The bell for recess jolted me out of my daydream, yanking me back to the reality of the classroom. Blinking, I glanced around. Almost everyone had already left, their voices and laughter fading into the hallway. I sighed, running a hand through my hair as I stood to gather my books, still lost in the fog of my wandering thoughts.
"Miss Black?"
The sharp voice of Mr. Harrison, the math teacher, broke through my daze. I turned and found him standing by his desk, his eyes fixed on me with that unmistakable look of concern mixed with frustration.
"Yes, Mr. Harrison?" I asked, moving hesitantly toward him.
"I see you were distracted in class again today," he said, dragging out the last word for effect. His tone made me cringe inwardly, a reminder of how I'd spent most of the lesson staring at the window instead of the whiteboard.
"I'm sorry, sir," I murmured, avoiding his gaze and focusing on a spot on the wall behind him.
He sighed, his expression softening. "Your midterm results aren't looking promising. I know things have been difficult, and I'm sorry for what you're going through, but you need to make an effort to pay more attention in class." His voice carried a note of pity that made my stomach twist.
"I understand," I said, nodding curtly. Before he could say more, I turned and left the classroom, clutching my books tightly to my chest.
Life hadn't been the same since last summer. The accident had changed everything. My parents were gone, leaving me and my little brother as the only survivors of the crash. Every day since then felt like trudging through quicksand, the weight of loss threatening to drag me under.
The library had become my sanctuary, the only place where I could escape the chaos of my mind. As I pushed open the door, the familiar scent of old books greeted me, soothing in its constancy. The librarian glanced up from her desk and gave me a warm smile. I forced a small smile back before heading to my usual spot the thriller section.
I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, their titles offering a brief distraction from the thoughts that constantly plagued me. My hand stopped on The Woman in the Window by A.J. Finn. Just as I reached for it, I felt another hand tugging the book from the other side of the shelf.
"Sorry, I got it first," I said, gripping the book firmly.
"I don't think so. I picked it first," a voice retorted, sharp and defiant.
The voice sent a shiver down my spine. It was familiar, and not in a good way. Peering through the gap between the shelves, my suspicion was confirmed. It was her Ciara Larsson.
"You!" she exclaimed, her eyes narrowing as she recognized me.
Ciara had joined the school a few months after the accident, her family having moved into the neighborhood. From the moment she arrived, she made it clear she didn't like me. The feeling was mutual.
Her glare was as sharp as ever, and I could feel the tension crackling between us like static electricity. Of all the people to run into, it had to be her.
