The Veil of Glass

The Wallflower

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered slightly, casting a pale glow over the growled cafeteria. The constant buzz of chatter grated in her nerved, a cacophony of voices that blurred together.

Liora Ashford, sat alone at the far end of the cafeteria, nestled in her corner near the tall windows where the light barely touched. She liked it this way—isolated, unnoticed, free to observe without drawing attention. It suited her, blending into the background, just like the clothes she wore. Today, she was draped in a loose black sweater that hung over her small frame, the sleeves too long for her arms. Her hair-long, dark and unruly—cascaded over her shoulders, half—hiding her face. Sharp green eyes, the only vibrant thing about her, peeked out from her bangs as she scanned the room.

Liora wasn't the kind of girl people remembered. Not the type to stand out in a crowd. Most of the time, no one even realized she was there. She was used to that-being the wallflower. It gave her space to observe, to listen, to blend in until she was practically invisible. But Liora noticed everything. She had always been good at watching people from afar, taking in details that others missed. She could read the subtlest emotions in someone's eyes or the smallest twitch of their hand. And now, her attention was fixed on one person, just as it had been for exactly 3 months, 13 days and 7 hours

Azazel Morvane.

Even his name sent a shiver down her spine.

He was sitting with a group of boys on the other side of the cafeteria, leaning back in his chair with a lazy smile on his face. Azazel wasn't loud or brash like others, but he had a way of drawing attention without even trying. His dark hair, carelessly tousled, always seem to fall just into his eyes, though it never seemed to bother him. He had an angular jaw, sharp cheekbones, and an almost regal air to him that set him apart. His eyes—Liora had spent hours imagining, their exact shade, a dark stormy gray— seemed distant, like they were always somewhere else, like he was looking past everything around him.

Azazel wasn't the life of a party or main character in anyone's story. He wasn't the loudest or the most outspoken, but everyone knew who he was. He had this quiet charisma, an aura  that drew people to him without effort, like gravity. His movements were always controlled, deliberate, almost as if he existed in a world of his own, untouched by the chaos around him.

Liora watched him as he laughed at something one of his friend said, his lips curling into that easy, relaxed smile he always wore. He never seemed to notice her. No one did.

But she noticed him.

She noticed the way he tapped his fingers in the table when he was bored, the way his eyes would glaze over when he wasn't interested in a conversation. She knew the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly when he was irritated , the way he ran his hand through his hair when he was in deep in thought. She had memorised these details, replying them in her mind over and over again, feeding into her fantasies that consumed her.

Her heart beat faster as she imagined herself in his presence. In her mind, she wasn't the shy, quiet girl sitting alone in the corner. She was bold, daring—close enough to reach out and touch him, to run her fingers through his hair, to press her lips against his neck and whisper dark, unspeakable things in his ear.

Sometimes, when she was alone, she would close her eyes and let the fantasies take over. She imagined how it would feel to press herself against him, to hold him captive in her arms—his body rigid under her control. She'd trace her fingers along the curve of his jaw, revealing in the power she would finally have over him, the control that had slipped from her grasp in reality but hers in the secret corner of her mind.

Liora didn't want to just watch him anymore. No, watching wasn't enough. She wanted more—she wanted to own him, to possess him in a way no one else ever could. To carve her name into his skin with a sharp knife or a blade, her presence into tattooed in his mind until there was no room for anyone but her. She could picture him tied up, vulnerable, at her mercy, his breath shallow as he finally understood that no one could ever love him the way she did.

Her lips carved into a smile at the thought, but it wasn't a sweet, innocent smile. It was dark, laced with twisted desires that had grown more twisted over time. She thought about how easy it would be to—just a few moments alone with him.

Her fingers itched to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin under his hand, but more than that —to mark him. To leave traces of herself behind so that when he worked up, he'd know she had been there, lingering like a shadow he couldn't shake. Maybe she'd steal something—a lock of his hair, a piece of his clothing —anything that would bring her closer to the version of him she had built in her mind. Or maybe, she'd just stand there, staring, taking in every inch of him, committing him to memory like she'd done a thousand times before.

The thought of him waking up, catching her in the act, only made her heart race faster.

"What would he do?"

"Would he be scared, angry?"

"Or would he finally understand —finally see how deep I am in him and how deep I want him to be in me" -how her obsession was the purest, most intense thing he'd ever know?

Liora stood, slipping her book into her bag as the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. She moved slowly, careful to avoid the crowd that had begun pouring out of the cafeteria. Her eyes darted toward him, always finding him with ease—Azazel, seated a few tables away, completely oblivious to her gaze. She slung her bag over her shoulder, her footsteps soft, her heartbeat louder than the fading noise around her. Just as she approached the door, she saw him move from the corner of her eye. He bent over to grab something from his bag, and her breath hitched. For the briefest moment, she walked past him, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against the bare skin of her legs. The faintest touch of his presence sent a shiver through her body, making her knees weak. It was nothing—just the tiniest brush of air—but it was enough to leave her trembling.

Her fingers traced the rough surface of the door as she pushed it open, grounding her in the noise and chaos that surrounded her. But she didn't care about any of it—not the laughter, not the teachers, not the endless teenage dramas. Her focus was elsewhere—always elsewhere.

For now, she was just a ghost, drifting through the halls unnoticed.

Azazel, she thought about him once again and smiled, had no idea she existed. Or atleast, that's what she told herself.