Miss Nobody
1386 Words
POV: Isla
The lecture hall at Blackthorn University was full before eight in the morning.
Not full of warmth.
Not full of kindness.
Just full.
Designer perfume. Luxury watches. Girls with glossy hair and effortless laughter. Boys in pressed jackets, leaning back like the world had been waiting all night for them to wake up.
And then there was Isla Marquez.
Third row from the back.
Plain notebook.
Old cardigan.
Head down.
Invisible.
Or at least, that was the plan.
PROFESSOR HAWTHORNE: Miss Marquez. Since you look so focused, perhaps you’d like to answer.
Every head turned.
Isla looked up too fast. Her pen slipped from her fingers and rolled under the seat in front of her.
A few people laughed.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
ISLA: I— yes, sir.
PROFESSOR HAWTHORNE: What is perception management in public image building?
Isla swallowed. Her cheeks were already hot.
ISLA: It’s… the process of shaping how an audience interprets a person, brand, or institution. Not always by changing reality, but by controlling what is seen first.
The professor nodded.
PROFESSOR HAWTHORNE: Good. And what matters more? Truth or presentation?
A blond girl near the window answered before Isla could.
CELESTE BEAUMONT: Presentation. Obviously. Nobody buys truth unless it’s beautifully packaged.
Laughter scattered across the hall.
Professor Hawthorne smiled like that had been clever.
Professor Hawthorne smiled more at students like Celeste Beaumont.
ISLA: Truth still matters.
The room quieted.
Professor Hawthorne looked at her with mild interest.
PROFESSOR HAWTHORNE: Does it?
Celeste crossed one leg over the other, elegant, lethal.
CELESTE: Only if anyone is looking.
A few people laughed again.
This time, Isla didn’t.
She sat still, fingers tight around her notebook, and told herself the same thing she told herself every day at Blackthorn:
Just get through it.
After class, the crowd spilled into the marble corridor in glossy clusters.
Isla waited until most of them were gone before she bent to get her pen.
A polished loafer stopped beside it first.
BLAKE REMINGTON: You really need to stop making yourself such an easy target.
He crouched, picked up the pen, and handed it to her.
Blake was wearing navy. Of course he was. Blake always looked like money even when he wasn’t rich enough to belong with the people he copied.
He smiled, and for one dangerous second, Isla forgot the laughter.
ISLA: Thank you.
BLAKE: You should’ve let that comment go.
ISLA: I answered a question.
BLAKE: And then you kept going.
ISLA: So I’m only allowed to speak when it’s safe?
He glanced around before lowering his voice.
BLAKE: Don’t do that.
ISLA: Do what?
BLAKE: That thing where you make me sound cruel.
Cruel.
No, Blake wasn’t cruel. Not openly.
Blake was careful.
Blake was polished.
Blake liked kindness best when it looked good on him.
He took her books from her arms like a boyfriend who cared.
And he was her boyfriend.
Officially.
Technically.
Though lately, he only acted like it when nobody important was watching.
BLAKE: Come on. I’ll walk you to the café.
ISLA: You have econ in ten minutes.
BLAKE: I know.
He smiled again. Softer this time.
BLAKE: I made time.
That should have melted her.
Once, it would have.
Instead, she let him take half the books and walked beside him through the courtyard where old ivy climbed the stone walls of Blackthorn like it had grown there from privilege itself.
Students passed them in clusters. Some nodded at Blake. A few didn’t look at Isla at all.
One girl whispered something to her friend.
Both of them smiled.
ISLA: Did you ever think maybe I’m tired?
BLAKE: Of what?
ISLA: Being your secret when it matters.
He went still for half a step.
Then he laughed lightly, like she had misunderstood something obvious.
BLAKE: You’re not my secret.
ISLA: Then why do you let people act like I’m invisible?
BLAKE: Because if I fought every stupid little thing people say on this campus, I’d never do anything else.
ISLA: So it’s easier to let them say it.
BLAKE: Isla—
He stopped walking.
She turned.
Blake exhaled. The softness in his face thinned.
BLAKE: You take everything so personally.
She stared at him.
