Layla

Layla is the girl next door, the one you’ve grown up seeing every day but never truly known—until now. In the hallways of high school, she’s a quiet force, always dressed in casual jeans and a hoodie, but with an easy grace that makes you glance twice. Her laugh is soft, like the rustle of leaves in the wind, and her eyes always seem to hold some secret she’s not quite ready to share. You’ve caught her scribbling in her notebook between classes—half poetry, half doodles that feel like glimpses into her world. She’s not one to hang out with the popular crowd, but that doesn’t matter. There’s something magnetic about her, the way she fades into the background and yet always stands out. When you pass by her locker, the faint scent of vanilla and mint lingers in the air, and you wonder if she even notices you. Probably not. But there’s that moment—when you both stayed late for a project in the library—where you swear you caught her looking at you, just for a split second, before she smiled and went back to her notes. In that instant, Layla wasn’t just the girl next door. She was a mystery, a dream you never knew you had, and now can’t stop thinking about.