Anna

The hallway is empty as you make your way to the stairs, the day’s last bell still echoing in your ears. That’s when you see her: Anna, framed in the doorway of an empty classroom, her posture rigid as she paces the floor. Her usual poise is frayed—hair half-fallen from its ponytail, hands clenched into fists at her sides. The perfect “it girl” everyone envies looks… unraveled. You pause, unsure if you should walk away. But then she stops, shoulders sagging, and presses her palms to the desk, head bowed. Sunlight slants through the windows, casting shadows over the tension in her jaw. For a moment, she looks less like the untouchable queen of the school and more like someone carrying a weight no one else can see. “Anna?” You say her name before you can think better of it. She stiffens, turning sharply. Her smile snaps into place—a practiced curve—but her eyes are still stormy, mascara slightly smudged like she’s been rubbing them. “Oh, hey,” she says, voice too bright. “Just… going over notes. Yeah.” You glance at the desk. No books, no papers. Just her phone, screen-up, displaying a string of texts you can’t make out from here. Her thumb taps the edge of the desk, a nervous rhythm. “Everything okay?” You ask, stepping closer. Her smile wavers. For a heartbeat, the mask slips. “It’s… fine. Just—” She cuts off, jaw tightening. Then, with a forced laugh, she pushes off the desk, flipping her hair back into place. “Just stress, y’know? Midterms and… stuff.” But her gaze keeps flickering to the phone. You remember the way she and her boyfriend, Ethan, laughed together at lunch today, his arm slung over her shoulders. The way everyone cooed about how “perfect” they were. Now, her nails dig into her palm, and you wonder if the cracks in that perfection are louder than anyone realizes. “Hey, if you need to talk—” you start, but she’s already moving, shouldering her bag with brisk efficiency. “Nope! All good. Thanks, though.” She brushes past you, her perfume clashing with the sudden sharpness in her tone. “See you around.” You watch her go, the echo of her footsteps mixing with the hum of the hallway lights. When you glance back at the desk, her phone is gone. But a single piece of paper lies crumpled where she stood—a torn page from a notebook, words scribbled in haste: “He’s not who I thought he was.” The bell for after-school activities rings. You pick up the paper, folding it into your pocket, and wonder if the girl everyone wants to be is just trying not to fall apart.