1
A Year Ago
Dear Diary,
I'm really excited today. It's my third year at high school and I plan to look really nice... I just want to stand out this time, maybe this year he'll notice me.
I can't wait to see him. It feels like it's been millennia since I caught a glance of his angelic smile from behind the rows of lockers. It's a bad habit to watch people, but I just couldn't help it. I'm too shy to hold a conversation with him... Heather makes it look easy, but it's actually the opposite. He's so tall, and so attractive, it's hard not to get lost in his eyes. There's no way I'll be able to hold a logical conversation with him without embarrassing myself.
Heather laughs at me every time I let her know of my failed attempts. She always tells me to "go with the flow." It's easy for her to say—she's pretty and is practically an angel. Everyone at school adores Heather, and I don't blame them. She's far too charismatic to be hated—
"Sara!"
Shit.
"I know you can hear me! Get down here, Heather's waiting for you."
Oh.
"Coming!"
Pushing myself off the bed, I quickly grab my worn leather journal and shove it beneath the sheets just as I hear the trudging sounds of footsteps climbing up the creaky stairs. I try my best to smooth out the lump, but when it still looks noticeable, I toss my pillow atop it right before the door opens.
I'm stiff, my hands glued to my sides, a thin sheen of sweat along my forehead and a wonky smile on my face when Heather shoves open the door without knocking, like she owns the place.
"Oh, it's you," I say, relieved, though not enough to reveal my diary.
"Who else would it be?" she chuckles, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. "A boyfriend you haven’t told your best friend about?"
I roll my eyes with a scoff, and she laughs. "Oh, I forgot, you're still crazy about—"
"Shh!" I scold, rushing to the door and pressing my ear against it, checking if my mother was nearby.
After a moment of silence, I turn back, and Heather bursts out laughing, collapsing onto my bed in the process.
Her arms prop her up, elbows behind her, one foot perched on the wooden bed frame, the other stretched out, grazing the carpet. Her golden blonde hair glistens, tossed back from her face, while her crystal blue eyes twinkle with amusement.
"Someone's flustered," she sing-songs, and I toss a pillow at her face to get her to shut up. The maniac just giggles harder.
"Seriously. I have no idea what to wear," I sigh, glancing in the mirror, ignoring the taped corners barely holding it together. I'm still in my shorts and tank top—my usual home attire—waiting for Heather to save me from another fashion disaster.
She hums, giving me a once-over, then begins ransacking my wardrobe. "You really need a new wardrobe," she comments.
I don't respond. She's not wrong, but things haven’t exactly been breezy with Mom. Shopping for clothes has been a dream deferred—something on the bucket list for when life gets better.
Finally, Heather pulls out a dress I should’ve thrown away years ago. "Ouu, this dress is—"
Before she can finish, I snatch it from her grasp, shove her aside, and bury it under a pile of disarranged clothes.
"What’d you do that for?"
"Do what?" I feign ignorance.
"That," she gestures toward the closet.
"Oh, that... Nothing."
Heather stares at me, mouth opening and closing like a fish, trying and failing to respond.
"I just don’t like the dress," I shrug, turning away.
"Okayyy," she says, clearly unconvinced, as she flops back onto the bed and starts tapping away on her phone.
I resume my quest for a decent outfit.
"How’s this?" I ask, holding up a black shirt and ripped black skinny jeans.
Heather glances up. "Isn’t that your everyday wear?"
"No," I argue. "It’s a cropped shirt."
She eyes it. I turn it around to showcase the difference.
"You wear black so much, even the Grim Reaper would be cautious."
I roll my eyes. "So, it’s a yes?"
"Obvious no."
I sigh and search again. I hold up another black shirt.
"Isn’t that just what you picked out?"
"No. This one’s not cropped."
Heather groans and throws herself completely onto the bed, fingers tangled in her hair. "Saraaa."
"Okay, okay, fine." I dig deeper. "How about this?"
A yellow t-shirt—the last decent piece of clothing I own.
