Chapter 1: The Moon Girl

They say nothing exciting ever happens at Silverwood Academy.

But I remember the exact moment that changed.

It started like every other day.

I got up before my alarm, packed my lunch (okay—my mom packed it, but I picked the note she tucked inside), braided my hair just the way I liked, and made it to school with fifteen minutes to spare.

"Callie! You’re so early again!"

"Morning sunshine!"

"Callie, can I borrow your notes later?"

Everyone greeted me. I smiled back. I always do.

Not because I’m trying to be liked, but because I genuinely enjoy it — the routine, the warmth, the idea that maybe just being kind makes school feel a little less heavy for everyone.

By the time I sat down in my homeroom seat near the window — second row, third from the front — everything was in its right place. My notebooks were aligned. My pens were sorted by color. The sun was coming through the window just right.

Perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

The door creaked open five minutes after the bell, and a girl stepped in.

Everything about her made the air feel different.

She wore a black jacket over her uniform, had one earbud still dangling from her ear, and her eyes… they scanned the room like she was measuring it, not joining it.

"This is Isabella Cruz," Ms. Santiago said with her polite-but-done voice.

"She’s a transfer. Please treat her kindly."

No one moved. No one said anything.

I turned, just a little. Enough to see her shrug off the stares and slide into the empty seat behind mine like she didn’t care if the chair vanished beneath her.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch.

She just… sat. Like she belonged to a different world.

---

At lunch, I found my usual spot — under the acacia tree near the fountain where it was warm, breezy, and peaceful.

I had two spam musubi today. My mom always packed extra.

I unwrapped one, about to take a bite, when I saw her again.

Isabella.

She walked alone. No lunch tray. No bag. Just her hands shoved in her jacket pockets and her earbuds back in. She was headed for the back of the school, past the old gym — the side no one really went to unless they were skipping class or hiding from it.

I watched her.

I don’t know what made me stand up.

Maybe it was the extra rice ball in my hand.

Maybe it was the way she looked like she didn’t belong, but also didn’t care to.

Maybe it was the fact that for once — just once — I couldn’t read someone.

So I followed.

---

I found her sitting on the brick wall behind the gym, one leg dangling, back leaning lazily against the tree. Music was still blasting from her earbuds. Some rock band, maybe. Or angry rap.

I cleared my throat.

She didn’t move.

“Hey,” I said gently.

She looked at me slowly, like turning her head was too much effort. Her eyes were distant and ice-cold.

“If this is about some welcome committee thing,” she said, “you can skip it.”

“It’s not,” I said. “I just… noticed you didn’t have lunch.”

I held out the extra musubi.

“My mom made too many,” I added, like that made the offer less weird.

She stared at it. Then at me.

“…You’re weird.”

I laughed. “I get that a lot.”

She took it. Didn’t say thank you, just took a bite and stared back at the empty field.

I sat beside her. Close, but not too close.

“I’m Callie,” I said.

“I know,” she replied. “Everyone says your name like it’s a school mascot or something.”

That made me laugh again. “Better than being forgotten, right?”

She didn’t answer. But I saw it — the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Like a smile trying not to be born.

And for some reason, that tiny crack in her ice felt bigger than all the sunshine I’d ever given.

She didn’t talk after that, and neither did I.

We just sat there — me nibbling my musubi, her finishing hers like it was nothing special. But it was something. At least to me.

Nobody else ever took the extra one I brought. Not like that.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” I asked, keeping my tone soft.

She raised a brow. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” I admitted with a laugh.

She gave me a look — not rude exactly, more… surprised. Like she wasn’t used to honesty being handed out without strings.

I plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between my fingers.

“People say a lot of things about you,” I said quietly, not really expecting a response.

She didn’t give one. But she didn’t leave either.

“They said you got kicked out of your last school. That you’re dangerous. Cold.”

She glanced sideways at me. “And you still came over?”

“Yeah,” I said, shrugging. “Because people also say I’m too nosy for my own good.”

A pause. Then:

“You really are weird.”

But this time, I swear there was the faintest smile hiding in her voice.

---

The bell rang and we stood up. She dusted off her jacket like it owed her something and shoved her hands back into her pockets.

“You gonna follow me around now, Sunshine?” she asked.

I grinned. “Only if you keep calling me that.”

She rolled her eyes and walked off, but not before I noticed: she didn’t put her earbuds back in.

And maybe that meant something.

---

Back in class, I tried to focus — really, I did. But I kept finding myself glancing back at her.

She was scribbling in the margins of her notebook. Not notes, not doodles. Just lines and circles and strange patterns. Like her thoughts didn’t fit into words.

I wanted to know what was in her head.

I didn’t understand it, not really.

But something about her made my whole world feel tilted.

Like I’d spent my whole life in the sun… and now I wanted to know what shadows felt like too.

---

After school, as I packed my bag, she passed by my desk without stopping.

But when she reached the door, she turned halfway.

"Thanks for lunch, Callie."

Then she walked away.

My name.

She said my name.

My cheeks burned all the way home.

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking.

About her voice. About how she said my name.

About how someone so quiet could take up so much space in my head.

I sat at my desk in my room, the soft glow of my lamp casting golden circles on my notebooks. Everything around me was in its usual place — color-coded folders, perfectly stacked pens, my framed schedule pinned on the wall like a declaration of order.

But my thoughts?

Total chaos.

I opened my journal — the one I only wrote in when my brain refused to shut up — and flipped to a blank page.

"Her name is Isabella Cruz," I wrote.

"She sits behind me now."

I paused. Chewed on my pen cap. Then kept going.

"She's cold. Not in a mean way. Just… distant. Like she lives on another planet. But today I gave her a musubi and she actually ate it. And then she called me Sunshine. That’s probably nothing. But it feels like something."

I sighed and closed the journal before I wrote something truly embarrassing, like “Her voice is oddly nice.”

---

Later that night, as I curled up in bed, I got a message from Ella, my best friend since fifth grade.

ELLA 🌻:

Dude. Who’s the girl you were talking to by the gym? 👀

I stared at my screen.

ME ☀️:

Just the new transfer student.

ELLA 🌻:

The scary one???

ME ☀️:

She’s not scary. Just quiet.