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Eden Academy’s eighth-grade class was under siege—not by any external force, but by the dark, oppressive cloud surrounding one of its most prominent students. At fourteen, Damian Desmond had always carried himself with an air of superiority, but now, something had shifted. He was a storm waiting to explode, his anger simmering just below the surface. His disheveled hair hung a bit longer than usual, and the deep, dark bags under his eyes gave him a brooding, almost monstrous look. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and his presence was suffocating.
“D-Damian… could I borrow your pencil sharpener?” Grace asked cautiously, her voice barely audible, as though speaking too loudly might set him off.
“Hmph. Use your own,” Damian growled, not even bothering to look up. His hand hovered over the paper, gripping his pencil tightly as he glared at the half-finished sketch in front of him. His frustration was bleeding onto the page— jagged, angry lines slashed across the paper, but it wasn’t art. It was the outward expression of the chaos in his mind.
Every movement, every word from those around him felt like an annoyance. They didn’t understand the pressure, the weight of everything he carried, and they couldn’t see how close he was to snapping.
Grace quickly backed away, her face pale as she avoided eye contact.
Across the room, Emile and Ewen watched the exchange nervously.
“He’s been like this all week,” Ewen whispered, his voice trembling. “I can’t take it anymore. Every time I talk to him, it feels like he’s going to explode.”
“Yeah,” Emile agreed. “Bossman’s usually tough, but this is different. It’s like he’s... on edge.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a loud voice from the back of the room. “Damian, are you done with the scissors yet?”
George Glooman marched up to Damian’s desk, completely unaware of the tension in the room. A collective gasp rippled through the class as everyone watched in horror.
Damian’s hand clenched around the scissors. Without even looking up, he tossed them onto the desk, the metal clattering against the wood. “Take them.”
George blinked, confused by the sharpness of Damian’s tone. “Uh, thanks... I guess.”
As George backed away, Becky Blackbell leaned back in her chair, watching the scene unfold with amusement. She wasn’t scared of Damian like the others were. If anything, she found his mood swings entertaining.
“You’re really making life hard for everyone, you know that?” she said casually, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
“Shut the hell up, Blackbell,” Damian growled, his eyes narrowing.
Becky smirked. “What’s got you so worked up? It wouldn’t have anything to do with Anya having the time of her life in Francian, would it?”
Damian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Becky was right, but he wasn’t about to admit that out loud.
She reached into her bag, pulling out a crisp white envelope and waving it in front of him. “Oh, by the way... this just arrived this morning. Air mail. Guess who it’s from?”
Damian’s eyes flicked to the envelope, his stomach knotting. He already knew. “I don’t care,” he muttered, looking away.
Becky grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh really? You don’t care that it’s from Anya? She says hi to everyone, you know. But if you’re not interested...”
In a flash, Damian snatched the envelope from her, ripping it open before she could say another word. He unfolded the letter with trembling hands, bracing himself for what he was about to read.
---
Salut Becky!
C’est tellement amusant ici en Francian! I’ve been here for just a few days, but it feels like forever. Yesterday, we saw the Eiffle Tower, and Arnold insisted we eat escargot. It’s disgusting, but he says it’s “très authentique.” Pfft.
Oh, and I got my new uniform at L’Académie Royale—Arnold said I looked “lovely.” Can you believe that? We’ve been taking tours, and everything here is so grand and fancy. L’Académie Royale is a little like Eden Academy but way more extravagant. The uniforms have these gold buttons, and some kids wear hats bigger than my head! It’s all very “impressive,” Arnold says. I dunno. I think it’s just... fancy.
The teachers have these thick accents, but I think I’m getting used to them. Honestly, I think my Francian’s getting better, too! I keep mixing it in without even noticing. Arnold keeps calling me “Froggy” because of how much I’ve been using Francian. I think it’s funny! Anyway, we have more sightseeing to do tomorrow. Can’t wait to tell you all about it.
Je dois y aller maintenant. Say hi to everyone! Au revoir!
Anya
---
Damian’s grip on the paper tightened. His eyes blazed over the parts about Arnold Crowley. “Froggy.” “Lovely.” Crowley had always used that ridiculous nickname, but hearing that Arnold had called her “lovely” in her new uniform made Damian’s blood boil. And worse, Anya found it all funny, giggling along as Arnold complimented her and made jokes.
He wouldn’t outwardly admit that Anya was always lovely no matter what she was wearing.
It was just like Crowley to swoop in and make her laugh with that stupid nickname, something he’d been doing since their first year. Froggy, a stupid play on the letters of her last name, Forger. And for some reason, Anya thought it was hilarious. She had always loved that dumb nickname, laughing every time Crowley used it. But Damian had loathed it from the start. She wasn’t some frog. She was more like a princess, though he would never say that out loud.
---
The memory hit him suddenly—the moment Anya had told him she was going to apply for the study abroad program.
