Chapter 1
The last cymbal crash of rehearsal rang out like a final breath, echoing off the gym walls before dying in silence. Gwen sat motionless behind her drum kit, staring at the scuffed floor, sweat cooling on her neck. She could still feel the thump of the beat in her hands—fast, sharp, loud.
Unlike everything else.
Around her, the rest of the Mary Janes were already packing up. Betty clacked her drumsticks together once for effect before slipping them into her bag. Gloria twirled her bass strap like a ribbon, laughing as she checked her phone. MJ? Late again, but smiling in that soft, flushed way she’d been wearing for the past week.
Gwen didn’t even have to ask. She already knew what that look meant.
Sure enough, Peter walked in a few minutes later, hair still damp from swim practice, backpack hanging off one shoulder. He didn’t even glance toward Gwen as MJ practically ran to meet him.
They bumped shoulders, shared some whispered joke, and disappeared into the hallway.
Betty’s boyfriend showed up next, slapping her drum case from behind before pulling her in for a kiss. Gloria waved at hers waiting by the doors, grinning as she caught up to him.
Just like that, the room was empty.
Except for Gwen.
She sat still a second longer, then sighed and packed up her sticks. Her phone lit up, but it was just her dad checking in—Be careful walking home, okay? Text me when you get there.
She stuffed it back in her jacket.
“Like I ever forget,” she mumbled.
The gym doors groaned open and closed behind her with a hollow thud. Outside, the sky was low and bruised, heavy with clouds. Wind cut between buildings and slipped down her collar. She tightened her grip on her bag and walked faster.
The streets were busier than they looked. Lights on in restaurants, voices echoing off brick. Horns, sirens, laughter.
She used to walk home with Peter. They’d grab snacks from the bodega, complain about teachers, trade theories about the latest weird city stuff. That was… what? A month ago?
Now he barely remembered to text her back.
By the time she reached her building, her fingers were numb. She fumbled with her keys, got inside, and kicked off her boots a little too hard. The apartment was warm but quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t comfort—it just echoed.
She dropped her bag and stared blankly at the fridge, where the only new thing was a magnet she didn’t remember buying. Her dad was working late. Again.
“City’s too dangerous these days,” he always said. “Especially for girls walking home alone.”
She knew he worried. She knew it came from love.
Still stung, though.
Especially when the one person who used to care enough to walk with her had apparently found better company.
She heated up leftover pasta, took two bites, and left the rest. Then curled up on the couch, hoodie over her head, music in her ears—but nothing stuck. Every song made her feel smaller, like background noise in her own life.
She wasn’t… weird. Right?
She wasn’t hard to talk to. She didn’t think she was annoying, or clingy, or anything. So why did everyone around her seem to be moving on while she just… stayed?
She checked social media without thinking. MJ had posted a story of her and Peter holding hands outside some cafe Gwen didn’t even know they went to. Betty’s profile had a new photo—her and her boyfriend, cuddled up on a rooftop somewhere, all golden hour glow.
She didn’t even feel jealous. Just… faded.
Like she was watching it all from underwater.
“Maybe I’m just invisible,” she muttered.
The words hung in the room like dust.
Later, as she brushed her teeth and caught her own eyes in the mirror, the question came again—quiet and tired and sharp:
What’s wrong with me?
But no answer came. Just her reflection, looking back.
Alone.
Lunch was loud in the way Gwen hated—busy, messy, alive.
She found her usual spot at the edge of the table and sat down slowly, balancing her tray on her knees until there was room to slide it onto the surface. The others were already deep into their rhythm—Betty with her arm flung dramatically across the back of her chair, Gloria mid-story, MJ swirling her smoothie with her straw like she was mixing a potion.
Gwen opened her water bottle just to give her hands something to do.
“So then he tells me,” Gloria was saying, “that I should ‘feel the wheel.’ Like, that’s helpful. I almost hit a mailbox.”
Betty cracked up. “And he still got back in the car with you?”
“He said it was a trust exercise.”
“Sounds like a death wish.”
MJ was beaming. Gwen could feel it without looking. Probably from another text. Probably from Peter.
She didn’t bother asking where he was.
You’re fine. This is fine. You’re happy for them.
Betty nudged Gwen with her elbow. “Earth to Gwen.”
Gwen blinked. “Huh?”
“You good? You look like you saw your own GPA.”
Gwen laughed a little. “Yeah, just zoned out.”
MJ leaned in, curious. “You’ve been quiet lately.”
“I’ve been… tired,” Gwen said, which wasn’t a lie, just not the one they were asking for.
Gloria twisted in her seat. “Okay, wait. Weren’t you talking to someone a while back? Some guy?”
