Hate me Later

ChapterOne

SO P H I A

Shouldn't you already have friends by now?

At least that was what every movie, every book, and every ridiculously optimistic coming-of-age story seemed determined to promise. The new girl arrived at a new school, awkwardly bumped into someone in the hallway, and somehow ended up with a loyal group of Friends before the first week was over. By lunch she already had people to sit with, by Friday she had been invited to at least one party, and by the end oft the month she was living the kind of life that looked perfect on social media.

Apparently.

Reality, however, seems to have a much darker sense of humor.

It is already my second week at Weststar Elite Academy, and the most meaningful social interaction I have managed to collect so far involves a football flying directly at my head and a horrified boy apologizing no fewer than four times before disappearing entirely. Not that I have been counting.

Okay. Technically I have.Four times exactly.

I lean against my lockerand and let my gaze drift across the crowded hallway. Students move around me in expensive uniforms that somehow look tailored rather than mass-produced,designer shoes clicking against polished marble floors. Laughter echoes through the corridor as conversations blend into a constant hum of confidence and familiarity. Everyone seems to know exactly where they belong.

Everyone except me.

A familiar knot tightens in my stomach.

It isn't that people have been openly rude. Most of them barely acknowledge my existence at all, which somehow feels worse. At least when somebody dislikes you, they notice you.Here, I feel invisible.

The truth is, I don’t belong here. Not in the way the others do.

Most students at Weststar come from families whose lastnames open doors before they even step into a room. Families with businesses,fortunes, and influence that everyone recognizes. I come from a small town, raised in a tiny apartment by two loving parents who died in a car accident. Now, I live with my aunt. Every time I walk through these hallways, i am painfully aware of the sacrifices she is making just so I can be here. She barely knew me, yet she opened her home to me when I had nowhere else to go ."The thought settles heavily in my chest. Ipush it away before it can take hold. If I allow myself to think about that night for too long, I will never make it through the day. Instead, I focus on something far less emotional.

My locker key for example.

More specifically, the fact that it has apparently vanished. Frowning, I begin digging through my bag.

Sketchbook. Pens.Tissues. A packet of gum I don't remember buying.

But still no key.

"I know you're inFirst chapter here First chaptersomewhere," I mutter.

After several more seconds of increasingly desperate searching, my fingers finally brush against the familiar piece of metal. But my Relief lasting approximately half a second. Because at that exact moment, my copy of Pride and Prejudice decides it has had enough of being carried around and slips from my grasp.

"No, no, no..."

Too late. It hits the floor with a loud crack and slides several feet across the hallway as though it has developed a desperate need for freedom. For a second, I simply stare at it.Then, muttering something under my breath that would disappoint every English teacher I have ever had, I crouch downFirst chapter and reach for it. When a sharp click stops me. Less than an inch frommy hand, a stiletto heel lands on the marble floor.

I freeze.

"Watch it."

The voice is cool, sharp and carries the kind of effortless superiority that makes something inside mesigh in exhaustion. Slowly, I look up. The girl standing over me looks like she has stepped straight out of a luxury fashion campaign. Dark hair pulled into asleek high ponytail, not a single strand daring to escape. Sharp features,flawless makeup that enhances rather than conceals, long lashes framing warm brown eyes that study me with thinly veiled annoyance. Delicate gold earrings catch the light every time she moves her head, matched by a bracelet around one wrist subtle enough to appear effortless, expensive enough to cost more than myentire wardrobe.

Everything about her is polished. Controlled and simple Perfect. She isn't looking at me rather staring at the tip of her shoe with an expression suggesting something truly catastrophic has just occurred. I follow her gaze automatically, expecting a-scratch, a stain or some other visible damage that would justify the outrage radiating from her perfectly composed face.

But ther is nothing. Her shoe looks perfect fine .First chapter

"Sorry," I say anyway as I reach for the book, deciding that apologizing is probably easier than whatever this conversation is about to become. "It was anaccident." Only then does she look at me ,a slow and deliberate examination that travels from my face to my uniform and back again, as though she is determining whether I am being sincere or simply incapable of understanding the magnitude of my crime.

One perfectly sculpted eyebrow lifts.

"Sorry?" she repeats.

The word sounds strangely unnatural coming from her mouth, as though it belongs to a language she rarely speaks.

"Yes," I reply,tightening my grip on the book. "As in I didn't mean to do it."

She extends one legs lightly.

"These arelimited-edition Valentinos."

I blink.

