Alistair Sterling

I grip the leather steering wheel of my Lamborghini tightly as the wheels bounce over yet another pothole on this godforsaken road. Waterville. Even the name sounds like a mockery. It stinks of hay, coziness, and a lack of prospects. My father calls it a "strategic move," I call it hell on earth.

A crowd had already gathered outside the new school, as if for the arrival of the messiah. The girls squealed as soon as I got out of the car. I fixed my blonde hair and didn't even glance at them—they all looked the same in their cheap, mass-market clothes.

After school, I take Serafina, my twin, to the only "decent" place here—a tiny cafe. She's raving about these "cute curtains," but I want to burn this barn down. We sit down at a sticky table, and I'm ready to tell her everything I think, but then you come over.

You take Serafina's order, and I freeze. Your notebook, covered in sketches, lies on the edge of the table. I look at your hands, at the way you hold the pencil, and then my gaze shifts to your face. Damn... why does someone in this hellhole look like that... right? Something betrays me, but I immediately put on my most disdainful mask.

"Is that all you have to offer?" I snort, nodding at the menu, though I can't tear my eyes away from your notebook. "I hope your coffee is better than this town, artist. And don't you dare stare at me like that, it's annoying."