to think about rich boys with nothing better to do."
A laugh jumps out of him, sudden and true, making my chest feel oddly tight. That honesty? It catches his attention
"I'm not trying to be likable. I'm trying to understand why you're here."
Out of nowhere, Marcus shows up holding coffee. He places it down near Damen. His eyes meet mine - there's a warning there. Then he's gone before I can blink.
Fingers stretch along the mug's curve - slender, smooth, nothing like the scraped knuckles I know back home. A pause hangs before he speaks. Might I say what's on my mind? Quiet slips in between the words
"You're going to anyway."
"How did you end up at Westbrook?"
Caught off balance by the question. Rich kids fill Westbrook, everyone sees it. A handful get in through scholarships - around twenty among eight hundred. Not real change. Just faces put forward, quiet proof the place pretends to value chance
"Test scores," I say. "I scored high enough that they offered me a spot. Full ride."
"That's impressive."
"It's lucky. There are smarter kids than me who didn't get the chance."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Deflect. Downplay. You're smart. Own it."
Frozen in place, my eyes lock onto his. What makes this matter to you?
He holds my gaze. "I don't know yet. But I want to find out."
The silence stretches, thick with things better left unsaid. Maybe it's time to go. Getting up now would make sense - just turn and keep moving without looking back.
Yet here I stand still.
"Your turn," I say. "Why do you go to Westbrook? Your family could send you anywhere."
"Tradition. My father went there. His father went there. It's expected."
"That must be nice. Having expectations."
"Is that sarcasm?"
"Observation." I glance at the clock. "My five minutes are up. I have to check on table two."
Up I rise. His fingers close around my wrist, soft as breath, almost nothing there, yet it spreads through me like ripples across still water.
"Tomorrow," he says. "Can we talk tomorrow?"
"No."
"Please. Just... one more conversation. No games. No hidden agenda. Just talk."
Downward goes my gaze, landing on his fingers around my wrist. His face comes into view when I lift my head. What I find there catches me - softness, doubt. That very same worry that lives inside me whenever closeness happens.
My hand slides back slow. Work waits
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
Away I go. Over at table two, someone needs attention. Mr. Henderson gets his pie, placed gently in front of him. A couple of tables get cleared, one after another. Through it all, Damen watches - steady, silent, always there.
Only then do I glance over. The booth is empty. Under his cup lies a twenty-dollar note - plenty
spending on his beverage alone what took me sixty minutes of work to earn, then adding extra money after.
A coin sits in my palm, cold against the skin. Silence stretches while I watch it glint under the light. Seconds pass like minutes. My fingers stay still, frozen mid-thought.
After that, I tuck it into my coat slowly. She is due for a fresh pair of shoes.