Gwen’s heart jumped. “What guy?”
“You said you were into someone!” Betty said, pointing at her with a fry. “Like two weeks ago. Remember? At rehearsal? You said there was someone in your Spanish class you kept staring at.”
“I did not say that.”
“You totally did.”
“Okay, well…” Gwen fumbled, chewing the inside of her cheek. Everyone was looking at her now, expectant, grinning. “Maybe I’ve been seeing someone. Kind of.”
MJ’s eyes lit up. “WHAT?! Who??”
Gwen’s brain scrambled. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck. Her mouth opened before her thoughts caught up.
“Miles Morales.”
Silence.
“NO WAY,” Betty blurted, delighted.
Gloria dropped her spoon. “The guy who sits behind you? Tall, headphones, sketchbook Miles?”
“Yeah,” Gwen said, because there was no turning back now. “We’ve… hung out. A few times.”
MJ gasped. “That’s so cute! He’s such a mystery. You would go for the brooding artist type.”
Gwen shrugged, hoping it looked casual. “He’s cool.”
She felt like she’d jumped off a cliff.
“So how long has this been a thing?” Betty asked, waggling her brows.
“Not long. We’re keeping it lowkey.” Gwen took a long sip of water to buy time.
Lowkey enough that he didn’t even know, apparently.
Gloria tapped her phone. “You better bring him to Anya’s party next weekend. I want to see this with my own eyes.”
“I—uh—I’ll ask,” Gwen said, trying not to wince.
They kept talking—switching topics easily, the way friends do—but Gwen barely heard a word. Her pulse was too loud in her ears.
The lie sat there on the table next to her, humming with quiet panic.
Gwen had always been good at lying by omission. Not the big dramatic lies—just the small ones. The ones that came with a shrug, a smile, a “just tired” when her chest felt hollow, or an “I’m fine” when she wanted to scream.
But this lie was louder. It had a name now. A face. A pulse.
And it was already walking around the school.
The moment lunch ended, Gwen tried to keep moving—blend back into her routine like nothing had shifted. But everything felt slightly off, like someone had adjusted the frame of the world by a few inches and now nothing quite lined up.
She shoved her tray into the bin, slung her bag over her shoulder, and tried to disappear into the river of students flooding the hallway.
You made it up. No one’s going to care. It’ll blow over.
She told herself that with every step, even as her stomach twisted tighter. Even as she started hearing it—just pieces—behind her.
“Wait, Gwen and Miles?”
“No way. Since when?”
“Didn’t she date Peter once?”
“Guess she has a type.”
Crap. Crap. Crap.
Gwen gritted her teeth and turned down the quieter wing near the language hallway, hoping the empty stretch would give her a second to breathe. She could feel her pulse in her throat.
Then she heard it. Sharp and familiar, floating around the corner:
“So where’s your girlfriend, Morales?”
She stopped short.
The voice was Flash’s—of course. Loud, dumb, and way too amused with himself. Gwen didn’t move closer, didn’t peek around the corner. She just stayed where she was, frozen, back pressed lightly to the locker, listening.
“Still keeping her top secret, or are you just making it up to look cool?”
Someone snorted. “He probably Photoshopped a selfie with her.”
Another voice, quieter. “Maybe he's embarrassed to be seen with her.”
Laughter.
Gwen felt her throat tighten.
There was a pause then—just long enough to wonder if Miles was going to deny it. Laugh it off. Say, “I don’t even know her like that,” or “Nah, you’re thinking of someone else.”
He didn’t.
He just said, calm and simple:
“We’re private. Not your business.”
And that was it. They kept teasing him, but he didn’t budge. Didn’t defend it. Didn’t crack. Didn’t deny her.
Gwen backed away before anyone saw her. Before he saw her.
She made it to the bathroom and locked herself in a stall, bag still on her shoulder, hands gripping her phone like it could anchor her.
He knew.
Of course he knew. People were talking. And he hadn’t said anything. Not to deny it, not to ask her about it, not even to call her out.
Why?
Because he didn’t care?
Because he didn’t want drama?
Because he was just too quiet to start something?
Or—God help her—because maybe he didn’t mind.
No. Don’t go there. This is bad enough.
She sank down onto the closed lid of the toilet and stared at the tiled wall like it held answers. This was supposed to be simple. A dumb lie to save face, to keep from looking lonely, to feel—just for a second—like she had what everyone else had.
And now?
Now she’d dragged someone into it. Someone who’d never even spoken more than a handful of words to her. Someone who didn’t deserve being teased over something he didn’t agree to.
You need to fix this.
She didn’t know how. Not yet.
But she knew she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real anymore.