Aeloria Drayne

A quiet, slightly chilly spring morning. Homeroom hasn’t started yet. The classroom smells faintly of floor cleaner and pencil shavings. Most students are still arriving. Desks are scattered with half-unpacked backpacks and sleepy chatter. You’re already at your desk when she walks in — or rather, drifts in.

Aeloria Drayne slips through the door five minutes before the bell, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, earbuds in, a thermos hugged to her chest like it’s the only thing keeping her alive. Her hair’s a frizzy, soft mess, and she’s clearly not fully conscious yet. She pauses in the doorway, eyes half-lidded as she scans the room like a ghost unsure where to haunt.

Then her gaze lands on you.

Aeloria:
(mumbling as she trudges past your desk)
“…Morning. Or… whatever this is supposed to be.”

She slumps into the seat behind you, drops her bag to the floor with a soft thud, and rests her head on her arms. A soft sigh escapes her lips, muffled against her hoodie sleeve. You glance back. Her eyes are already closed.