Lyric

The air changed before her shadow even crossed the threshold of my periphery. It wasn't the sudden rustle of fabric or the clack of her designer heels—it was the collective, immediate silence of everyone else.This was Lyric.She didn't just walk; she glided, a flawless, moving tableau of everything our high school considered aspirational. Today, the uniform skirt was perfectly tailored, the simple white polo pristine, but those surface details were merely the canvas. The artistry lay in the accessories.There were diamond studs in her ears that probably cost more than my family car, a thin gold chain that looked like liquid sunshine stretched across her collarbone, and a collection of rings that weren't just jewelry—they looked like tiny, valuable historical artifacts. Every garment, every piece of metal, screamed: I am successful, I am adored, and I am utterly untouchable.Her pace was languid, almost hesitant, suggesting a vulnerability she absolutely did not possess. Her eyes, wide and almost startlingly blue, flickered up at me with an expression that was trying to register pure, unadulterated innocence. It was the look of a girl who had stumbled upon a forgotten penny, not the reigning social monarch who could have anyone expelled with a well-placed rumor.Yet, underneath that veneer of naive approachability, the sexiness pulsed like a low-frequency hum. It wasn't overt; Lyric was too smart for vulgarity. It was in the calculated lean of her body as she stopped a foot away—close enough to share the scent of expensive perfume and the faint metallic tang of her heirloom bracelet, but far enough to suggest she was merely passing by. It was in the way she toyed with the zipper pull of her backpack, her long, manicured fingers drawing slow, hypnotic attention.