I pull my Range Rover into the parking lot, the tires humming over the asphalt as I slide effortlessly into a spot near the front. The moment my car comes to a stop, heads begin to turn.
I smirk.
It doesn't take much for the new girl to make an entrance.
With practiced ease, I swing the door open and step out, tossing my backpack over one shoulder. My sunglasses remain in place, masking my eyes from both the overcast sky and the curious gazes of the students around me. I can already feel the weight of their scrutiny, but I'm not concerned. Not yet, anyway.
I need to slip into the restroom before class starts—my contacts are already starting to degrade from the venom, and the last thing I want is to terrify the locals with my blood-red irises.
As I walk, I catch the gawking expressions of teenage boys. Their jaws go slack, their bodies twist awkwardly to get a second look as I pass.
Predictable.
I let my hips sway just a little more, slowing my stride to savor their attention. Confidence isn't something you wear—it's something you command.
Is this high school or a runway? Hard to tell. But I don't mind the attention.
No one stops me as I move through the hallway, though I can almost feel their eyes boring into my back. Whether that's due to intimidation, jealousy, or simple awe, I'm not sure. Probably a mix of all three.
I don't linger, though. I have more important things to do.
When I step into the front office, my expression softens, morphing into something more approachable, more polite. Ms. Cope, the secretary, looks up. Her smile is warm, but distracted.
"Oh, you want to adjust your schedule?" she asks, her voice tinged with concern as she eyes the already full roster. "That might be tricky—"
I lean in slightly, offering her my best polite-but-persuasive smile. "I'd really appreciate it. It would help me settle in so much faster."
The pause stretches, and for a moment, I think she might refuse. But then, the hesitation crumbles.
"Well… I suppose I could make an exception," she says after a beat.
"You're a lifesaver," I say smoothly, my gratitude laced with just the right amount of charm.
She doesn't realize it yet, but she's just ensured that Isabella Swan and I will be practically inseparable—first period to seventh.
Perfect.
I walk into first period, and that's when I see her.
Isabella Swan.
She's seated alone in the back of the classroom, her posture slumped as if the weight of the world is pressing her down. Her brown hair is a tangled mess, thrown back into a careless ponytail with a few strands slipping loose around her face. Her t-shirt is faded and stretched out at the collar, and her sweatpants hang off her like they belong to someone else—someone bigger, someone who hasn't wasted away.
She is unnaturally thin.
Her skin is pale—not the porcelain kind that comes with my existence, but the kind that comes from someone who's been hollowed out, piece by piece. Her eyes are sunken, rimmed with exhaustion, the dark circles beneath them deep enough to swallow the light.
She is fading.
As I step inside, my gift stirs beneath my skin, seeking the pulse of energy in the room. It's instinct now—automatic, like breathing.
Most of the emotions in the classroom are light and unremarkable—the scattered buzz of teenage excitement, boredom, and the occasional flicker of attraction. It's all static. It doesn't matter.
But hers—
Isabella's energy is different.
Where others hum with life, hers is… hollow. It's like an empty house where the lights have been turned off and no one is home. I focus, stretching out my awareness, and the tightness in my stomach intensifies.
She is barely holding on.
Her grief clings to her like smoke, thick and suffocating. It weaves itself into her very being, settled beneath her skin, a constant weight she carries without anyone knowing. She doesn't just feel sadness—she is sadness. It's stitched into her existence.
And yet, underneath it all, buried so deep I almost miss it, I sense something else. Something so faint it's almost imperceptible.
Recognition.
She knows what I am.
Not in the way others do—driven by that subconscious fear that warns humans to avoid the unnatural. No. She knows. But she doesn't react. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't gasp. Doesn't stare.
She simply… exists.
Empty.
It takes me less than a second to absorb the weight of her pain before I force myself to look away and scan the rest of the classroom. The contrast is jarring. The other students are buzzing with life, energetic, talking and laughing, but Isabella Swan remains the dead space between them.
I approach the teacher's desk, slipping into my new role with practiced ease.
"You must be Clara," he says, glancing at the roster. "Go ahead and take a seat by—"
"Anywhere is fine," I interrupt with a smile that's just a touch too smooth. He nods absently, gesturing toward a desk near the back.
A few students glance at me as I move, some sneaking a second look, a boy with an unfortunate acne situation leaning toward his friend.
"Damn. She's—"
I shift my gaze toward him, meeting his eyes briefly. His face turns bright red, and I suppress a small smirk. Too easy.
I make my way to my seat, taking my time to set my bag down with deliberate slowness.
She doesn't look at me.
Not once.
But I feel her, like a weight in the air between us. Her pain bleeds through the space, seeping into the atmosphere, suffocating.
I don't know how much of her I can absorb without losing myself in it, but I do know one thing.
She is breaking.
The rest of the morning drags on, the occasional whispers and stares, the overly eager greetings from classmates who won't matter tomorrow. Everyone is buzzing with excitement about the new girl, but my focus remains fixed on only one person.
Isabella Swan.
She keeps to herself, isolated in every sense of the word. Silent. Withdrawn. It's like she's disappeared into herself, and no one seems to care enough to reach her.
I've been there. Where the only ones left to hold you together are the ones who truly understand.
The lunch bell rings, cutting through my thoughts. I exhale sharply, my stomach tight with tension.
