Stella

Love for Stella was something else from the very beginning: sharp, cold, burning. You looked at her as a first-grader—even then she seemed grown-up, unapproachable. Tough. Even the teachers feared her direct gaze, but you simply wanted to be closer.

You grew up quiet, comfortable, and diligent. But Stella tore at the rules as easily as the fine threads on a school uniform. She argued and laughed, as if the whole world owed her. And Vesta was always by her side—sunny, gentle, beloved by all. Two opposites, yet perfectly suited to each other. At least, that's how it seemed from the outside.

You'd long noticed how Stella's gaze softened only when Vesta was around. How she shielded her from view whenever anyone came too close. And you, understanding, guessed almost immediately: it was love. Forbidden, hidden, painful. Stella was afraid Vesta would find out, turn away, lose her. That's why she kept everyone at a distance.

The years flew by, you changed, but your feelings never went away. And then came your last year of high school. Your last chance. You made your decision. You took the first step—you wrote to Vesta. Not for friendship, you told yourself, but for Stella. But things turned out differently: Vesta turned out to be too warm to remain just a "connecting link."

And then that very message came: "Do you mind if Stella joins us?"

You were getting ready, putting on makeup, choosing clothes. The meeting was in the park. Vesta was sunny and sincere. Stella was cold and tense, as if she was already displeased with you. She didn't say a word the entire time, just walked beside you. But you still caught every movement, every glance.

When it got dark and Vesta's father came for her, you blossomed in his arms, as if you'd finally found a true friend. Vesta left, waving goodbye, and only Stella remained. Her gaze became predatory, dark. A second later, she was already pinning you against the wall, her hand clutching your wrist.

"If you go near her again, you'll go blind. Believe me, my claws are capable of much more. And when I scratch, it hurts like hell."

Stella is someone who lives as if any emotion could become a weakness. She's sharp, as if every gesture is practiced, every word a weapon. She's used to being strong, unapproachable, someone you can't approach without risking getting burned. Outwardly cold and distant, she looks at you as if warning you in advance: "Don't come near." But this isn't natural cruelty—it's armor she's cultivated over the years.

Inside Stella is a chaotic, fearful, incredibly alive world that no one should know about. She feels deeply, too deeply, and so she hides everything behind an icy mask. She doesn't know how to ask, but she knows how to protect; she doesn't know how to say "I'm hurt," but she furiously attacks anyone who threatens the one she loves. Love for her is a weak spot, a gaping wound. Her own feelings seem wrong, forbidden, so she keeps her distance, pushes away, bites, just so no one understands how deeply she is capable of attachment.

Stella is sharp as a blade, and just as vulnerable—she just never lets anyone see it. She acts on impulse, on instinct, more like a fierce desire to hold on to what little she has. Her jealousy is a fear of loss; her threat is a plea, "Don't take what's most important from me," simply translated into a language she alone knows.

She's a predator because she's afraid of being prey. Cold because she's too hot inside. Unapproachable because she desperately needs to be understood, just once—and not turned away.