Monday morning came too quickly for Mia's liking. The party felt like a blur—a surreal night where, for once, she wasn't invisible. Sitting on the porch with Dylan Westwood? That wasn't just a highlight; it was something she hadn't stopped thinking about all weekend.
But now, the fluorescent-lit reality of school was back, and Mia was once again just the quiet girl who nobody noticed. Or so she thought.
As she walked into the school hallway, whispers swirled around her like an annoying breeze. Her name seemed to float on the edges of conversations, always followed by Dylan's. She pulled her hoodie tighter around her face, wishing she could vanish into thin air.
"Mia!" Lila's voice broke through the hum of gossip, snapping her out of her thoughts. Lila caught up to her, a mischievous grin plastered across her face. "You're a literal celebrity right now."
"Celebrity?" Mia deadpanned, shoving her books into her locker. "More like a circus act."
"No, I'm serious," Lila insisted. "Dylan Westwood talked to you—like, actually talked to you. Do you know how many girls would sell their souls for that?"
"Then they can have him," Mia muttered, slamming her locker shut.
"Come on, you don't mean that. He likes you."
Mia snorted. "Yeah, sure. Just like I'm going to ace my math quiz today."
Lila sighed, exasperated. "Why do you always do that? Push people away the moment something good happens?"
Mia didn't have an answer for that. Instead, she mumbled something about being late to class and hurried down the hallway, her cheeks burning.
Dylan wasn't in her first two classes, which gave her a small sense of relief. She could pretend, for a little while, that nothing had changed. But by lunchtime, fate—or, more likely, Lila—decided to mess with her again.
As Mia approached her usual table in the cafeteria, she froze. Dylan Westwood was sitting there, casually sipping a soda like he belonged.
"Hey, Anderson," he said, flashing that crooked smile that could probably stop traffic.
Mia stared at him, her mind racing for an escape route. Lila, of course, was no help. She sat next to Dylan, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
"What are you doing here?" Mia blurted, immediately regretting how rude it sounded.
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Eating lunch. Isn't that what people do in cafeterias?"
"I mean, why are you sitting here?" she clarified, her voice quieter.
"Because I felt like it," he said, shrugging. "Unless you want me to leave."
Mia glanced at Lila, who was practically vibrating with excitement. Clearly, saying yes wasn't an option.
"No, it's fine," Mia said, sitting down across from him. She could feel every pair of eyes in the cafeteria on them, and it made her skin crawl.
"So," Dylan said, leaning forward slightly, "did you have fun at the party?"
"Uh, yeah. It was... fine," Mia said, poking at her food.
"Fine? That's it?" Dylan teased. "I thought you'd say it was life-changing or something."
Mia rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the small smile that crept onto her face. "Well, I didn't fall into a pool or start a food fight, so I'd call that a win."
Dylan chuckled, and for a moment, the tension eased. They actually talked—about the party, school, and random little things Mia never thought she'd discuss with someone like him. And for the first time, she realized Dylan Westwood wasn't just the golden boy everyone made him out to be. He was funny, a little sarcastic, and surprisingly easy to talk to.
But, of course, good things never lasted.
As Mia left the cafeteria, her locker became her next battleground. A small group of girls stood nearby, their eyes narrowing as she approached.
"Enjoying your new fan club?" one of them sneered. It was Brooke, one of the cheerleaders—and one of Dylan's most devoted admirers.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mia said, opening her locker and pretending not to notice the glares.
"Don't play dumb," Brooke snapped. "You think you're special just because Dylan talked to you? Newsflash: he talks to everyone."
Mia bit her lip, willing herself to stay calm. "Okay."
"Okay?" Brooke repeated, her voice rising. "That's all you have to say?"
"What do you want me to say?" Mia asked, finally turning to face her. "That I'm sorry he talked to me? Fine. I'm sorry."
Brooke scoffed, flipping her hair. "You should be. Because trust me, whatever you think is happening between you two? It's not."
Mia didn't respond. She grabbed her books and walked away, her heart pounding. She knew Brooke was probably right. Dylan Westwood wasn't her friend. He wasn't anything to her. So why did it hurt to hear someone else say it?
By the time the final bell rang, Mia was ready to crawl into bed and forget the entire day. But as she walked out of the building, she spotted Dylan leaning against a lamppost, waiting.
"Hey," he said, falling into step beside her.
"What are you doing?" she asked, confused.
"Walking you home," he said casually.
"You don't even know where I live."
"Then I guess you'll have to tell me."
Mia stared at him, half-expecting this to be some kind of prank. But Dylan looked genuinely relaxed, like walking her home was the most normal thing in the world.
Against her better judgment, she let him.
As they walked, the conversation came easily. Dylan talked about his love-hate relationship with basketball, how his dad pushed him to be perfect, and how he sometimes wished he could just... disappear for a while. Mia found herself opening up too—about her awkwardness, her struggles with math, and her dream of someday leaving their small town for something bigger.
By the time they reached her house, Mia felt lighter, like she'd just shed a layer of armor.
"Thanks for the walk," she said, pausing at her front gate.
"Anytime," Dylan said, his smile soft and genuine. "See you tomorrow, Anderson."
As he walked away, Mia couldn't help but smile. Maybe Lila was right. Maybe she was pushing people away too much. Maybe Dylan Westwood wasn't just another golden boy. Maybe—just maybe—he was worth the risk.