The new school still smelled strange.
Aya noticed it every morning. Not in a bad way — not like bleach and old gum like her last school — but something gentler. Paper and paint. Clean floors. Open windows.
She liked the way sunlight came through the hallways here, even on cloudy days. The lockers didn't slam as loudly. The students walked slower. She hadn't yet figured out if they were kinder, or if she was just more invisible here.
Maybe both.
She'd only been there for a week and already her body felt less tense in the mornings. She no longer stared into the bathroom mirror, counting the reasons to stay home. Her backpack didn't feel as heavy, even though the books were the same.
Maybe it was just the absence of Juliet.
Juliet's laugh no longer echoed behind her. Her teasing didn't linger in her ears. Her friends — those polished, perfect strangers with too much makeup and too little empathy — were no longer shadowing Aya's every step.
She was somewhere else now.
And somewhere else was good enough.
"Aya!"
She turned around, startled. Sora jogged up beside her, swinging a lanyard around one finger.
"You going to art room 2 today?" she asked. "Club's meeting there instead of the usual spot. There was a leak in the ceiling or something. Smelled like mushrooms."
Aya blinked. "Mushrooms?"
Sora grinned. "Like actual mushrooms. Gross, right?"
Aya laughed — quietly, like she was still getting used to the idea that laughing was okay again.
"Yeah, I'll come," she said.
They walked together, Sora talking most of the way. She was the kind of person who didn't seem to mind silences. She filled them up naturally but also gave Aya space to exist without apology.
"I saw your sketch in the last session," Sora added as they reached the door. "The one with the girl and the suitcase?"
Aya's face warmed. "Oh. Yeah."
"That felt… personal," Sora said. "Like you'd lived it."
Aya looked down. "I guess I have."
Sora didn't ask more. She just nodded like she understood, even if she didn't know the full story.
Inside, the room buzzed with quiet energy. A few students sat around tables, some doodling, others already deep into inking their panels. There were comics tacked up on the bulletin board — messy ones, detailed ones, black-and-white, full color.
Aya took a seat and pulled out her sketchbook.
It felt… good. No pressure. No judging.
Just a group of weird, kind souls who cared more about dragons and heartbreak comics than popularity and status.
Over the next few weeks, Aya settled into a routine.
She still woke up with memories of the past — Juliet's voice, her perfume, the burn of betrayal — but they came slower now. Fainter.
She started drawing more.
Not just sad things. Some days, she drew dreamscapes. Other days, messy little comics about her moms arguing over how to slice bread or who forgot to water the plants.
She showed one to Sora once.
To her horror, Sora laughed out loud. "This is gold," she said. "You should do a whole series about your moms. Like, 'Lesbian Mom Life: Chaos Edition.'"
Aya rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "They'd kill me."
"I'd read it," Sora grinned.
One afternoon, on the way home, Sora asked, "So… what did you do before coming here? I mean, what happened?"
Aya stiffened slightly.
She'd been waiting for this question. She just didn't know how to answer it.
"Just… stuff," she said.
Sora didn't push.
But after a moment, Aya added, "There was a girl. My best friend. Juliet."
Sora glanced over, not interrupting.
"She changed. Got… mean. Cold. Started hanging out with people who hated anything different. She said we were never serious. That I was just something she said yes to as a kid."
Sora's face darkened. "That's brutal."
Aya nodded. "She hurt other people too. Not just me."
Sora was quiet for a beat. Then she said, "I'm glad you left."
Aya looked at her, surprised.
"I mean, that takes guts," Sora said. "Most people stay. They let that stuff fester. But you? You walked away. That's strength, Aya."
Aya didn't know what to say.
She'd never thought of it like that.
That night, Aya sat in her room with the lights off, listening to the muffled sound of her moms watching a movie downstairs.
She stared at the ceiling, her sketchbook open beside her.
She was halfway through a comic strip — one of a girl slowly planting flowers in a scorched field. Not all of them were growing yet. Some still looked wilted. But a few were beginning to bloom.
She traced the lines again and again, her pencil soft on the page.
This wasn't the end of the story.
It was just a chapter.
And maybe, just maybe… there were better ones coming.