Anna
Literature is a crime against logic.
I sit on my seat, chin propped on my knuckles, watching sunlight spill across wooden desks through the window like it's trying too hard to be poetic. The wall clock ticks lazily above us.
"Good literature," our teacher says, pacing slowly between the rows, "is never about what is said. It's about what is felt."
I suppress a scoff.
Physics doesn't care what you feel. Neither does math. They just give you answers that are clean and honest.
Ari, on the other hand, is sitting beside me like she's attending a sermon. Her notebook is open, pen moving quickly, eyes fixed on the teacher as if every word is sacred.
I glance at her and whisper, "You know this won't be on the test, right?"
She nudges me lightly without looking away. "You never know."
The teacher stops by the board and writes a line from the poem we're studying.
"He loved her long before he knew it was love."
The room goes quiet. A few girls sigh. Someone smiles dreamily.
I roll my eyes.
"That's ridiculous," I mutter. "Love requires awareness."
Ari turns to me then, brows knitting softly. "Or maybe awareness comes later."
I don't reply. Because for reasons I don't care to examine, a completely unrelated image flashes through my mind—
A pair of hands at my waist.
I straighten in my seat immediately and shake my head.
Absurd! I want to slap myself!
Who on earth am I thinking of!?
###
Kye Yon
The ground is damp beneath my shoes, softened by last night's frost.
Cold air cuts into my lungs with every breath, sharp and clean, but it doesn't slow me down. It never does. My muscles burn pleasantly as I push forward, legs moving on instinct, pace steady and controlled. Around me, others run too. Their shoes pounding, breaths uneven, someone already lagging behind.
I don't look at them.
Instead, I focus on the rhythm—The pull of my breath. The ground answering my steps.
Even the chilly weather doesn't seem to be able to restrain my sweat. It beads at my temples, slides down my neck, soaks the collar of my training jacket. I eventually slow down. Not because I'm tired, but because I decide I'm done.
That's the difference.
I come to a stop near the edge of the track, hands resting briefly on my hips as I tilt my head back, letting the cold air hit my skin. Steam rises faintly from my body. I take heavy breaths, panting. Good.
Gaining control of your breathing is the first move to be conscious.
"God…" someone mutters.
I don't need to turn to know who it is. Those silly girls.
A group of them stands a little too close to the track, pretending they've just happened to be there. One of them laughs nervously when I glance over. Another straightens her hair. Someone else says my name like it's a question.
"He doesn't even look tired," one of them says.
"Is that even human?" another adds, giggling.
I wipe the sweat from my jaw with the back of my hand and meet their stares. Then I let a smirk curve lazily at the corner of my lips.
As expected. It works.
One of them actually sways. Another one grabs her arm, whispering frantically.
Laughable
I shake my head faintly, more amused than impressed, and grab my bottle in a firm grip. My veins are on display. As I walk away, their whispers trail behind me like static.
These girls are strange creatures.
The overbridge comes into view. The narrow stretch of glass and steel connecting the two wings of the school. Morning light falls onto the glass floor, turning it pale gold. I step onto the bridge, shoes echoing softly, the noise fading as I walk further on it. The world narrows again.
I exhale slowly, gaze fixed ahead.
People are strange. So easily shaken by appearances.
And for reasons I don't bother questioning yet… I find myself wondering who, among them all, ever bothered to look past it?
Of course she.
I shake my head. Annoyed at my own uninvited thoughts.
***
The bridge gives me a clear view of the ground below.
Students cross the courtyard in loose clusters—laughter, backpack and routine chaos. I rest my forearms against the cool railing, fingers loosely laced, my gaze drifting without intention.
That's when I see him.
Miles.
He's standing near the steps. His shoulders slightly hunched, head tilted down as if the weight of the sky is personal for him.
My jaw tightens unintentionally.
This guy hasn't changed much from his childhood. Still wears his emotions like an unguarded wound. Still too open. Too honest. Too human. People like him are easy to love. And easier to break.