It was lunchtime, two months ago. She had approached him, her usual bright smile lighting up her face, her eyes gleaming as she twirled a lock of her rose-pink hair. Damian had tried not to stare, but it was impossible. She always seemed to carry a warmth that made everything else fade into the background.
“I’m gonna apply for L’Académie Royale,” she’d said with excitement, practically glowing. “It sounds amazing! We get to go to Francian for three months. Think of all the places we’ll see!”
Three months in Francian. The words hit Damian harder than he wanted to admit. She was really going to leave. L’Académie Royale wasn’t just some ordinary school—it was basically the Francian version of Eden Academy. Every year, only two eighth graders were chosen for a three-month intensive language immersion. Damian had never even considered applying. Why would he? Regardless of his own average marks in the subject and his lack of interest in it, his family’s name made it impossible. His brother Demetrius had tried to apply once, and his application had been immediately rejected for security reasons. If Demetrius couldn’t go, what chance did Damian have?
But for Anya, things were different. Damian already knew—deep down, he knew—that she would get in. She was brilliant at languages, even if she didn’t fully realize it. Best in their year. Arnold Crowley had his diplomat parents to give him an edge, but Anya had done it all on her own. Her Francian was far better than she gave herself credit for, and she would get selected. He had no doubt about it.
And she would leave him behind.
The realization hit Damian like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just that she was leaving—it was that he could never go with her. He would always be stuck here, bound by his family’s name and its never-ending expectations. Anya was going to see the world, and he… he would remain trapped.
He knew she’d be accepted. There wasn’t even a question. And the worst part? He couldn’t stop it.
The knot in his chest tightened, and before he could stop himself, his instinct to shield himself from the pain kicked in. He scoffed, letting the words tumble out harshly. “Yeah, right. There’s no way you’re getting in. Your Francian sucks.”
Anya’s bright expression faltered. Her smile faded, and her shoulders slumped slightly. “What? No it doesn’t… I’ve been practicing a lot.” Her voice was softer now, unsure.
Damian felt a sharp pang of guilt twist in his gut. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He hated seeing that look on her face. But he couldn’t take it back now. He forced himself to shrug, trying to keep his cold exterior. “Whatever. You’ll just embarrass yourself.”
The disappointment in her eyes stung more than he expected. Anya blinked, her usual confidence dimming. She looked almost… sad.
Before she could respond, Arnold Crowley swooped in like he always did, a constant thorn in Damian’s side.
“Don’t listen to him, Anya,” Arnold said smoothly, throwing Damian a smug glare. “You’re great at Francian. Way better than Desmond over here.”
Damian’s jaw clenched, but he stayed quiet. He wanted to snap back, to tell Crowley to shut up, but instead, he just turned away, unwilling to let anyone see how much this conversation was affecting him.
It wasn’t really Anya he was mad at. Not at all. It was the fact that she could apply for something like this and actually go. She had a freedom he could never have. His family’s name, their legacy—it all came with too many restrictions. Even if he wanted to go, his father would make sure he stayed behind. The Desmond name was a prison he could never escape.
As he had walked away from Anya and Arnold that day, Damian couldn’t shake the image of Anya’s disappointed face. He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at the reality that Anya could travel, while he would always be bound to the expectations and responsibilities of being a Desmond.
---
Without a word, Damian handed the letter back to Becky, his face flushed with frustration.
Becky raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Wow, you’re really mad, huh? It’s just a letter, Damian. You know she’s gonna come back, right? Legally, she has to.”
Emile and Ewen, sensing the tension, quickly chimed in.
“Yeah, Bossman, it’s just three months. She’ll be back soon,” Emile said, trying to sound reassuring.
“Right,” Ewen added nervously. “She can’t stay in Francian forever.”
Becky, still smirking, added, “I mean, you’re worried about Arnold, but don’t forget about those Francian guys too. I mean, have you seen the footballers from there?”
“Yeah, they’re definitely more attractive than Crowley’s dorky, goofy self,” Emile added.
“Not helping...” Ewen whispered, looking at Emile with wide eyes.
Damian’s pencil snapped in his hand, a mixture of anger and anxiety bubbling inside him. Crowley was bad enough, but now he had to worry about Francian guys? They probably thought they were all charming and sophisticated, whispering compliments in fluent Francian. The thought of someone like that charming Anya...
He slumped in his chair, his eyes unfocused as his thoughts drifted. The Desmond name came with too much baggage, too many restrictions.
Damian had been abroad before—but only with his family. Every time, it was a carefully planned, meticulously controlled operation. He wasn’t free to explore or enjoy himself like a normal person. It was all about maintaining appearances, staying under protection, and doing what his father expected.
He could travel within Ostania—he’d flown by helicopter to places others could only dream of visiting. But going abroad, alone, or with friends? That was impossible. Even his brother had failed at that.
