Here I am, observing her as I always do. Anna pretends she doesn't see me, and she's good at it, too. She walks past me as if I'm just another student leaning against the corridor wall. She acts as though my presence doesn't tighten her shoulders for half a second before she corrects herself. Most people don't notice the correction. Indeed, I do. I notice the way her fingers grip her books a little harder, the way her jaw sets as if she's reminding herself of something she refuses to forget. I almost smile. It's not pride. It's recognition. Regina talks about her sister as harmless, loud, stubborn, too buried in books and drawings to notice the world. Regina doesn't know that her harmless little sister once eyed me like I was something dangerous and wanted it anyway.
That night came without planning. I needed somewhere to stay; Regina told me that her sister is home, and I don't expect the door to open and find familiar eyes staring back at me from my school corridor world. For a second, we both just stand there, laughing in that surprised way people do when coincidence feels too sharp to process. Regina hasn't told that her little sister was Anna, the Anna I knew from school. I haven't told Regina about my school, too. The overlap felt almost illegal, like two separate lives brushing against each other. It felt harmless at first—shared jokes, teasing comments about teachers, too much eye contact stretched a second longer than it should have. But harmless things don't stay harmless for long.I recall Anna's approach, her subtle testing of an unseen space between us, her pause that doesn't lead to retreat. I remember wanting to see how far she'd go. I remember liking it more than I should, liking the curiosity in her eyes, liking that she isn't as untouchable as Regina describes. Even now, no matter how much I tell myself it's old news, I can't forget that night I spent in the same house with her, how close it almost became, how easy it would have been if timing hadn't interrupted us. It is seconds away from happening before Regina casually shows her my picture, before the truth drops into the room like shattered glass. Everything in Anna's face changes. Shock first. Then disgust. Then something quieter that looks too much like regret.
Regret looks different on different people; on her, it looks like silence. She chooses silence over confession, and I respect that. Or maybe I just appreciate the convenience. She keeps it from Regina. She doesn't create a scene. She just builds a wall and pretends I don't exist unless we're alone enough for tension to breathe. Now she threatens sometimes, quietly, when we're close but not close enough for anyone to overhear. She says she'll tell Regina everything if I don't stop chasing her. I never care hard enough about the threat because something about her tells me she won't hurt her sister like that. Anna protects Regina the way Regina trusts blindly. And I know it as I lean in slightly when she challenges me, lower my voice just enough to remind her without words that she didn't pull away that night either. I like how she can't fully hide what she feels; it flashes in her eyes before she locks it away again.She hates my persistence and that I refuse to pretend otherwise.. But what she hates most is that part of her still reacts when I stand too close, when my body brushes hers by accident that isn't really an accident.
I'm not looking for chaos. I don't wake up planning destruction. I just like knowing what people look like behind their fake faces. Anna almost crossed a line. Regina barely notices anything. I'd like to think that I don't care. But I do. I want to know why she almost wants me the way I want her. I don't think having both sisters would be so bad either. That's selfish, I know, but loyalty feels flexible when distance is involved. Regina studies miles away, untethered from my daily life; who knows what she does without my constant presence to claim her. People claim distance builds trust; I think it just invites curiosity.
I watch them too, even if I shouldn't—Brandon and Mary, the way they move around each other like magnets, like they've figured out a language no one else can understand. Mary laughs at something small Brandon says, that tilt of her head, the way her eyes light up for him only, and I sense that strange pull again, the one that reminds me how easily people can slip into each other's orbit without even noticing the world spinning around them. Brandon doesn't know I'm watching, doesn't know I see the way he carries her books when she forgets, the little touches, the subtle brush of fingers that make her glance up, surprised and happy, all of it. And yet there's something about that ease between them that annoys me just enough to make me smirk. Rafael's in the corner, calm as always, leaning back in his chair like life has nothing to teach him because he already knows it all, and I can't stop wondering how someone can look so untouchable, so perfectly unbothered, and still make every girl around him feel like they're the only one alive. I catch Mary's gaze, brief, curious, and I almost laugh because I know she doesn't see me the way I see her, not really. And Rafael doesn't notice her in the same way either—he's too busy keeping his own walls high, trying to figure out if love is just a word or if he can take it seriously. I can read it in him, though every little twitch, every glance that doesn't reach his eyes fully, and I think about how hard it must be to care but refuse to let anyone see it. It's frustrating, that combination of aloofness and desire, the kind that makes people chase and chase and never quite catch. I don't even know why the DOS suggests we stay here waiting for others to finish their afternoon exams since we're not even revising for tomorrow anyway.
I turn my eyes back to Brandon and Mary. They're leaning over a notebook, whispering, and something warm flickers in my chest, a heat that's not quite jealousy, not quite longing, just a sharp reminder that connection exists, that people can touch each other without pretending. I think about how Brandon treats her, how carefully, like she's made of glass and he's too aware of the cracks, and I wonder if that's what it would take to get through to someone like Anna, someone who hides everything behind calm eyes and quiet smiles. My thoughts drift to the tension between her and me, the memory of that night that still hums under my skin, and I can't help but compare it to what I see now—how easy it is for others to share, to laugh, to brush fingers without fear, while I have to dance around lines that feel invisible to everyone else. Yet there's a thrill in that dance, a dangerous pull that makes me want to lean closer, to test limits, to see how far I can push her without breaking a thing. Respect remains—a recognition that walls exist for reasons, and silences remain untouched until invited. I glance up and catch Rafael's profile again, calm as ever, and think about how little he actually understands the chaos surrounding him, how unaware he is of the ripples he leaves behind. I let my eyes sweep over all of them one last time before shifting to my own hands, flexing my fingers, thinking about the nights I spent alone with thoughts I can't voice, moments that should have stayed buried but refuse to be quiet. There's an edge to everything I see, a hidden thread tying all of us together, and I can't stop following it, can't stop imagining what might happen if the right—or wrong—choice is made, if someone leans too close, says too much, touches in the wrong way. And maybe that's what keeps me alive, keeps the game interesting: the knowledge that everyone has secrets, that everyone carries fire beneath their calm exteriors, and that one day, the sparks might just ignite something uncontrollable.
I shift in my seat, resting my elbows on my knees, thinking about myself for a change. It's strange—how I can watch everyone else, how I can feel pulled into their lives without stepping in too far, and remain almost invisible. I like it that way. I don't want to be the source of chaos, not really. But there's a line, and sometimes I can't resist testing it, seeing how far I can push without breaking it completely. And that line is Anna. She fascinates me because she fights herself, because she won't give in, and yet every glance, every brush of her hand against mine is a reminder that desire doesn't care about rules. She's careful, clever, cautious, and I admire that—because it means I have to be careful too, and that makes the game more fun. I smile a little at the thought, even though I know it's dangerous. Regina doesn't know everything yet, and part of me wants to keep it that way, even as I promise myself I won't step too far. I glance around, watching Anna walking down the hall like she owns a piece of the world, and I realize how much I envy some things, how much I want others, and how little anyone really knows about the battles we fight inside. I lean back, letting the weight of it all settle, knowing that tonight, tomorrow, and the next day, this quiet game between us will continue, that tension and longing will dance around us in ways no one else can see, and maybe that's enough for now.