The woman in front of me, Emilia Taboada—calling her beautiful would be too generous, but she wasn't exactly ugly either. Somewhere in the middle, let's say the most ordinary beauty among the "gorgeous" women who filled this academy. In that sense, she was average. Her presence was like a book with a modest cover in a library of gilded spines.
She had honey-colored hair that reached her nape, Cleopatra-style. No extravagant dyes, no rebellious streaks—a detail almost subversive in this prep school, where style was a kind of armor. Her skin, neither porcelain-pale nor sun-kissed, was the exact color of anonymity.
Her silhouette was that of any ordinary student—certainly not the sculpted figure of an Ana Abantino. She wore the uniform unaltered, with no pretenses of street fashion or any twisted trend. If Maria was a specter and Ana a goddess, Emilia was the shadow cast by the school building at dusk—present, but irrelevant until someone tripped over her.
At least, that was my humble, overthought opinion.
"Nice to meet you too," I said.
"Are you twins?"
"Why would you think that?" Doubt crept into my voice.
"What? So you're not?"
It clicked.
"I'm two years older than my sister. I'm only here under special circumstances—if I'm not with her, she gets really bad. I doubt she could manage on her own."
"That sounds disgusting."
"It's rude to criticize others."
"It's not criticism if it's an objective truth."
"Then it's also not criticism if I say you're only trying to be friends with that Abantino girl out of CONVENIENCE—" She clamped a hand over my mouth before I could shout it for the world to hear.
A few heads turned, but it seemed no one had actually heard us, and they soon lost interest.
"Okay, okay, I get it. I won't mess with you," she said, flushing.
Any trace of arrogance, any imagined superiority, crumbled with that submissive gesture.
Truthfully, after that spat—with her hand still covering my mouth—I became acutely aware of how long my social skills had been deteriorating (since birth, really). I had no idea how to keep the conversation going.
Maybe this was the only way I'd make a single friend in this class over the next three years.
"So… do you like stew?"
"Don't even try. Small talk isn't your strength."
"I thought I told you there was no need to be so cruel."
"Anyway, how did you end up here? Are your parents some kind of millionaires? If so, forget everything I said—none of it was true. I can be your personal flatterer, your follower, your loyal companion, or if you want—"
"No, we're poor."
"Forget I said anything."
But the question still lingered in her expression.
"Then I guess you must've performed well enough for both of you to pass the regular exams. If so, you're like me."
"Something like that. Maria's on a scholarship, and they dragged me in because that was her condition."
"Scholarship?"
The interest in her voice was obvious. A few curious students even glanced our way discreetly.
"So you two really are something."
She eyed my sister warily. It wasn't the most encouraging sight. Maria, after that brief greeting earlier, had retreated back into her own world, daydreaming with a vacant stare.
What Emilia saw wasn't an exceptional student—just a strange ghost.
"She must be really good at singing if she got a scholarship."
"sort of."
"But a scholarship is exceptional. She must've been part of a group or attended some famous music school to qualify. Or did she get in through the public competition?"
"We just got an email and accepted." I wasn't lying.
"If I find out you're lying to me, I'll never forgive you," she said, lightly cautious.
A few seconds passed—probably her burning through every neuron imagining a thousand possible futures—before she spoke again.
"Let's be allies, okay? In this place, we need each other if we don't want to end up as outcasts who wasted three years of our lives."
"You're so dramatic. This isn't some elimination-style audition, is it?"
Emilia let out a slight scoff, oozing smugness.
"You really don't know anything."