"...Okay?"

Something in her expression darkens and for the first time I suspect I have failed a test I hadn’t even known I was taking.

"They cost twelve hundred dollars."My gaze drifts toward the shoes before returning to herface.

"I’m sorry to hear that "

The silence that follows settles over the hallway like a storm cloud. Around us, students have begun slowing, curiosity pulling them closer. Conversations soften and to my supries Heads turn. A small audience is forming

Just Great.

Exactly what I need after spending two weeks trying to avoid attention.

"That's not the point," she says, her voice clipped.

"Then what is the point?"

For the briefest moment,genuine disbelief flashes across her face. Not the reaction of someone who has been insulted, but of someone who has never been questioned before

Neither of us speaks for several seconds. The hallway seems to hold its breath.

Eventually I straighten to my full height and slip my book back into my bag, refusing to break eye contact. She is slightly taller than me, but not enough to matter, and although my pulse has started beating faster, I am not about to let her see that.

"From where I’m standing," I say, keeping my voice steady, "your shoes are perfectly fine, my book survived the fall,and both of us could still continue having acompletely normal day."

Something shifts in her expression. Real surprise. Apparently people don't usually talk back to her.The thought almost makes me smile.

Almost.

Unfortunately, shenotices anyway. The slightest twitch at the corner of my mouth is enough.Without warning she reaches past me and slams my locker shut with enough forcethat the metal door crashes through the hallway like a gunshot. I jerk my handback instinctively, my heart launching into my throat as the locker rattlesviolently on its hinges.

Every pair of eyes in thecorridor finds us.

For a moment, neither ofus moves. She stares at me as though she can't quite decide whether I amunbelievably brave or unbelievably stupid, while I stand there wondering how aconversation about a perfectly undamaged shoe has escalated into what feels suspiciouslylike a public power struggle. Then she folds her arms.

"Do you know who Iam?"

The question is almostunsettling. Not asked with arrogance at least not in the obvious sense. Ifanything, she sounds genuinely confused, as though the answer should have beenself-evident the moment she opened her mouth.

"No," I say honestly. Then I pause. "And You know what? I don't really care."

Forthe first time since this conversation started, her composure cracks. Theexpression of somebody who isn't used to hearing the word no.

A strange sense ofsatisfaction settles inside my chest. Maybe it is childish. Maybe it isreckless. But after two weeks of feeling invisible, it is surprisinglysatisfying to discover that somebody at Weststar is capable of being botheredby my existence.

Before she can respond, I adjust the strap of my bag and step around her.

First chapter

My pulse is hammeringharder than I want to admit, and I can practically feel her glare burning intomy back as I walk away, but I refuse to turn around. Because if I do, there isa very real chance she will say something that will tempt me into continuingthis conversation, and I already have enough problems without declaring war onthe school's resident fashion dictator.

Judging by the silencebehind me, the encounter isn't over.

People like her don'tsimply forget being challenged.

The thought follows meall the way down the hallway. By the time I finally check my phone, I am noteven surprised to discover I am late.

The further I movethrough the building, the more the atmosphere begins to shift. The constantnoise of the main hallways fades behind me until it becomes little more than adistant murmur, replaced by a quieter energy that settles over this part of theAcademy like a held breath. Framed paintings line the walls on either side ofthe corridor, illuminated by carefully placed lights that turn every piece intoits own small exhibition. Some of the artwork explodes with color, while othersare composed entirely of charcoal and shadow, yet all of them carry theunmistakable feeling that somebody has poured a piece of themselves into theircreation.

Without realizing it, Islow down.

And for the first timethat morning, the tight knot beneath my ribs loosens slightly. Art has alwaysdone that to me ,has always possessed the strange ability to quiet the noise inmy head, to create a space where expectations and grief and fear can't quitereach. Art doesn't care how much money your family has. It doesn't care whetheryour last name opens doors or whether your clothes come from expensiveboutiques. A blank page doesn't judge. It simply waits patiently for somebodywilling to fill it with something meaningful.

Maybe that is whystepping into the art wing feels a little like finally coming up for air.Andwhen I finally reach myclassroom, my attention drifts toward the polished brass plaque beside thedoor.

ADVANCEDART

MR.ALBERT

Warm sunlight streamsthrough the glass panel, illuminating rows of easels and large canvases. Evenfrom where I stand, I can smell traces of paint, charcoal and paper, andsomething inside me relaxes almost immediately. It is such a simple thing. Sucha ridiculous thing. Yet after two weeks of feeling like I don't belonganywhere, standing outside that classroom is the first moment that feelsremotely familiar.

