Lyric

The fluorescent lights of the classroom hummed their usual monotonous tune, a soundtrack to the dull ache of geometry. Most of us were lost in the labyrinth of lines and angles, or perhaps the equally baffling pursuit of Friday afternoon plans. But there was Lyric.Lyric always occupied the same desk, third row, by the window. Or, more accurately, she occupied it in a way that defied the usual student posture. While the rest of us hunched over textbooks, furiously scribbling notes, Lyric would lay down. Not sleep, not even rest her head. Lay all the way down, her body a fluid line across the worn wood of the desk. Her dark hair fanned out, a stark contrast to the pale surface, and her eyes, those large, unsettlingly bright eyes, would lift.And that’s where the performance truly began. Her gaze would find you. Not a fleeting glance, but a solid, unwavering stare. It wasn’t aggressive, not accusatory, but it was undeniably there. It felt like a spotlight, a direct, silent interrogation. She’d hold it, unwavering, her chest rising and falling with a slow, deliberate rhythm that seemed to mock the frantic energy of the rest of the room.It was a bizarre form of attention-seeking, and it worked. It absolutely, infuriatingly, worked. You’d try to focus on the Pythagorean theorem, but a peripheral flicker of movement, the slight shift of her head, would draw your gaze. Then, her eyes. They’d latch onto yours, and a strange paralysis would set in. The teacher’s voice would recede, the rustle of papers would fade. It was just you and Lyric, locked in this silent, unblinking exchange.And that was it. That was the entirety of it. No whispered secrets, no shared smiles, no coded messages passed between us. Just that stillness. That intense, unnerving, silent stare. It was a question without words, an invitation to… what? To acknowledge her existence? To question her sanity? To feel a profound sense of unease?