The familiar cacophony of the school cafeteria washed over me the next day, a symphony of scraping chairs, excited shouts, and the clatter of lunchboxes. I navigated the crowded room, my own lunchbox clutched in my hand, searching for our usual table. Chloe, Ashley, and Shawna were already there, a tight knot of chatter and laughter. My heart lifted, anticipation bubbling up inside me. This was my escape, my favorite part of the day, where the world outside the classroom faded into the background.
I slid onto the bench beside Chloe, my smile already reaching my masked eyes. "Hey, guys! You'll never guess what Lily did yesterday– another Kiki drama, but even more epic than usual!" I began, eager to launch into the retelling of our Sunday morning spectacle.
Chloe chuckled, a small smile playing on her lips, but her attention quickly swiveled back to Ashley, who was in the middle of recounting a story about her younger brother's hilarious antics. Shawna, kept her eyes fixed on Ashley, a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of understanding passing between them. My words, still hanging in the air, seemed to dissipate, unheard, unacknowledged.
I tried again a few minutes later, spotting a lull in their conversation. "And then Mom came in with the spatula, you should have seen it!" I added, leaning forward, hoping to infuse my voice with enough excitement to grab their attention.
Ashley chuckled again, a casual, dismissive sound. "Oh, your mom and the spatula," she said, a fleeting glance in my direction before her eyes were back on Shawna. "Anyway, so my brother, right? He tripped right over the dog. You should have seen his face!"
Shawna burst out laughing, a loud, clear sound that vibrated through the table. "No way! Did he really? I bet he totally deserved it for leaving his shoes everywhere."
My enthusiasm, which had flared so brightly moments before, felt like a candle snuffed out by a sudden gust of wind. My throat tightened slightly. I wanted to join in, to contribute to their easy banter, but the words felt stuck, a lump of awkwardness. The unspoken current between Ashley and Shawna was strong, a shared wavelength I seemed to be missing today. Every attempt I made to weave myself into their conversation felt like an invisible barrier was erected, deflecting my words before they could land.
I stopped trying. Instead, I focused on the crumbs on my lunchbox, tracing patterns with my fingertip. I could still hear them, of course. Shawna's voice, was always vibrant, even sort of commanding, brimming with a playful energy as she exchanged banter with Ashley. It was clear she was enjoying herself, laughing easily, her eyes bright. They were having fun, a kind of fun that felt just out of my reach. I tried to force a smile, to mimic their enjoyment, to blend in, but the corners of my lips felt stiff, unnatural. A faint ache settled in my chest, a dull throb of being on the outside looking in. It wasn't anger, not exactly. More like a quiet hurt, a small, sharp sting. I swallowed it down, pushing the feeling deep inside, forcing a small, almost imperceptible smile back onto my lips. I didn't want to spoil their fun, or acknowledge the small void that had just opened up inside me.
The rest of the lunch period passed with me as a silent observer, nodding occasionally, offering a strained chuckle when appropriate, but mostly just listening as Ashley and Shawna held court. Chloe, caught between the two currents, chimed in sometimes, but even her usual easy rapport with me felt slightly distant.
Later in the day, as the final bell for skill class rang, a sense of relief washed over me. Fashion Designing. My haven. I quickly made my way to the classroom, the quiet hum of creativity already palpable. Hannah was already there, seated at a drawing table near the back. She looked up as I entered, and I offered a small wave.
I chose the seat behind her again, taking a deep breath. "Hey, Hannah," I said, my voice feeling lighter, less strained than it had at lunch.
She turned slightly, her eyes meeting mine above her mask. "Hi, Vienne."
I leaned forward, eager to bridge the silence. "How's your day been so far?"
"Pretty good," she murmured, her gaze dropping back to her sketchbook. "Just trying to get this design right."
"Can I see?" I asked, my curiosity piqued. She hesitated for a moment, then pushed her sketchbook a fraction closer. My breath hitched. On the page was a flowing evening gown, rendered with incredible detail. The fabric seemed to ripple, and the delicate embroidery looked almost real. The way she captured the drape of the material, the subtle play of light and shadow—it was simply stunning.
"Wow," I breathed, a genuine admiration welling up inside me. "Hannah, your art is amazing. Seriously, the way you do the folds, it's incredible. And the details... I can almost feel the texture of the fabric." My words tumbled out, unforced, genuine. This was a connection I understood.
Her masked face didn't betray much, but her eyes crinkled at the corners, and a small blush bloomed on her cheeks. "Thanks, Vienne," she said, her voice a little less soft this time. "It takes a lot of practice."
"I can see that," I replied, still leaning in, my gaze lingering on her intricate work. "I'm good at drawing, but nowhere near this level. Do you use special pencils or something? Or is it just magic?"
She chuckled, a quiet, almost shy sound. "Just regular pencils, mostly. And a lot of erasers." She even offered a small tip about shading, and for the next few minutes, we talked about art, about the challenge of capturing movement in fabric, and the joy of seeing a design come to life on paper. The conversation flowed easily, a comfortable rhythm between us. It was a welcome contrast to the lunchtime clamor, a quiet space where my words felt seen, felt heard. The faint sting from earlier lingered, but here, at least, it began to fade, replaced by the quiet satisfaction of shared passion.