Novels by Evien Arugif

Maya’s Point of ViewThe second-floor library archive was bathed in a pale, silvery hue when I pushed open the heavy wooden doors at seven o'clock the next morning. Rain had started falling gently over Oakridge High, tapping a soft, rhythmic pitter-patter against the tall, arched stained-glass windows.The air up here smelled deeply of aged paper, damp cedar wood, and the faint, citrusy tang of floor wax applied days ago. It was a sanctuary away from the world below—a quiet corner where the echoes of footsteps didn't carry and where time seemed to slow down.I walked down the narrow aisle between two towering rows of disused oak bookcases, my heart doing its familiar, frantic dance against my ribs as I approached Locker #108.I stopped in front of the rusted metal door. My hand trembled slightly as my fingers brushed the cold, pitted handle. I lifted the latch, pulling the door open until it gave its familiar dry screech.Sitting on the narrow bottom shelf was the navy hardcover noteb

Julian’s Point of ViewThe smell of crushed grass, sun-baked rubber, and cheap citrus deodorant always hung heavy in the boys' locker room after track practice, but today my mind wasn't on my split times or my posture.It was four-thirty in the afternoon. Most of the team was still cooling down near the bleachers, shouting across the field about weekend plans and upcoming meets, but I had dragged myself straight to the showers, changed into a clean school shirt, and left through the side exit.My sneakers made no sound against the worn floorboards as I took the creaking wooden stairs two at a time toward the second-floor library archive.The late afternoon light filtered through the tall, dust-covered stained glass at the end of the hall, turning the air a deep, quiet shade of violet. Long, narrow shadows stretched across the disused rows of oak bookcases, broken desks, and forgotten stacks of old encyclopedias. Nobody came up here. It was the only corner of Oakridge High where the co

Maya’s Point of ViewThe morning air was crisp and smelled of damp earth as I walked through the school gates at seven-fifteen. Oakridge High was almost entirely empty at this early hour, save for the groundskeeper sweeping fallen leaves near the bleachers and a few dedicated track team members doing light warm-ups on the field.My heart beat a nervous, uneven rhythm against my ribs as I headed straight for the old east wing.I didn't stop at Room 4B. Instead, I climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the second-floor library archive. The early morning sun cut through the tall, dusty stained-glass windows, casting long, violet shadows across the disused rows of books and forgotten furniture.I stopped in front of Locker #108.My hand trembled slightly as I reached for the rust-pitted metal handle. When I pulled the latch, the door swung open with a quiet, raspy moan.Sitting on the bottom shelf was the navy hardcover notebook.I took a sharp breath, reached inside, and lifted the journa

Julian’s Point of ViewIf there was one thing I hated more than unpredictable situations, it was the suffocating noise of Oakridge High.By three o'clock in the afternoon, the main corridor was a chaotic storm of slamming locker doors, squeaking sneakers, and shouting teenagers eager to escape the heat of the first day of senior year. I adjusted the strap of my black gym bag over my shoulder and kept my head down, cutting through the crowded hallway with long, quick strides."Hey, Julian! Track tryouts are on Thursday, right?" someone called out from the varsity bulletin board."Yeah," I replied without slowing down, giving a brief nod. "Four p.m."I didn't mean to sound cold, but my mind was completely elsewhere. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, a sensation so unfamiliar and irritating that I caught myself gritting my teeth to keep my jaw set in a nervous line.I made a sharp left turn, leaving the noisy main hallway behind, and stepped into the quiet shade

Maya’s Point of ViewRule number one of having a one-sided crush: never expect him to look your way.If you spend ten years looking at someone who treats you like an unwanted shadow, you learn to read the slight shifts in his shoulders long before you ever read his mind. You notice how he tightens his jaw when he’s stressed, how his left shoe always scuffs slightly against the gravel when he walks fast, and how his eyes completely bypass you, even when you’re standing less than three feet apart.For ten years, Julian Vane lived right next door to me. His bedroom window faced mine across a narrow strip of lawn that separated our houses. In the second grade, I had made the catastrophic mistake of trying to hold his hand during an afternoon storm because I thought he was afraid of thunder. He had yanked his arm back as if I had burned him, looked at me with cold, seven-year-old disgust, and walked away.He had spent every single year since making sure I knew my place: invisible."Maya, a