1. Nessa

The morning light sneaks through my curtains, a reluctant ally in starting the day. It's a subtle nudge, not unlike my own approach to life here at Silverbrook University—present but not overpowering. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, allowing myself a moment of calm before facing the world. It's a luxury, this quiet solitude, a chance to just be me, Nessa, without the labels or expectations that have dogged me all my life.

Here, I'm not "the deaf girl." I'm just another student trying to carve out a place for myself on this sprawling campus. It's strange, but I don't mind being deaf—not as much as I used to, anyway. It's become a part of who I am, a part I've learned to embrace, but I don't want that to be my descriptive like it was back home in California. I don't want people to see the disability before seeing me. I'm not ashamed of it; I just want people to see beyond that—I'm so much more than my deafness. I'm so much more.

I sigh, roll out of bed and stand in front of the mirror, looking at my reflection, singing to myself in the mirror, a habit that's become second nature. It's a reminder of how I've come to terms with the silence that envelops my world, a silence that once felt like a cage but now feels more like an old, familiar friend. And then I smile; I like the woman I'm becoming, even if she's a far cry from the version I was and imagined I would be at thirteen.

Gone are the days of blending in. Since thirteen, I've ditched the norm for an edgier look that screams "Nessa" more than any polite pastel ever could. My transformation began at fifteen—I remember standing defiantly in front of my parents, their expressions of shock and disapproval as I dyed my hair purple for the first time. It was my silent rebellion, a visual scream against their expectations. I realized that I would always be a disappointment in my parents' eyes. It was strangely liberating, deciding to live up to my own image, making it my mission to defy their expectations.

Today's reflection is a bold statement of the person I've become. My waist-long hair, a striking blend of silver and purple, is woven into an intricate plait, falling over one shoulder. I take extra care with my makeup, applying a dramatic smoky eyeshadow that makes my baby-blue eyes stand out starkly, contrasted with bold red lips. This look, combined with my black-and-purple corset dress, leather choker, and metal-toed, chain-laced, knee-high boots, is a far cry from the girl who once wore pastels and conformed to expectations.

At five foot ten, I've always been relatively tall, but in my heels, I stand at an imposing height. In the crowded corridors of Silverbrook, I am known as the tall goth—a label I wear with a sense of pride. It's a welcome change from the pitying labels of the past, the "poor deaf ex-ballerina who spiraled downward." That girl is a ghost; I am the phoenix risen from her ashes.

Stepping into the living room of our shared apartment, I'm greeted by the familiar sights of Poppy and Eva, my roommates and fellow Phoenix Rising Scholarship awardees. Our trio couldn't be more different, a tapestry of contrasting styles and personalities.

Eva exudes an air of quiet sophistication reminiscent of an old-world librarian with a modern twist. She prefers the comfort of knitted cardigans, pairing them with long, flowy skirts that accentuate her short, curvy frame. Her hair, a sleek black mane, is often pulled back into a simple, neat ponytail. Her complexion, pale and porcelain-like, gives her an almost ethereal Snow White quality. Despite being only nineteen, Eva radiates a warmth, maturity, and a nurturing aura that I know would make her my go-to for comfort and advice.

Poppy, on the other hand, is the epitome of fiery energy. Standing at a similar height to Eva, she makes up for her stature with a presence that's hard to ignore. Her hair, a cascade of short, curly locks, bounces with every movement, complementing her lively personality. She's often dressed in form-fitting skinny jeans, a casual Henley, and comfortable sneakers—attire that's ready for action at any moment. It's her eyes, though, deep brown and burning with an intense fire, that truly defines her. They speak of a fierce spirit and an unyielding determination. She's the kind of person you'd want by your side in a fight, not just for her strength but for the unwavering loyalty that shines through her gaze.

We are, after all, the inaugural recipients of the scholarship, each of us given this chance at redemption and a new beginning. The details of our pasts remain unspoken, but they hang in the air like silent ghosts, waiting for the moment when we're ready to share.

