Three minutes until the bell. The clock above the whiteboard ticks, each second a hammer against my skull. I sit at the back of the classroom, my pencil tapping against the edge of my notebook, the graphite smudged from my sweaty fingers. The air smells of chalk dust and teenage sweat, the kind that clings to hoodies and gym bags. Everyone else is already half out the door in their minds, their chatter buzzing like static—weekend plans, parties I’m not invited to, laughter that cuts deeper than I’ll ever admit. I keep my eyes down, my brown hair pulled tight into a ponytail, the same one I’ve worn since freshman year. Plain. Safe. Invisible. The bell shrieks, slicing through the noise. Chairs scrape, sneakers squeak, and the room empties like water down a drain. I stay put. One minute more, I tell myself. Let them all rush out first. Let the hallways swallow them before I step into the chaos. My backpack slumps against my desk, heavy with textbooks and the weight of another week survived. Survived, but not unscathed. Never unscathed. I’m the last one out, as always. The hallway is a river of bodies, voices crashing against lockers, the clatter of metal doors slamming. My sneakers—scuffed, gray, forgettable—shuffle against the linoleum. I feel the cold bite of it through my thin soles. My locker is at the far end, past the trophy case with its gleaming reminders of everyone else’s victories. I keep my head low, my shoulders hunched, as if I could shrink into nothing. As if I could disappear. Two minutes until I’m free. The weekend is so close I can taste it—two days of hiding in my room, drowning in music, pretending Crestwood High doesn’t exist. But then I hear it. The click-clack of ballet flats on the floor, sharp and deliberate, like a predator’s claws. My stomach twists. I know that sound. I know her. Zara Veloris glides toward me, her blonde hair cascading in perfect waves, catching the fluorescent light like spun gold. Her floral blouse clings to her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that makes you hate mirrors. Her pencil skirt hugs her hips, and her slim jawline tilts upward, a queen surveying her kingdom. She’s everything I’m not—polished, poised, untouchable. I hate her. I hate how she makes me feel like I’m less than nothing, like my faded jeans and loose sweater are a crime. I hate how I envy her. “Well, well,” she says, her voice honey-sweet and venom-sharp. “Look at you, Lira. Still trying to blend into the walls?” Her lips curl, a perfect smile that’s all teeth. She stops a foot away, close enough for me to smell her perfume—something floral, expensive, the kind I’d never afford. My fingers tighten around my locker handle, the metal cold and slick under my palm. Don’t react. Don’t let her see. I open my locker, focusing on the chipped paint inside, the stack of books I’ve shoved in haphazardly. “Just getting my stuff,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper. It’s a lie, and she knows it. I’m stalling, waiting for her to get bored and move on. But Zara never gets bored. Not when it comes to me. She steps closer, her ballet flats tapping a slow, mocking rhythm. “Pathetic,” she says, loud enough for the stragglers in the hallway to hear. A few heads turn, then look away. No one stops. No one ever does. “You really think that ponytail makes you invisible? Newsflash: it just makes you look sad.” Her laugh is a blade, slicing through the air, and I feel it in my chest, sharp and hot. I want to scream. I want to shove her back, to make her feel small for once. But I don’t. I can’t. I made a vow to myself last year, after the first time she made me cry in the bathroom: Never let her see you break. My books are in my hands now, heavy and solid, a shield against her words. I focus on their weight, the rough edges of the pages digging into my fingers. Don’t cry. Don’t shake. Don’t give her the satisfaction. “Leave me alone, Zara,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. Inside, I’m a storm—anger, shame, envy swirling together, threatening to spill over. Her beauty is a weapon, and she wields it like she was born to hurt. “Oh, Lira,” she says, her voice dripping with fake pity. “You’re so… forgettable.” She reaches out, quick as a snake, and knocks the books from my hands. They hit the floor with a dull thud, pages splaying open like broken wings. My heart lurches, but I don’t bend to pick them up. Not yet. Not while she’s watching. Her smile is triumphant, her green eyes glittering with victory. She turns, her hair swishing, and walks away, her flats clicking a final insult. The hallway is quieter now, the crowd thinning. A few kids glance my way—some with pity, some with relief it’s not them. No one helps. No one speaks. No one will be my savior. I kneel, gathering my books, my fingers trembling but my face blank. I won’t cry. I won’t let her win. The linoleum is cold against my knees, the air thick with the scent of floor polish and betrayal. I stack the books carefully, aligning their edges, as if order can fix what’s broken inside me. One minute until I’m out the door. The weekend waits, a temporary escape from this horror-ridden nightmare. I stand, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, the weight grounding me. Zara’s gone, her laughter echoing in my mind but not in the air. I’m still here. Still standing. Still unbroken, even if it feels like a lie. I walk toward the exit, my steps steady, my heart bruised but beating. I’ll survive this. I always do.