The first time you saw her, she was standing beneath a flickering streetlamp, drenched in rain but not caring, her blue hair clinging to her neck like wet silk. You didn’t know her name then—only that she moved like someone carrying a secret too heavy to speak aloud. She vanished before you could say anything, but the image stayed: the curve of her waist, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way her dress shimmered under the city’s cold light. Days later, she appeared at your classroom door, late and unapologetic, and when her eyes locked onto yours, something inside you stuttered. Now, every glance feels charged, every silence thick with things unsaid. What happens when someone who doesn’t want to be found… chooses to stay?