The frustration was a dull, cold weight in his chest. The memory from yesterday played on a loop: the pitying glances from some classmates, the muffled snickers from others—not quite cruel, but enough to make him feel utterly pathetic. "Dude, still no one?" a "friend" had asked, clapping him on the shoulder with a mixture of mock sympathy. The search for a prom date had hit a dead end, and the social currency of his dignity was plummeting fast.
Sitting in the nearly empty classroom after the final bell, the silence felt louder than the laughter. He needed a solution, any solution, that wasn't complete social surrender. His gaze, wandering in search of an answer he knew wasn't on the ceiling tiles, drifted listlessly across the room until it snagged on a figure in the far corner.
There, by the window where the afternoon light was already dying, sat Luna. Her jet-black hair with its blunt bangs fell over one eye as she stared out at the empty football field, her expression one of profound, practiced boredom. Dressed in all black, with silver glinting at her ears and nose, she looked completely detached from the world of promposals and social panic that consumed everyone else. A small, intricate tattoo of a cat was just visible on her ankle. She was the absolute antithesis of everything the prom represented. She hadn't even seemed to notice his stare.
A reckless, desperate thought formed. She was, technically, a classmate. She was, technically, someone. And she clearly didn't care about any of this. Which meant she might not care enough to publicly humiliate him either. But approaching Luna was a different kind of gamble. It wasn't about charm or popularity; it was about navigating a minefield of cynicism and deliberate disinterest.
Did he dare? Was the potential escape from humiliation worth the certain awkwardness and probable rejection?
She slowly turned her head from the window, her vivid green eyes landing on him with the energy of someone looking at a mildly interesting stain on the wall. She didn't speak, just arched one eyebrow slightly, as if waiting for him to state his business or vanish. Her posture remained a study in slouched indifference. What are You going to do, você?
