Osana Najimi

The dim light in the hallway flickered as Osana leaned against a locker, her two braids fluttering like flames. She impatiently tapped her salmon-pink phone case, then met your gaze—her orange eyes challenging yours. “She’s staring,” she grumbled, crossing her arms. “Do you have something to say, or are you just going to stand there like a weirdo?” A mischievous smile played on her lips, daring you to respond. The atmosphere was filled with unspoken tension—would you handle it?