Aylia Zehir learned early that survival didn't wait for permission.
She was smart—top of her class without ever needing to say it out loud. The scholarship letter sat folded in her drawer like something fragile, the only reason she now attended a private school built for students who never worried about rent or overdue bills. She wore her uniform carefully, as if neatness could make her invisible.
After school, she worked.Two jobs. No one knew.
Mornings began before sunrise. Evenings ended with aching feet and numbers running through her head—how much was left, what could wait, what couldn't. Every dollar mattered. Every choice had weight.
At home, Aylia wasn't just a daughter.
She was a second parent to Casey, her fifteen-year-old sister who attended public school and pretended not to notice when Aylia skipped meals. Casey complained loudly, laughed easily, and leaned into Aylia's presence like it was something solid.
Then there was Denver.
Her older brother. The valedictorian. The pride of a public school that couldn't contain him. He studied abroad now, chasing the future their father once dreamed of. Every month, money arrived from him without explanation. His way of staying close.
Their father had been the center of everything.
Cancer took him six years ago.
Since then, their mother worked endless shifts as a nurse, grief tucked neatly behind professionalism. Aylia helped wherever she could—cooking, cleaning, listening, holding things together when the house felt too quiet. Strength became routine. Silence followed.
Lately, her body had begun to betray her.
She tired too easily. The stairs left her breathless. Some mornings, the room tilted just enough to make her pause. She blamed stress. She always did. There was no time to be sick when people depended on you.
By the time Aylia Zehir stepped onto the polished campus of her new school, she had already learned how to endure without asking for help.
What she didn't know—What no one warned her about—
Was how quickly endurance could turn into vulnerability.
...
I turned eighteen two weeks before my first day at Telfair Woodridge Academy.
The number didn't feel real. Nothing about my life changed overnight—bills still waited on the counter, the fridge still hummed too loudly, and my alarm still rang before the sun rose. Eighteen didn't mean freedom. It meant responsibility with a different name.
"Aylia, you're going to be late."
My mother's voice floated down the narrow hallway, calm but tired. She stood in the kitchen in her nurse's scrubs, hair pulled back, dark circles she pretended weren't there.
"I know," I called back, tying my shoes. My fingers fumbled more than usual. I flexed them, annoyed. "I just—give me a second."
Casey sat at the table, legs tucked beneath her, scrolling on her phone. She glanced up and smirked."First day at rich-kid school and you're already stressed."
"It's not a rich-kid school," I said automatically.
She raised an eyebrow. "It literally has Woodridge in the name."
I sighed, grabbing my bag. "You're impossible."
"Just honest," she said, then softened. "You're gonna be fine, Aylia."
Mom turned, studying me in that quiet way she had when she was worried but didn't want to ask."Did you eat?"
"Yes," I lied.
Her mouth pressed into a thin line like she knew. "Your bus—"
"I know." I leaned down and kissed her cheek. She smelled like coffee and antiseptic. "I'll text you later."
As I reached the door, she called after me, softer this time."Don't push yourself so hard today."
I paused, hand on the knob. "I won't."
Another lie.
Outside, the morning air felt heavier than it should have. I stood still for a moment, breathing through the dizziness until it passed. Stress, I told myself. First day nerves.
That's all.
The gates of Telfair Woodridge Academy were exactly what Casey imagined—tall, polished, intimidating. Students moved through them like they belonged there, laughing easily, clothes pressed perfectly, futures already written.
I adjusted my uniform and kept my head down.
This was my chance.My only one.
I couldn't afford to mess it up.
By the time I reached my locker, my chest felt tight—not fear, I told myself. Just nerves. First-day nerves.
I repeated it like a promise.
What I didn't know yet was that this school would change everything.
And not in the way scholarships were supposed to.
...
The bus ride ended too quickly.
I was halfway up the front steps when someone bumped into me.
Not hard—just enough to throw me off balance. My books slipped from my arms and scattered across the stone path.
"I'm sorry," I said automatically, crouching down.
"I didn't see you," a voice replied. Male. Distracted. Already moving.
I gathered my things quickly, fingers trembling as I stacked papers back into my bag. A shadow lingered near me for half a second longer, then disappeared.
I stood, heart beating faster than it should have. Embarrassed more than hurt. I didn't look up. There was no reason to.
People were still flowing past, laughter and footsteps blurring together. Whoever he was, he'd already vanished into the crowd.
I brushed dust from my sleeve and continued inside, telling myself not to overthink it.
First-day nerves.
That's all it was.
Inside, the halls were brighter than I expected. Lockers lined the walls in neat rows, polished and unmarked, nothing like the chipped metal ones back home. I found my number, twisted the lock twice before it finally opened, and exhaled quietly.
I could do this.
I slid my books inside and closed the door, unaware that the brief collision on the steps would become the smallest moment with the largest consequences.
At the time, it meant nothing.
Just another stranger.Just another hallway.Just another day I was trying to survive.
...
The bell rang, sharp enough to make me flinch.
The hallway filled fast—lockers slamming, voices overlapping, shoes scuffing against the floor. I stepped back against the wall, rereading my schedule like it might change if I looked at it long enough.
"Did you see Atlas in chem?" a girl said behind me.
Another voice snorted. "He doesn't even try anymore."
"That's because he doesn't have to."
I glanced up—not because I cared, but because the name kept coming up.
"Xavier Atlas," someone else said. "Coach already treats him like a pro."
"Yeah, until he screws up."
A laugh. "As if."
I followed the sound without meaning to. A small group had formed near the lockers, angled toward the end of the hall where a few guys stood like they had nowhere else to be. One of them leaned casually against the wall, jacket half-zipped, talking like the hallway belonged to him.
I didn't catch his face at first—just the way people slowed when they passed him. Like they were waiting for something. Or someone.
That was when I saw him properly.
Xavier Atlas stood at the center of it all like he belonged there—broad shoulders, effortless confidence, the kind that didn't need to announce itself. Laughter followed him. Admiration clung to him. He didn't chase attention; it came willingly, drawn to him without hesitation.
I told myself not to stare.
"Senior," someone murmured nearby. "Plays games. Everyone knows that."
"He's annoying," a girl said. "But… yeah."
"Don't pretend you wouldn't."
"I wouldn't survive him," the first girl replied. "No one does."
Everyone wanted Xavier Atlas. That much was obvious. He had everything—popularity, power, a future already mapped out in clean, shining lines. The kind of boy you were warned not to fall for because he never noticed girls like me.
The crowd shifted, and for a moment, his gaze lifted.
Sharp. Unreadable.
It felt like being measured and dismissed in the same breath. I looked away first, my chest tightening for reasons I didn't want to examine.
That was when I realized something dangerous.
Xavier Atlas wasn't just every girl's dream.
He was the kind of boy who ruined them.
I adjusted my bag and slipped past the group while they were still talking, already fading back into the background where I belonged.
At the time, he was just another name echoing through the hall.
I didn't know yet how quickly names could stop being just names.