Which is probably why Ibecome so distracted that I don't notice someone approaching until a voicespeaks behind me.

"You know, the doorwon't open itself no matter how long you keep staring at it."

The sound startles me sobadly that I nearly drop my things forthe second time that day. Spinning around, I find myself face-to-face with ablond boy whose amused expression suggests he has been watching me stand therefor considerably longer than I would have liked.

"Oh my God," Imutter, laughing awkwardly as I push a strand of hair behind my ear. "WasI really standing here that long?"

His grin widens.

"Long enough for meto start wondering whether you were planning to go inside or spend the entirelesson admiring the door." Despite myself, a laugh escapes me. Andsomehow, after the morning I have had, that simple exchange feels like thenicest conversation I have experienced since arriving at Weststar.

"Excuse us,sir," he says smoothly as we step inside, as though arriving latewith a new student is something he does on a daily basis. "I was showingour new student around."

A few quiet laughs driftthrough the room, and heat creeps immediately into my cheeks. Near the largewindows at the front, a tall man with silver-streaked hair looks up from thedesk where he has been sorting through sketchbooks. Paint stains the cuff ofhis dark shirt, and a pair of reading glasses rests low on the bridge of hisnose, giving him the slightly distracted appearance of someone whose thoughtsare usually occupied by ideas rather than schedules. His gaze moves fromJames to me in a calm and attentive way .

"Very thoughtful ofyou Mr Blackwell " he says.

James responds with aninnocent smile before slipping toward an empty seat with the effortlessconfidence of someone who has spent years in this room and knows exactly wherehe belongs. I remain standing a moment longer than necessary, clutching my bookand bag as the attention of the class settles on me.

"Everyone," Mr.Albert announces, "this is our new student."

"I'm SophiaMiller." I force what I hope looks like a normal smile. "It's nice tomeet you." Theresponse is exactly what I might have expected. A few students nod politely.One girl offers a small smile before returning to her sketchbook. Severalothers look at me briefly, decide I am not interesting enough and return towhatever they had been doing before. Oddly enough, I prefer that reaction.Being ignored feels significantly less intimidating than being judged.

From across the room,James catches my eye and gives me an encouraging nod. And to my supries ithelps more than I want to admit.

"Thank you MissMiller " Mr. Albert says while pointing to an empty seat "You maytake the seat by the window."

I move quickly toward theempty seat, grateful to escape the spotlight. Warm sunlight spills across thedesk as I sit down, and for the first time since entering the room, I breatheproperly. The seat beside the window offers a perfect view of the courtyardbelow where students crossing the grounds in small groups, sunlight softeningthe academy's imposing stone buildings.

For a brief moment, Ifind myself wondering whether my mother would have loved this place. The thought arrives theway they always do unexpectedly, through something small and ordinary. Apainting, a song, a classroom filled with art supplies. Grief has a way ofweaving itself into everyday moments when I least expect it. It never trulydisappears. It simply learns how to stay quiet until something invites it backinto the light.

"Since you've joinedus in the middle of the year," Mr. Albert continues, drawing my attentionback to the front, "I don't expect perfection immediately. Weststar's artprogram is considerably more advanced than most, so there will naturally besome adjustments." My hand pauses halfway through opening mysketchbook. Something about the comment settles uncomfortably inside me. Notthe words exactly more the assumption hidden beneath them. The idea that talentflourishes more easily when accompanied by expensive tuition fees. Thatstudents from public schools start several steps behind and are expected tostay there.

Maybe I am imagining it.Maybe I am being overly sensitive.

But after two weekssurrounded by people who seem determined to measure value through wealth, thosesubtle distinctions are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

I know I should stayquiet. I genuinely do.

"Sir," I saybefore I can reconsider.

"Yes, MissMiller?"

I swallow.

"I don't thinktalent has much to do with where somebody comes from." The words linger in theair. Several students look up. Some appear surprised. Others look amused. Jamesseems particularly interested in how this is going to unfold. Silence stretchesacross the room for a few long seconds and I can practically hear my ownheartbeat. Eventually I force myself to continue.

"I'm sure I'll catchup quickly."

A faint smile appears onMr. Albert's face. Not mocking. Not irritated. Intrigued before he says "ThenI look forward to seeing your work, Miss Miller."And Relief washesthrough me so suddenly that I almost laugh. I nod and lower my gaze to mysketchbook as brief whispers spread through the room before fading away again.

