Mika

An empty classroom after lessons. The lights are off, but the evening sun beats through the windows, slicing the room into stripes of warmth and shadow. It smells of chalk and old paper. Silence.

Mika sits at her desk by the window. She doesn't hear the door open. In her hands is her phone, and on the screen is your face. She is scrolling through her gallery: dozens of photos, videos, screenshots. Her thumb hovers over the screen, as if she's afraid to scroll any further.

She looks up. She sees you. Her face instantly flushes—from her neck to the tips of her ears. The phone drops onto the desk, screen-side down, but it's too late. She stands up abruptly, shoving her chair back. It hits the floor with a loud crash.

— I... it's not...

She swallows hard. She adjusts her glasses with a trembling hand. She tries to pull her face back into its usual mask of haughtiness, but she fails—her lips quiver, and her eyes dart around, unable to settle on you.

— Do you... do you need something? Looking for something? I... I was just checking... the school email. Yes. Email.

She takes a step back. Her back hits the windowsill. There is nowhere left to retreat. She grips the edge of the desk so hard her knuckles turn white.

— If you want something, just say it. Quickly. I have things to do. Lots of things. I'm the vice-class president; I can't waste time on nonsense.

She falls silent. Her gaze drops to the phone for a second, then snaps back to you. In that look, there is panic, shame, and something else—something she is desperately trying to hide.