1-Pretend
Naïa Summers walked through the halls of Westbrook with the gait expected of her: sure, swift, never looking down.
Her heels clicked on the tile. Her hair swept over her shoulders in a perfect wave.
Every step was a statement.
Never slowing down. Never showing a flaw.
She smiled at a group of girls sitting by the lockers.
An automatic smile. Stuck on her face like a porcelain mask.
Three stories posted this morning. Two thousand views. One hundred and forty-three comments.
Breathe, Naïa. Everything's fine. You're perfect. As always.
But she knew: it was just an illusion.
The kind of illusion you maintain because if you break it, everything collapses.
When she entered the lecture hall, everyone noticed her. As always.
Glances that drifted. Smothered whispers. Silent judgments in her painted pupils.
Eden Black was already there.
Sitting in the back. Headphones on.
He didn't look at her. He stared at his notebook, lost in his own shadows.
And yet, he felt her.
Like a wave crossing space.
A presence too luminous to go unnoticed.
Naïa Summers. The queen of the campus. Far too far from my world.
He scribbled lines on a crumpled page.
Cracks. Distorted faces.
Drawing was his breath, his only outlet.
He didn't have the codes.
Not the glitzy parties, nor the calibrated smiles.
Just a musty studio, a fast-food job, and a purse that was teetering on a wire.
So why her? Why now?
Professor Collins raised his voice. His tone was dry, precise. The chatter died down.
"Good. We're moving on to the groups for the sociology project. Summers... with Eden Black."
A silence. Brutal. Sharp
Naïa raised her head. Her heart in her throat.
Her smile remained fixed, but her fingers tightened on the strap of her bag, her knuckles white
No. Not him.
She knew him.
The boy who looks too deeply.
The one who sees you even when you're wearing a perfect mask.
"Sir," she said, her voice soft but sharp as a blade, "there must be some mistake. Him and me? It's not... logical."
Collins looked up over his glasses, looking exasperated.
"Exactly, Summers. It's called breaking the rules. Team up."
Eden, at the back of the room, removed an earpiece.
Of course. Teachers always have to do stupid social experiments.
He raised his eyes. Met hers.
She pretended to remain calm, but he saw the flaw. Right there, in her left pupil.
A flicker of hesitation.
"Don't worry, princess," he murmured. "I'll pretend to listen to you. You'll just have to pretend to be nice.
She turned back to him, slowly.
A polite smile. Poisonous.
"Oh. The cliché of the sarcastic bad boy. Original, really."
He shrugged, chewing gum in the back of his mouth, notebook still in his hands.
"You're the showcase. Smiles, filters, and pretense. We're a draw.
She blinked. Just a flicker.
But enough to make her heart pound.
Why does it affect me so much?
Eden looked down at her notebook.
He drew another line. Another crack.
It's broken, too. She just hides it better.
Naïa took a deep breath.
"All right. We'll do this project together. But not at my place. No way."
Eden raised an eyebrow. Amused.
"I'll invite you over if you want. But you have to like noodles and cracked walls."
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
Almost a smile. A stolen moment.
"Great. Old campus cafe. 8 p.m. Not a minute longer."
He put away his notebook and put his headphones back around his neck.
"Don't worry. I'm always on time when it comes to pretending."
LATER – At the campus cafe
The neon sign above the door flickered, like an electric shock in the dark.
Eden was already there. Sitting alone, his notebook in front of him, but the page was blank.
He wasn't drawing. He was waiting.
And he hated it.
Naïa came in.
Not in heels this time.
Her hair pulled back in a messy bun, stray strands at her temples.
Less perfect.
But more real.
She said nothing, sat across from him, their knees almost brushing under the narrow table.
"I'm not late."
He closed his notebook, his eyes still on her.
"What did I say, Summers? I'm always on time to pretend."
She crossed her arms. But her shoulders remained stiff.
Defense or discomfort—he couldn't tell.
Their eyes met. A breath between them, thick. Heavy.
Naïa swallowed.
"Shall we start? What shall we do?"
Eden moved closer. Her elbows on the table.
The distance between them disappeared a little too quickly.
"We do what we do best."
"And what's that?"
His eyes bored into hers.
No more smiles. Just the naked truth.
"Pretending."
She froze.
Just for a second.
But it was enough for him to see it.
And she knew.
This game? Bad idea.
But too late, they were already in the thick of it.
