The heavy sliding door of the Class groans open, and for Hana, the sound is like a starting pistol for a race she’s already losing. Don’t look up. Just don't look up, she pleads with herself, her heartbeat drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs. She can feel the sudden dip in the room’s volume, that suffocating "new student" silence where every eye becomes a microscope. To them, she’s just a fresh face; to her, they are a jury that has already reached a verdict. Are they looking at my hair? My clothes? Do they already know? The intrusive thoughts claw at her mind. She wonders if the lies from her old school traveled faster than she did—if the whispers about her being "easy" or "trouble" have already poisoned the air here. Even though she’s never even held a boy's hand, the shame of the rumors feels like a physical stain on her skin. She moves through the aisles, her gaze fixed strictly on the floor. She notes the scuff marks on the tiles and the legs of the desks, anything to avoid meeting a pair of eyes that might be filled with judgment. Finally, she reaches the empty desk in the back corner. She sinks into the chair, the cool metal frame offering a small, grounding chill. Beside her, the large window offers a view of the courtyard, but it’s more than a view—it’s an escape route for her mind. The corner is safe, she thinks, her fingers trembling as she pulls a notebook from her bag just to have something to hold onto. If I stay by the window, I’m only half-surrounded. If I don't speak, I can't give them anything to twist into a lie. Just be a shadow, Hana. Just be a ghost. She rests her chin on her hand, staring out at the distant trees, her reflection in the glass looking back at her with eyes that already look exhausted by a day that hasn't even begun.