Luka thought it would be funny to pack me a "lunch." I'd been irritated when I saw him stuffing the cooler into my backseat this morning, but now, as I feel the pressure mounting inside me, I find myself grateful. I need the distraction.
He knew I would need it.
I step outside, the cool air brushing against my skin. The sky is gray, heavy with clouds, casting everything in dull light. I'm halfway to my car when I hear a voice behind me.
"Hey! Claralise! Wait up!"
I consider ignoring her, pretending I didn't hear, but I can't. It would be too obvious. With a sigh, I turn.
A petite girl with light brown hair and far too much enthusiasm bounces toward me, a wide grin on her face.
"Yes?" I ask, my voice neutral.
She practically bursts with excitement. "I'm Jessica! Do you want to sit with us at lunch? Where are you from? Everyone's been talking about you, but no one's had a chance to meet you yet! I felt like I had to be the first! It's not every day we get someone like you here. And you drive a Range Rover?! That's, like, ridiculously cool. Do you—"
I zone out, only half-listening as she prattles on. She talks about how dull Forks is, how everyone is desperate for gossip, and how she just has to know everything about me.
Then, her words shift, and a name cuts through the noise.
"And everyone knows Bella could use a new friend. She's been hurting so bad since her boyfriend broke up with her. All of us knew it wouldn't last, but she really thought he loved her. I mean, how could he?"
My attention snaps back to her.
"Excuse me?" My voice sharpens without meaning to.
The girl barely notices. "Oh yeah, it's been months, and she's still acting like it just happened. It's kind of pathetic, honestly. I mean, come on. He ditched her and ran off, and now she's just... a ghost. Doesn't talk to anyone. Doesn't eat. It's like she's not even here half the time."
I feel my irritation flare.
I don't like the way she says it—so smug, so self-satisfied. The casual disregard, the total lack of empathy.
"Will Bella be sitting with you?" I ask, my tone colder now.
The girl blinks, taken aback. "Probably not. She hasn't sat with us since she started dating Edward. She was too good for us after that. And now… I don't even think she speaks."
"In that case, thank you for the offer, but no thanks."
Her mouth opens slightly, but she doesn't get the chance to sputter out whatever feigned offense she's about to make. I turn on my heel, walking toward my car without another word.
The parking lot is mostly empty now, save for a few lingering students. I pull open the door of my Range Rover and slip inside, grateful for the privacy.
Luka's cooler is waiting for me on the passenger seat. I huff a small laugh, shaking my head as I pull it onto my lap.
Inside, nestled in ice packs, are two sleek black tumblers. I unscrew the lid of one, inhaling the metallic scent that fills my nostrils. The blood inside is cold, but it will do.
I take a slow, deliberate sip. It's not fresh, but it's enough to calm the tension coiling in my chest.
I drain the first tumbler quickly, my body craving more. Just as I reach for the second, something catches my eye—a folded napkin wedged between the tumblers.
I pull it out, unfolding it carefully, and the familiar, messy handwriting makes me exhale a soft laugh.
Don't kill anyone on your first day. Even if they deserve it.
p.s. You can save her if you want. But don't forget—someone had to save you, too. She's not your responsibility, but you are mine.
A wry smile tugs at my lips as I read the note again. Damn him.
I fold it carefully and tuck it into the center console, though I know it won't stop the words from echoing in my head.
Sighing, I reach for the second tumbler, letting the cold liquid slip down my throat. It doesn't ground me, but I welcome the distraction.
I can't help but wonder—am I here to help Isabella Swan? Or am I here to tell her the truth—that some wounds don't heal? That some people never come back from the hollow spaces inside them?
With a final breath, I grab my things and leave the car, my feet carrying me back into the flow of the school. The weight of the world presses down once again.
Inside the cafeteria, I spot her almost immediately.
Isabella Swan sits alone.
She isn't eating. She isn't talking. She's just staring off into space, lost to some invisible world.
I know that look.
I've worn it before. I probably still do.
A kind of emptiness that doesn't just exist—it consumes.
I force down the strange weight pressing against my ribs and take a steadying breath. Then, tray in hand, I cross the room toward her table.
I set my tray down easily, the clatter of plastic against the table cutting through the dull murmur of the lunchroom. I lean toward her, drawing in a breath, ready to make my presence known.
"Hello. I'm Claralise Thorne. You must be Isabella."
I say her full name on purpose, the slight pause in between meant to draw her attention, to prompt her to correct me, to engage.
But she doesn't.
I keep going, my voice steady but laced with something sharper underneath. "I just moved to the area with my older brother and sister. My parents passed away in a fire."
I watch her face closely, looking for any reaction. It's subtle—barely a flicker—but I catch it. The faintest trace of recognition, maybe a question. But just as quickly, the emotion fades, vanishing faster than any human could notice. And then, it's back to that empty mask she wears.
I press on, pushing through the silence. "I've been told you're somewhat new to the area as well. How long ago did you move here?"
Her response doesn't come immediately. The silence between us stretches out, her stillness heavier with each passing second. What I had hoped would be a simple question turns into a void. I can feel it—the tension of waiting for her to speak, for some hint of acknowledgement.
But it doesn't come.
I sigh softly, leaning back in my chair. This is going to be more difficult than I anticipated.