My gaze sharpens in an instant as a shadow comes into view behind him.
Anna.
She walks over to him. Says something I can't hear. But there's concern edged on her face. I wonder if she's asking him for the tournament?
Nathan nods looking at the sky.
Then she does something very small, yet very noticeable. Her hand lands on his shoulder. Cautious and timid. Like she's unsure of how he'll respond to it.
A small flicker of fire tries to flint inside of me. I don't let it. Not yet.
Nathan doesn't respond at first. Then his hand comes up, fingers closing over hers. As if he's confirming something is real.
My pupils narrow at a dangerous level. What's this hormonal changes inside of me? These two have always been like this. They're typically siblings with the label of "Besties". But why am I reasoning their act now of all times? Gramps will eat my ears out if he gets to know this.
As an effort to shift my thoughts from her, to regain control over myself again, my eyes roam over the courtyard and catch another sight. Ottawa?
She doesn't approach them. Instead, she stops near the pathway, partially hidden by the angle of the building. I can clearly see the way she hesitates, the way her steps stall as she takes them in.
Ah, she's getting the wrong idea. But that's none of my concern though.
The two of them don't notice her. And she keeps noticing them.
This scene is familiar to me. I've witnessed it before. Not in this place. Not with the same people exactly. But the same alignment.
The school blurs. And I'm suddenly seven years younger—
***
The backyard of my house.. uh more like 'mansion'.. stretches wide and manicured. The flower bushes, the trees, the swings and slippers and other playground structures lined perfectly in there. It's too perfect to feel alive. The swing set creaks softly as I sit there, arms crossed, foot nudging the ground just enough to keep it moving.
Nathan is kneeling near the hedges.
There's a bird in the grass. Small and still. Its wings have folded wrong. In short, it's dead. I had told him already. But he looks devastated. As if he would do anything to turn the bird alive again.
Anna crouches beside him without hesitation. She doesn't ask questions, doesn't even panic. Instead, she just places a hand on his shoulder.
Some habits never change.
Nathan's lip trembles. He says something probably about how unfair it is for the bird. How it shouldn't have happened. How things aren't supposed to die like that.
Anna only listens.
I watch them from the swing, unmoving. As Anna is already mad at me for I said a dead bird is just that. Dead. I don't understand what the hell I was supposed to say instead to that thing!
And then—
She appears. Miaomi.
Blond hair catching the sunlight like it was designed to be noticed. Her blue eyes are sharp; almost luminous. She stops a few steps behind them, gaze locking instantly onto the scene unfolding in front of her.
Anna. Nathan. The hand. The closeness.
Something shifts in Miaomi's face. Not slowly… all at once.
Hurt—raw and immediate.
Anger—sharp and volatile.
Jealousy—unmistakable.
Her jaw tightens. She turns her head. Refusing to witness the scene. But looks at me instead.
I don't move.
Her eyes narrow slightly, focus sharpening like she's reaching for something evil. Testing and pressing against something invisible.
I feel it. That pressure. The familiar one she uses on everyone else.
My fingers curl tighter around the chain of the swing. But I don't look away from her piercing gaze.
She stares longer. Frustration cracks across her expression when nothing works. When nothing opens. When I don't flinch, don't react and don't let her in. Inside my brain.
Her gaze hardens for the last time. Then she looks away and walks past me like nothing happened.
She walks straight toward them. I don't care to look at her anymore. Because even at that age, I understood something instinctively—
She wasn't angry at them. She was angry at me.
Because I was the only one she couldn't reach.
***
The bell rings inside the school building. And I'm back to the present. The memory fractures instantly, shattering back into the noise of the school corridor. Students spill past me, voices loud, careless, unaware of the ghosts standing where they walk.
I straighten to adjust my posture.
The overbridge is just steel and glass again. Anna is again a nineteen year old girl walking to class. Nathan is again just a boy recovering from something old. And Ariana is again just a witness.
And Miaomi—
I exhale slowly.
Some people don't forgive what they can't control. Even in death.