The faint glow of the moon glisten through the drapes over his tanned skin, daring me to awaken all the forbidden desires I kept buried in my thoughts.
"Use me," He whimpers as my knees stoop to the floor,
❝... I am rightfully and solely yours, Aa...
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THE QUIET rays of the sun loom through the window onto my skin in faded kisses of delight. Valerie would resemble me to the tortuous sun because, in her eyes, my light was bright and demanding of your attention. Every morning I let my skin luster in its rays to consume the void of the moon as it was her. 
I begin getting ready with my routine and go into the closet to see the uniforms, that Zoya told me she left in my closet, after apologizing for leaving me astray. I can't lie and say that the uniforms are hideous but relatively clean and well put together. The girls, I am assuming, are only to wear a navy sweatshirt with a white collared shirt underneath and a black, white, and navy-colored pleated skirt. On the upper-right corner of the sweatshirt, there lies a crest of a falcon soaring in its glory with bold gold words circling it, Adsurgere successu aut cadunt. I took AP Latin in my freshman year, and it was the literal worst, but hey, at least I can decipher cryptic messages.
"Rise to success or fall," I mentally read the lettering with a hm sound. This school can't get any more prestigious than it already is. Val would joke that it can get throat-to-knife competitive around winter exams, but the crest alone speaks volumes of how academics matter in this place.
My hair worked with me as it flew elegantly down to my mid-back, and my silver moon pendant around my collarbone promised a surge of confidence. I put on my black Doc Martens, gather my school belongings, and exit my room to see Zoya standing by the front door. She was typing irregularly on her phone until she sensed my presence and gave me a greeting smile.
"Ready, newbie?" She quirks her eyebrow up in a teasing manner, which I've grown to quite adore.
"Ready as I'll ever be," I wink. We made it down the stairs, and every time my fingers caressed the granite handrails, I understood the value of the past, arguably, simple times. My conception of reality dwindled in the echoes of the painters who drew pain and one-sided fantasies. The painters that gave their very being to explain their warped vision of art into a concealed image.
On the ground level, beyond the check-in center, were more marble stairs that led you down to a floor with various hallways and freshly wooden doors. Zoya led me to my first period, which is debate, because we both have that class together.
Walking into the classroom, there were many controversial, accepting posters: the LGBTQ+ flag, photos of recent racial protests, and a sign above the whiteboard that said boldly, "Respect each other's pronouns, gender identity, and differences." The school resembled traditions knitted in a homemade basket, nonprogressive and exclusive. If any conservative-viewed person observed this wall of the oppressed, it would evoke a heated confrontation.
The teacher with the name tag, Mr. Jax, halted us before we sat down. He gives us a tiny grin, "What is your name, pronouns, and something that stands you out from others?"