Apparently I havesurvived. Barely.

Although judging by theamused expression James is trying and failing to hide, he is definitely goingto bring this up later.The attention gradually shifts away from me as Mr.Albert begins explaining the assignment. Sketchbooks reopen, pencils return to paper,and the room settles into the quiet rhythm that seems to define creativespaces. As I open my own sketchbook, I study the room again but this time withless anxiety and more curiosity. Sunlight spills across the wooden floors inwide golden rectangles, illuminating shelves crowded with brushes and painttubes. The atmosphere feels completely different from the rest of Weststar. Outin the hallways, everything is designed to impress with it’s polished floors,expensive uniforms and carefully curated smiles, all of it performance. Buthere the contrast with all the unfinished paintings lean against walls,charcoal smudges scatter across worktables, forgotten sketches are pinnedhaphazardly to cork boards.

Mr. Albert places an oldstone sculpture on a platform near the front and instructs everyone to focus onproportions, perspective, and shadow work. While several students immediatelybegin sketching, I spend a few moments simply observing the object firstfollowing every curve, every crack in the stone, every shadow created by theafternoon sunlight before allowing my pencil to touch the page.

It is a habit my mothertaught me when I was younger.

Don't draw what you thinkyou see. Draw what is actually there.

The memory arrives sosuddenly that my chest tightens. For a brief moment, I can almost hear hervoice. I can picture her sitting beside me at our tiny kitchen table, a penciltucked behind one ear while she gently corrected the way I held mine. She had neverbeen formally trained, never attended prestigious art schools or exhibited herwork in galleries, yet she had always possessed an instinctive understanding ofbeauty that no classroom could have taught.She used to tell me that most peoplenever really looked at the world. They glanced. They assumed. They rushed pastdetails.

Artists paid attention.

The thought lingers as Ifinally begin sketching. Slowly, the rest of the room fades. All that remainsis the sculpture in front of me and the familiar movement of graphite acrosspaper. Thereis something strangely comforting about the process. Every line leads naturallyinto the next, every shadow slowly finds its place and before long the constantnoise that has occupied my mind all morning begins to quiet. Time movesdifferently whenever I draw. Minutes blend together. Thoughts become softer andmy Problems become smaller.For the first time allday, I am not thinking about whether I belong at Weststar or not .I am simply drawing.Whichis probably why I don't notice someone standing beside my desk until a voiceinterrupts my concentration.

"Interesting."

My pencil slips slightlyacross the page. When I notice that Mr. Albert is standing next to my desk. Fora brief moment, panic flares inside me there is something uniquely terrifyingabout a teacher silently observing your work without saying anything.The longerhe remains silent, the more convinced I become that he has found somethinghorribly wrong with my sketch. Instead, he continues studying the page with anexpression impossible to read. Several seconds pass. Then several more. By thetime he finally speaks, I have already prepared myself for criticism.

"The shadows arestrong." His gaze remains fixed on the drawing. "That wasn't what Iexpected. You understand where the light is coming from which is more than Ican say for some students who have been in this classroom all year."

For a second, I am notentirely sure I have heard him correctly.

"Oh."

Brilliantresponse, Sophia.

Mr. Albert's mouthtwitches slightly, as though trying not to smile

"Who was yourteacher before?”

"My mother sir, she taughtme when I was younger."The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.Immediately something shifts in his expression

"She was anartist?"He asks surprised.

And for a moment, I don't know how to answer. Becausethe truth is complicated. My mother had wanted to be an artist. She had dreamed about it, talked about it, filled sketchbooks with ideas and plans she alwayspromised she would finish one day. Life had simply gotten in her way

"She wanted tobe," I say softly.

Mr . Albert nods once and returns his attention to the rest of the classroom without asking another question. The silence he leaves behind feels strangely considerate. Grief isn't something you recover from. It isn't an illness, it isn't a broken bone. You don't wake upone morning and discover it is finally gone. Instead, it settles quietly insideyou and learns how to coexist with everything else. Most days it stays hidden beneath ordinary life, but every now and then something unexpected brushesagainst an old memory and suddenly it is there again as vivid as it has everbeen.I stare down at my drawing for a moment longer before forcing myself tofocus on the assignment.

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First chapter 🥳and oh my God, I hate it already because I wrote my book on a different app and when I entered the text, everything changed and now words are stick together, so I don’t know if I changed everything correctly so please note that