I find myself often pondering the twisted path that led me here. The road to Silverbrook wasn't lined with the typical laurels of academic success but was, instead, a winding path marked by missteps and hard lessons learned. The DUI at Lily's wedding was the final straw, the act that landed me in juvenile detention for four long months. It was more than just a mistake; it was a glaring, public declaration of my rebellion, my pain, and my family's indifference.

That day in court, when the judge presented my parents with a choice—take responsibility for their daughter or let her face the consequences alone—they chose the latter. The courtroom felt ice cold as my parents uttered the word "detention," their faces devoid of hesitation. It was a bitter pill, served cold by the two people who were supposed to have my back. It was a stark revelation of their lack of support, their unwillingness to claim me as their own. In their eyes, I was the problem child, the misfit, the daughter who strayed too far from the path they had envisioned.

Now, here at Silverbrook, under the umbrella of a scholarship meant for those needing a second chance, I'm trying to rewrite my story. But the scars of the past, the feeling of being unclaimed and unwanted by the very people who were supposed to love me unconditionally, remain etched in my heart.

As I look at Eva and Poppy, I wonder about their stories and the circumstances that brought them here. We haven't delved into those chapters yet, but I sense a similar thread of struggle and resilience in them. In our own ways, we're all seeking redemption, a way to rise from the ashes of our past mistakes and forge a future where we define ourselves, not by our darkest moments, but by our strength to overcome them.

"Why are you girls ready to go at this ungodly hour?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

Poppy looks up, her eyebrow arching in amusement. "It's ten a.m., Nessa."

"Exactly my point," I retort, feigning exasperation.

"We're going to scout the campus to find our classrooms, want to join?" Eva asks, her words practical yet inviting.

I scoff lightly. "To find classrooms? Absolutely not. But I'll wait for you at the café. I need caffeine, sugar, and the opportunity to scare the villagers."

We stroll through the bustling campus, each step toward the coffee shop punctuated by the vibrant life around us. The rhythm of my boots on the pavement sends a series of vibrations through the ground, felt as subtle pulses of the day"s energy.

As we walk, I'm acutely aware of the looks we draw. Some are curious, others slightly uneasy—a reaction I've grown accustomed to. It's the price of standing out, of defying norms with my gothic attire and striking hair. I meet their gazes boldly, unapologetically, a silent challenge in my eyes. Most avert their eyes, discomforted, which only fuels my sense of rebellious pride.

"Try not to get lost, overanxious grandmas," I call over my shoulder, unable to suppress the smirk in my voice as we reach the coffee shop.

Poppy, quick with a retort, grins broadly. "Just don't scare all the baristas away, Wednesday Addams."

The café door closes behind them, leaving me enveloped in the warm, aromatic embrace of the coffee shop. I take a moment to breathe in the scent of roasted beans and freshly baked pastries before ordering my usual caramel latte. Settling into a corner, I scan the café before delving into my bag and pulling out a pair of large headphones. They're more than a fashion statement or a barrier against the world; they're a shield to hide my deafness. With these on, people assume I'm just lost in music, not that I'm unable to hear them. It's a little trick I've picked up to avoid the awkward explanations and the pitying looks. I'm in my own little cocoon, observant yet detached. That sense of isolation shatters momentarily when he walks in. Well, hello, unexpected hotness. Mr. Posh Biker over there is throwing a curveball in my usual "don't care" morning vibe. Light-brown hair styled in a preppy side part contrasts with the rugged leather jacket and tight-fitting Henley. His designer jeans seemed tailored to complement his frame, highlighting powerful thighs and a rock-hard ass.

As he turns toward me, I'm struck by his face—those glasses with thick black frames have no right to look so good on him. Our eyes lock for a fleeting second, sending a jolt through my heart. But then he looks away, breaking the connection. I'm left frowning, a familiar sting of being disregarded washing over me. Sure, I've been ignored before, but there's something about him doing it that rankles me more than it should.

I take a casual sip of my latte, still watching him. He's got an air of mystery, and I find myself curious despite my better judgment. For now, I'm just the tall goth in the corner with her coffee, watching everything unfold.

I told myself no boys and no drama this year. But looking at him, I think I might just make an exception.