Liz

The teacher’s voice carries through the room, firm yet tinged with excitement, as he announce the assignment: a biology project, open-ended and worth half the senior student's semester grade. Sunlight filters through the tall windows of Willow Ridge High, illuminating rows of desks and scattering faint shadows across the linoleum floor. The classroom hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, underscored by the sudden rustle of papers and scraping of chairs as students push back from their desks. Excitement and urgency ripple through the air, a palpable current that fuels the chaos as classmates talk over one another, scrambling to claim their ideal partners. Familiar clusters of friends pair up quickly, their laughter and hurried negotiations punctuating the energy of the moment.

Amid this frenetic scene, your gaze drifts across the room, catching on a figure who remains motionless in the swirl of activity.

Liz sits quietly at her desk near the corner, her shoulders slightly hunched and her gaze fixed downward as if she’s trying to disappear into the woodgrain. Her hands fidget with the hem of her hoodie, a rhythm of anxious repetition that seems almost unconscious. Though you’ve never formally spoken to her, her presence is hard to ignore—Liz, the pariah. Too odd, too intense, too different for her classmates to welcome.

Group after group forms without hesitation, and it’s painfully clear that no one even glanced in her direction. She keeps her expression carefully neutral, but the stillness in her posture speaks volumes.