Heather stands and gestures at herself. "Why can’t you just wear a tank top like me? Show some skin, Sara. You won’t burn like a vampire."
She conveniently ignores the fact that I don’t even own a tank top, let alone feel comfortable in one.
"What’s wrong with my shirt?"
"For God’s sake, Sara, just wear the dress."
"No."
I yank off my old tank top and pull on the yellow shirt. I hesitate before removing my shorts, glancing at Heather.
She arches a brow. "Seriously? Girl, I’ve seen your boobs."
Still, I wait. She rolls her eyes and turns away. Finally, I change into my only nice pair of jeans.
To look different, I tuck in part of the shirt. My figure isn’t Heather’s, but I make it work.
With no makeup, I apply a bit of Vaseline and run my fingers through my short hair, parting it to the side. That’ll do.
"Heather."
She looks up and smiles. "Let’s go?"
"Yeah."
---
The sound of honking cars, buzzing conversations, and the sight of a familiar, newly renovated building greets us as we approach Crestwood Heights Academy.
A home away from home, a place where you didn’t feel out of place. For many—including me—school was an escape. Not just because it meant freedom from home, but because it meant time to see him.
Elijah Garcia.
There he is now, the sun seeming to spotlight him while everything else blurs. He’s laughing with his friends, leaned against his car. Even from here, his smile stuns—white, perfect, like it belongs in a toothpaste ad.
I swear, if I got closer, I’d see my reflection in those teeth.
My eyes stay locked on him. Heather, as usual, walks ahead, chatting away. But then, something unbelievable happens. He turns his head—and looks right at me.
Grey-blue.
I never knew how much I’d love that color until I saw it in his eyes.
"Sara."
"Huh?" I blink, startled by Heather’s urgent whisper.
She looks panicked. "Mr. Brown asked you a question."
Wait... what?
"Miss Davis, could you stand and answer the question, please?"
My heart stutters. Heather sends me a helpless look.
I rise slowly. My throat tightens.
"Sorry… could you repeat the question?"
---
"God, that was so embarrassing."
"Easy for you to say," I mutter. "You're not the one laughed at by the whole class."
Heather tries not to laugh but fails. I glare at her and she raises her hands in mock surrender.
But then, I notice something—or rather someone—behind her. Elijah.
He’s looking at me again.
He’s not listening to his friends. His eyes are on me.
Heather notices, glances behind her, then back at me with a smirk. "Looks like your yellow shirt’s working."
My face flushes. Heather bursts out laughing.
I quickly drop my head, letting my hair fall over my eyes, and grab her arm.
"C’mon," I mutter, dragging her away from the scene.
Glancing behind me, I ask her what the time is, mentally contemplating if we should just go ahead to the lunch room as the period was just around the corner.
"You're pulling me like a sack of potatoes and expect me to do stuff for you? That's not how it works, baby."
I roll my eyes. If our electricity hadn’t been cut due to overdue bills, I’d have checked my phone myself. But my phone’s dead.
There’s a lot going on at home. Mom works so hard—multiple jobs, always exhausted, barely getting by. There's rarely any food in the house. On good days, she brings leftovers from her restaurant job. Other days, dinner is uncertain.
Heather often brings us breakfast.
She’s from a wealthy family, an only child aside from a brother I’ve never met. When we became best friends in preschool, her parents checked into my background. Back then, my dad was still around.
After the divorce, Mom got custody. I haven’t seen Dad in years. If he still sends money, I wouldn’t know—Mom doesn’t talk about him. I’m not allowed to contact him.
When things got tough, Heather’s family stepped in. They pay my tuition and provide what Mom can’t. If it weren’t for them, I don’t know where I’d be.
It’s a blessing having Heather.
I glance at her now. Golden hair that grazes the top of her perfect butt, sparkling blue eyes, a flawless face and body that screams effort and wealth. Heather’s beautiful. But beyond that, she’s kind. She’s the type of person the world needs more of.
"Oh no. She’s looking at me like that again."
Heather’s voice breaks my thoughts. I force a smile and turn away as we walk into the lunchroom.
She is everything I am not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
