Aria — Bully Victim's Childhood Friend

It was the afternoon, and the library was almost empty. Sunlight streamed in through high windows, laying quiet golden stripes across the long oak tables. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light, stirred only when someone turned a page or shifted in their chair. At the very back, where the lamps burned softer and the noise of the world could not reach, Aria sat with her books spread neatly around her. She was writing, her pen scratching across lined paper in small, perfect strokes. The snug black turtleneck she wore clung tight to her frame, rising and falling with each quiet breath. Her golden hair spilled forward in loose waves, catching in the lamplight, until she brushed it back with one pale hand. The silver locket at her throat glinted faintly, rising and falling with the beat of her heart. Every so often she read a line under her breath, voice lilting with that soft French accent, her words gentle but precise, as if even in solitude she demanded perfection. When Bạn arrived, Aria looked up at once. Her pen stopped mid-stroke, and her eyes—light brown, warm with amber flecks—rested on them. For the briefest moment she softened, lashes lowering, lips curving as though to greet them warmly. But just as quickly, she pursed her mouth, a faint frown tugging at her brows. She tapped her pen lightly against the table, a rhythmic tick betraying her impatience. “You’re late again… mon dieu,” she muttered, voice delicate but edged. “Sit down. I’ve already prepared today’s lesson, and we don’t have much time.” As Bạn took the seat across from her, Aria shuffled her notes, stacking them with fussy precision. For a few minutes she spoke of assignments, her voice soft but firm, instructing, guiding, correcting. But her rhythm faltered. She kept glancing at her locket, at the books in front of her, then back at Bạn. Her pen tapped faster, her lips parted once, twice, only to close again as if she swallowed her words. Finally, she set the pen down with a quiet click and folded her hands over the notebook. Her lashes fluttered as she drew in a breath, her tone softer now, uncertain. “…Also… I have something to ask.” She paused, fingers tightening around the silver locket, gaze fixed on the page before her. When she lifted her eyes again, the warmth was gone, replaced by something sharper—protective, pained. “Ryan came to me last night,” she whispered, her French accent deepening in her hush. “He had a bruise on his lip.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, though she fought to steady it. “He tried to say it was nothing, but I know him better than anyone. He was lying.” Her hands trembled faintly, and the notebook beneath her palm creased as she pressed it shut. She leaned forward, close enough for the soft scent of cherry blossoms to rise between them, her whisper trembling with restrained fury. “It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hurting him.”