Slow Burn

Chapter Two

THE VAST MAJORITY of teenagers who attend HILAE are either half-asleep, half-delusional, or half-trying to look like they don’t care. Most of them fail spectacularly.

I’ve somehow blended myself into a small group of girls who are what I would call “tolerable humans,” but sometimes I’m convinced I’m the only person here with a functioning mind. Like I’m the main character in a very boring video game, surrounded by NPCs programmed with only three actions:

1. Initiate pointless conversation

2. Ask a stupid question

3. Laugh too loudly

Occasionally hug, but only if you look like you don’t want one.

Another thing about the students here — and maybe all teenagers — is that none of them seem to put more than ten percent of effort into anything. Honestly, I respect that. Life is long and exhausting, and we should save our limited energy for more important things. Like sleeping, or staring at walls until they become more interesting than the people around us. I don’t put effort into anything either, except maybe existing, and even that feels optional most days.

Walking into the HILAE common room and seeing a hundred teenagers sprawled across chairs, tables, and the floor like victims of some silent gas leak isn’t unusual. It’s basically the school’s natural ecosystem.

Julian isn’t here yet. Probably nursing some lunch-related existential crisis in the corner he calls his spot. Becky is there, chatting with Our Lot — Sophie and Maya — about whether Michael Cera is actually attractive. It’s an important debate, clearly.

Elsie spots me first.

“Ashleyyy,” she sings, waving aggressively like she’s trying to signal a plane.

“Help us settle something. Be honest. Don’t do that thing where you stare into space and pretend you’re above us.”

I blink. “That’s just my face,” I mutter.

Maya groans. “Ashley, you have to pick a side. This is serious debate material.”

I shrug. That’s what I do when confronted with either stupidity or urgency — which, in this school, is almost always the same thing.

By the time Natalie shows up, I’m already half-listening to Elsie talk about her supposed celeb crushes. Natalie bounds over, hair bouncing in a way that makes me briefly regret wearing a hoodie to hide my own hair.

“Ashley!” she says, flopping onto the bench next to me. “I saved you a spot, obviously. You have to see the list Sophie made for our project. It’s literally genius.”

I nod vaguely while mentally calculating how many more minutes until I can go home and sleep.

“Also,” Natalie continues, leaning in like I’m a secret conspirator, “did you see Ethan today?”

I freeze. That’s not entirely true. I just become aware that my brain has filed him under confusing and irritating.

“Yes,” I admit, carefully neutral. “I saw him.”

Natalie raises an eyebrow. “And? Did he, like, notice you?”

I stare at her, realizing ‘notice me’ is a question that should only exist in movies or bad Tumblr posts. “I think so,” I say, which is true in the most minimalistic sense.

⸻

The lunch bell eventually saves me from further interrogation. I wander toward the library because it’s quieter and has chairs that smell vaguely like old books and dust, a comforting smell if you like despair.

I am aware, as I step in, that the majority of people here are almost already including me in their small, invisible hierarchies of who matters. Which is to say: I don’t matter. Perfect.

Natalie isn’t here yet. Sophie and Maya are arguing about whether some actor on a poster is secretly hot. Elsie flounces by, trying to get my attention again. I avoid her gaze.

And then Ethan is there.

I recognize him even if I don’t remember the circumstances from before. His hair is messy in a way that looks deliberate, and his expression is too patient, too attentive for someone I’ve barely noticed until now.

“Hey,” he says.

I blink. “Hey,” I manage. My brain is officially offline.

He smiles, the kind of small, polite smile that says he knows something about you that you’ve forgotten, which is terrifying.

I drop into a chair opposite him, trying to radiate the energy of someone who has a strong grasp on their life. Spoiler: I do not.

He leans forward slightly. “You’re in Natalie’s circle, right?”

I twitch. “Apparently,” I mutter.

He nods, like that explains everything. And it does everything except why I suddenly feel like someone is looking directly at my brain and judging it.

The rest of the period passes in a blur of books, pages, and minimal conversation. I mostly stare at my laptop screen, pretending to be engrossed, while stealing glances at Ethan. He isn’t staring at me, which is fine. I don’t want him to. I definitely don’t want him to.

Natalie keeps leaning over, whispering comments like she’s narrating my life for an audience of ghosts.

“You’re weird, you know that?” she says at one point, nudging my arm.

“I know,” I reply, which is also true.

By the time school ends, I move like a zombie toward the subway. Lila is waiting for me at home, in that perpetual cheerful state that makes me feel guilty for existing.

“Hey,” she says softly, brushing my hair back.

“Hey,” I mumble.

She doesn’t press me for details, which is good. Some things are better unspoken.

I sit at my desk in my room, open my laptop, and write. I write about Ethan in coded, careful sentences. I write about Natalie and her nonstop energy, about Becky and the absurdity of debating celebrities, and about myself, mostly.

I blog because it’s safe. Safe enough to admit that I notice things I’m not supposed to notice, that I feel things I’m not supposed to feel, and that I am alive. Somehow.

Evening drifts on. Cocoa is gone. Lila has disappeared to read some book far too cheerful for her age. My headphones are in. Music plays like a distant life I’m not ready to inhabit.

I glance at the clock. Tomorrow will be the same. Except maybe, maybe, Ethan will notice something else about me. Something I won’t understand until it’s too late.

I smirk at the thought. That’s probably the closest thing to a feeling I’ll admit to today.