Skirts, Sneers, and a Maybe Friend

Nova

My back ached the second I opened my eyes. The couch cushions dug into my spine like bricks and my neck was locked in an angle I could already tell would punish me all day. I groaned and rolled onto my side, one leg dangling off the edge. My arm reached for my phone blindly, knocking it off the coffee table before my fingers finally found it on the floor.

9:57 AM.

"Shit."

I shot up so fast I saw stars. My hair was a mess, half-curled and flattened in all the wrong places. My hoodie had ridden up in the night and one sock was missing. I blinked at the screen again, willing the time to magically go backward. It didn’t.

Class started at 10:30. I had less than thirty minutes to make myself look human, get dressed, and make it across town.

I dashed to the bathroom, throwing my shirt over my head mid-run. I brushed my teeth with one hand while the other adjusted the shower temperature. Jumped in. Jumped out. Toweled off in a hurry.

Back in my room, I pulled on a long green floral-patterned skirt that swayed when I moved and grabbed a white cropped tank top from the chair near my bed. It clung to me in all the right ways. I grabbed my black boots and shoved my feet in without untying them. My curls were a disaster, so I pulled them up into a banana clip and tied a black-and-green bandana over it. A little pink gloss on my lips and I was done.

My notebook went into my tote bag, along with a pen and my phone. I grabbed my helmet, locked the apartment behind me, and ran down the stairs.

The bike purred to life the second I turned the key. I revved it once, slid my helmet on, and shot into the street. The wind whipped against my arms as I sped through traffic, weaving between cars, praying to make it in time.

Campus was already buzzing when I got there. I parked behind the arts building and jogged up the stairs, tugging off my helmet. It was 10:33.

Perfect.

I slipped into the lecture hall just as Professor Langley turned to write something on the board. He paused when he heard the door creak.

"Miss Coldwell, how generous of you to join us," he said, not even looking.

"Sorry, sir," I muttered, making my way to an empty seat halfway back.

As I passed, a girl with shiny blonde curls and a ridiculously tiny purse whispered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Guess biker girls don't believe in alarm clocks."

I didn’t flinch. Just glanced sideways at her. Harper Deville. I knew her type. Expensive perfume. Fake sympathy. Raised on champagne and the idea that other people existed only to orbit her.

I took my seat. Opened my notebook. Focused on the words on the board and not the ones behind me.

The class dragged. Not because it was boring, but because my brain was still waking up. I scribbled notes, underlined things, nodded along when needed. When the lecture ended, I packed up quickly and left before Harper could try round two.

My next class was smoother. Smaller group. Less drama. Just literature and a teacher who actually cared about what we had to say. By the time I walked out, the tension in my chest had started to ease.

I didn’t want to go home right away.

Instead, I headed to the small coffee shop just off campus. It smelled like vanilla and fresh pastry. I walked in and the barista grinned.

"The usual, Nova?"

"You already know," I said with a small smile.

I took my latte to a seat by the window. The light hit just right there, and the table had this quiet energy. Like it wanted me to write.

I pulled out my notebook and pen and just let the words come. No plan. Just lines that felt right. A poem started to form. Something about masks. Something about wanting to be seen.

"Hey."

I looked up. A girl stood beside my table. Pretty. Warm smile. Soft curls.

"I’m Maya. I think we’re in the same writing class. I just wanted to say I liked what you wrote last week."

I blinked. "Thanks."

She hesitated. "Mind if I sit? Just for a minute."

I nodded. She pulled out the chair across from me and sat down.

I liked your comment last week about unreliable narrators. It was cool."

I blinked. People didn’t usually walk up to me with compliments. Or even with friendly energy.

"Thanks," I said, tilting my head. "I remember you. You write those short pieces with the strong metaphors, right?"

Her smile widened. "Yeah. I love that stuff."

I’ve seen you in Lit Theory a few times,” she said, her voice soft but sure. “You always sit at the back with that serious look like you're about to murder a poem.” I raised a brow, amused despite myself, and she grinned. “Sorry, bad intro. I just wanted to say hi.She extended her hand, and I hesitated only a second before taking it. Warm, soft palms. Probably didn’t work a double shift the night before. “Nova,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” She glanced at the notebook beside my coffee and nodded. “You write?” I shrugged. “Sometimes. Just thoughts.”

We talked. Nothing deep. Books. Professors. The poem I had just started. She wasn’t pushy. Just... nice. In a way I wasn’t used to.

Before she left, she asked for my number. I gave it to her, unsure why.

"I’ll text you later," she said.

"Okay."

After she left, I packed up my stuff and headed out. The air had that late-afternoon gold to it. I liked it. Soft. Fuzzy.

My phone buzzed.

Dad: Birthday gala is next week. I’m expecting you to be there. Don’t make me come find you.

I stared at the message. The words felt like a weight.

I started to type a reply. Then stopped.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket.

And walked home.