ISLA: Because it happens to me personally.
He looked annoyed now. Not guilty. Annoyed.
That hurt more.
BLAKE: You know what your problem is?
ISLA: No, Blake. Tell me.
BLAKE: You walk into every room already expecting to be judged. And then when people do judge you, you act surprised.
She laughed once. Sharp. Small.
ISLA: That’s my problem?
BLAKE: I’m saying confidence changes things.
ISLA: Confidence doesn’t change a room that already decided who matters.
Before he could answer, a bright voice cut through the air.
CELESTE: Blake.
Celeste Beaumont descended the library steps like the campus had arranged itself for her entrance.
Cream coat. Gold earrings. Hair like a commercial.
She smiled at Blake first.
Then at Isla.
That smile changed just enough to become insult.
CELESTE: Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were busy.
BLAKE: Just heading out.
Celeste tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
CELESTE: We’re finalizing the donor brunch seating. You’re still coming, right?
Blake hesitated.
Only for a second.
But Isla saw it.
BLAKE: Of course.
CELESTE: Good. My aunt wants to meet students with… potential.
Her gaze slid to Isla’s cardigan. Her shoes. The books in her arms.
Back to Blake.
CELESTE: Don’t be late.
She walked away before Isla could reply.
Blake rubbed the back of his neck.
BLAKE: Don’t start.
ISLA: I didn’t say anything.
BLAKE: I can tell when you’re about to.
ISLA: Then maybe you know me better than I thought.
He looked at her, suddenly tired.
BLAKE: I’m trying, Isla.
ISLA: Trying what?
He didn’t answer.
That silence stayed with her all day.
In the dining hall, she sat alone until Naomi Vega dropped into the chair across from her like a hurricane in platform boots.
NAOMI: Why do you look like someone cancelled your soul?
ISLA: Good afternoon to you too.
Naomi squinted at her.
NAOMI: What happened?
ISLA: Nothing.
NAOMI: Liar.
ISLA: Just Blake being Blake.
Naomi sat back.
NAOMI: That man makes me believe in violence.
ISLA: He’s not that bad.
Naomi’s expression went flat.
NAOMI: Isla. If I have to explain to you one more time that “he’s not that bad” is not a love language, I’ll scream in this cafeteria.
Isla smiled despite herself.
NAOMI: There. Better. Now eat.
ISLA: I’m not hungry.
NAOMI: That’s not noble. That’s depressing.
Across the room, a burst of laughter rose from the center tables.
Celeste was there.
So was Blake.
He was leaning toward her.
Listening.
Smiling.
Not looking for Isla.
Not once.
Naomi followed her gaze and went still.
NAOMI: Oh, I hate him.
ISLA: They’re planning that donor event.
NAOMI: And?
ISLA: And I wasn’t invited.
NAOMI: Why would you want to be?
ISLA: I don’t.
Naomi arched a brow.
NAOMI: Another lie.
Isla looked down at her untouched lunch.
No, she didn’t want the brunch.
She wanted what the brunch meant.
Access. Approval. Visibility.
A seat at the table.
She wanted, just once, to walk into a room and not feel like an apology.
That night, alone in her dorm room, she stood in front of the mirror with the overhead light too harsh and too honest.
Round face.
Soft stomach.
Shoulders that curled in without permission.
A body she had spent years negotiating with, defending, shrinking, resenting.
She pressed both hands against the sink.
ISLA: You’re fine.
The mirror didn’t believe her.
Neither did she.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Blake.
BLAKE: Don’t be weird about today.
She stared at it.
Then another.
BLAKE: You know how this school works.
And another.
BLAKE: I’m doing what I have to do.
Something cold moved through her.
Not pain.
Not yet.
Just the first crack.
She typed, deleted, typed again.
ISLA: And what exactly am I to you while you do it?
The typing bubble appeared.
Vanished.
Appeared again.
Then disappeared completely.
No reply.
Isla looked at the mirror one last time.
At the girl everyone overlooked.
At the girl even her own boyfriend kept asking to understand her place.
And somewhere, deep under the shame, something dangerous opened its eyes.
- Writer
