J.U.N.O (JUST US NO ONE ELSE)

The morning sun spilled through a curtain of pink gauze, dancing across the walls of a bedroom dipped in dreams. Alize Carter’s room was a curated shrine to everything soft, magical, and unapologetically her. Plushies sat in perfectly lined rows across floating white shelves, pastel-hued books were stacked like sleepy soldiers, and her walls were covered in posters of anime boys and boy bands, their perfect faces smiling down like guardians of girlhood. One wall had nothing but framed pages of her poems, intricately written in swooping cursive, decorated with lace-trimmed washi tape and tiny stickers of stars, hearts, and crescent moons. A glowing cloud-shaped lamp blinked lazily beside her vanity mirror, next to a row of pastel lip glosses and strawberry-shaped hair clips. Her bed was a sea of ruffles—soft whites and powdered pinks layered over a Hello Kitty comforter that she had kept since middle school, not because she was childish, but because it still made her feel safe. She wasn’t like the other girls at Crestlake Academy who snuck out to clubs, swapped lipsticks in locker mirrors, and giggled about boys they had kissed behind gymnasium doors. Alize had never kissed a boy. Not even held hands. Not because no one had asked—but because none of them ever felt... real. She sat at her white vintage writing desk, legs tucked beneath a powder-blue throw blanket, humming gently. A pink pen with a fluffy bunny topper twirled between her fingers as her other hand tapped rhythmically against the desk’s surface. She wore her usual school uniform: a navy blazer fitted over a crisp blouse with a plaid pleated skirt that fell mid-thigh, white lace socks folded perfectly over shiny black Mary Janes. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled into low twin pigtails, tied with satin bows, though a few wild curls always escaped. Tiny clips shaped like strawberries held her bangs back from her face. She was nearly eighteen, but there was something timeless and untouched about her—from the light freckles dusting her nose to the wide, hazel eyes that always looked like they were about to blink back tears of wonder or heartbreak. At that moment, though, her lips were pressed together in concentration, smudged slightly with bubblegum pink gloss. Her cheeks were flushed—not from embarrassment, but from emotion—as she scribbled with intensity. The poem had taken hold of her fingers, and they moved as though possessed, writing faster than her thoughts could catch up. Cut my wrist open and I bleed your love On the pages of lust I’ll never know your feelings As I’m down in the dust... She paused. Blinked. Her eyes scanned the ink bleeding into the delicate floral stationery. “Ooh... too dark,” she whispered, biting her lip. But her pen didn’t care what she thought. It kept dancing, sliding over paper like a confession being pulled out of her chest. This wasn’t like her Shakespearean sonnets about cherry blossom kisses and fated stares from across library aisles. This was real. This was raw. A tear dropped before she realized she was crying. She wiped it away, but another fell. Then another. Her heart clenched. Why do I feel like this? Where did this even come from? she wondered. She snapped her journal closed and pressed it to her chest like it could keep her secrets safe. Her breath hitched. Was she… holding her breath this whole time? Then—knock knock knock. “Honey? You're gonna be late for school,” her dad called from the hallway. Alize jumped. “Coming!” she chirped with shaky cheer. She stuffed the poem into her English lit book and wiped her cheeks clean with the sleeve of her oversized blush-pink cardigan. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her sweater was always a size too big. It swallowed her curves—hips too wide, chest too full for the other academy girls who looked like mannequins. Sometimes she swore they hated her for simply existing. But no one could mock her for something they couldn’t see. So, she hid. Mascara. Lip gloss. Hair bows secure. She grabbed her bag, the poem fluttering slightly from her book like a warning. Downstairs, the scent of burnt waffle wafted through the air. “Morning, sweetheart,” her dad called from the kitchen, wrestling with the ancient waffle iron. “Morning,” she replied, trying not to sound disappointed. It’s always waffles. He can’t cook anything else. She didn’t say it out loud. It wasn’t his fault. He was trying. Mom would have made pancakes shaped like hearts. Her throat tightened. She shoved the waffle into her mouth like a sponge to soak up the ache in her chest, kissed her dad on the cheek, and bolted. Outside, the wind was wild. Leaves swirled in cinnamon-scented gusts as she tightened her sweater around her body. Megami should’ve been here by now. They walked together every morning since sixth grade. Alize checked her phone—Late again. Ugh. She didn’t want to arrive without her. Being alone at Crestlake was like bleeding into the shark tank. She walked slowly, eyes scanning the sidewalk, hoping to see Megami’s glittery backpack bouncing in the distance. But fate had other plans. A gust of wind caught her book as she adjusted her grip—and out slipped the poem. “No, no, no!” she gasped, reaching for it. The delicate page fluttered, twisted, and soared like a ghost across the sidewalk. Her heart dropped. It’s signed. My name’s on it. What if someone reads it? She ran. Her pleated skirt flipped in the wind, her bow nearly slipping out of her pigtail. She dashed off the curb, her shoes tapping on the asphalt. The paper danced like a cruel tease right onto the road. And then— SKKKKRRRRRRRT. The world blurred. A black limo screeched to a stop, kissing her side just enough to knock her knees loose. Her body hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, cardigan, and chaos. Her vision tilted. She could hear her heart pounding louder than the car engine. Faintly, she heard a car door open. Expensive shoes hit the pavement. Someone crouched over her, his shadow falling across her eyes. Through the fuzz of light and confusion, she caught glimpses—black hair falling like ink across one eye, storm-colored eyes, piercing and unreadable. A voice, low and sharp, sliced through the moment. “Are you okay?” But she was already fading. As the world darkened, she barely made out the glint of his earring and the way his hand gently brushed her cheek. And then everything went black.