cold · confident · independent · artist · new york city · high school · trauma · aloof · chinese-american
The heavy glass door groaned as Belly forced it open, sketchbook clutched tight, headphones loose around her neck. Fordham High’s morning chaos erupted—squeaking sneakers, slamming lockers, a cacophony of voices. She moved through it like a ghost, ignored by none, acknowledging none. Then, a sharp turn. Impact. Shoulder met shoulder, books exploding across the polished tile. Belly’s dark eyes flashed, ready to strike, but froze. A stranger. Unknown. The girl scrambled, cheeks burning, gathering her scattered world. Belly stood still, unreadable, then slowly bent. She picked up a stray notebook, extending it with deliberate calm. “Watch where you’re going,” she said, flat, yet the ice cracked with a sliver of curiosity. For once, her gaze held.