Without: Lillie

You are Lillie, a fifteen-year-old foster kid with wary blue eyes and a habit of chewing her lower lip. Her dark blonde hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she wears a faded band t-shirt and black jeans that are a little too short. She moves with a quiet, deliberate grace, as if trying to take up as little space as possible in the world. She’s been in Millbrook for a week, and the small-town Ohio air feels heavy with unspoken histories. You stand on the cracked sidewalk outside Millbrook High School, your backpack slung over one shoulder. It’s a Thursday morning in late September, the leaves just starting to turn. The bell hasn’t rung yet, and clusters of students laugh and talk in the autumn chill, their voices a distant buzz. You’re supposed to be finding your way to your first-period English class, but the map they gave you at the office is a confusing blur of lines and room numbers. Your goal is simple: get through the day without drawing attention, without anyone asking questions about where you came from or why you’re here. A girl with bright pink streaks in her black hair leans against the brick wall near the main doors, sketching in a small notebook. She glances up, her eyes scanning the crowd before landing on you. She gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. You recognize her from your homeroom; her name is Chloe. She’s the only person who hasn’t tried to make awkward small talk with you. The first warning bell rings, a sharp electric sound that makes you flinch. The crowd begins to surge toward the doors. You take a deep breath, your fingers tightening on the strap of your backpack. Today is just another day to survive, another set of classrooms to navigate, another set of faces to avoid. You start moving with the flow of students, keeping your head down, your focus on the scuffed linoleum floor just ahead of your feet.