There was that one time, last winter. Anya and her family loved taking the train to Frigis—a tradition they had started when she was just a kid, visiting the festive markets as the snow fell. Becky had even tagged along a few times, and Damian had overheard them talking about it, about how maybe next time, all five of them could go. The idea had sparked something inside him, a fleeting moment where he thought maybe, just maybe, he could join them. He had even asked Jeeves about it. The butler had listened, then politely informed him that he would have to escalate the request to his father’s team.
Not even a minute on the phone later, the answer came back—a firm “no.” Too many restrictions, too many complications. He had swallowed the disappointment, forcing himself not to react.
It would’ve been so simple—just a normal train ride with friends, like a normal person. But nothing was ever simple for him.
“It’s fine, Bossman. Who even wants to go there anyway?” Ewen had tried to downplay it, but Damian had seen the disappointment flicker in his eyes.
“Yeah, way too cold!” Emile had chimed in, offering a forced grin that felt hollow.
But Damian knew the truth. They had wanted to go. If it hadn’t been for him, they could have. It was because of him. The weight of his name had crushed a simple trip with friends before it even had a chance. But he buried the sting deep down, as he always did, pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending it didn’t hurt.
Damian’s thoughts drifted back to Anya. Her voice echoed in his mind, that light, cheery tone that always cut through the seriousness of everything around them. She had a way of bringing brightness to even the dullest situations, and as much as he hated to admit it, he missed that. He missed the sound of her voice, the way her hair bounced around her face when she was excited, her unshakeable positivity even when things were tough.
And now, she was out there, in Francian, having the time of her life—without him.
But even when she was gone, Damian couldn’t help but try to find her. Anytime he saw something similar to that soft, pink color of her hair, his heart would skip for a second, only to be hit with the reminder that it wasn’t her. A scarf in the hallway, a book cover, a flower—anything remotely that shade would make him think of her. And he hated that it did.
Even when she wasn’t here, she was everywhere.
Becky’s voice cut through his thoughts. “God you’re really brooding… She’s coming back, Desmond. You’re acting like she’s gone forever, stop with the dramatics.”
Anya would definitely come back, but he would never be able to go with her when she’d leave again. That was the harsh truth. Every time she left, he’d be stuck here—stuck in the confines of Eden Academy, tied to his family’s rigid expectations. He’d always be the son of Donovan Desmond, forever bound by the responsibilities that came with his last name.
No spontaneous adventures for him, no carefree trips to Francian, no moments of wandering foreign streets with someone like Anya. His life wasn’t his own. It belonged to the Desmond legacy, and the more he grew, the more he realized how much of a prison that truly was.
And now much Anya wasn’t like that and wouldn’t want to be like that.
Anya could go wherever she wanted and she would. She had the freedom to explore, to see the world, to come back with stories about new places, new experiences. But Damian? Damian would always have to stay. Stay behind. Stay obedient. Stay chained to his family’s ambitions.
Being a Desmond wasn’t a privilege. It was a curse.
“Bossman?” Emile asked hesitantly.
Damian straightened up, his expression hard and unreadable. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though the war inside him was far from over.
—
Damian had been counting the days. Not that he’d admit it to anyone—not to Emile, not to Ewen, and certainly not to himself. But every single one had been marked in his mind, ticking down to this day—the day Anya Forger would finally return from Francian. He thought he’d be ready. He’d prepared himself for weeks, thinking about what he’d say, how he’d act. He thought he’d be in control.
But now, standing frozen at the gates of Eden Academy, he wasn’t ready at all.
It had happened by pure chance. He’d been walking through the courtyard, lost in his usual swirl of thoughts when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of that specific rose color. His heart stopped mid-beat—it couldn’t be… could it? Surely she would wait until tomorrow. But there she was, walking toward him, and in that instant, it felt as if the world tilted, the ground beneath his feet falling away. Everything else faded, narrowing to just her.
Anya Forger was gorgeous.
It wasn’t just her hair—though the soft, rose-pink hue still made his chest tighten the way it always had—but now, there was more. She was taller, more graceful, as if all the childlike edges had softened into something more mature. And her eyes—those big emerald eyes—seemed to shine even brighter now, like they held an energy, a spark, that made Damian’s stomach twist. She looked so… different.
Her uniform from L’Académie Royale was unlike anything Damian had seen her wear. Gone were the stiff, formal black uniforms of Eden Academy. Instead, she wore a soft sky-blue blazer with plaid pleats running through her skirt, which flared slightly above her knees. The uniform had a neat, tailored fit that gave her a refined yet youthful appearance. There were subtle details too—the hint of checkered plaid in the blazer’s lining, the pleats of the skirt swaying softly with her movements, and the white knee-high socks paired with polished shoes that made her stand out even more. It was all so perfect.
But it wasn’t just the uniform that caught Damian’s attention. Anya seemed to radiate something—an effortless warmth and brightness, a quality that made her feel like she was from another world. Her smile, so natural and familiar, made Damian’s pulse quicken. She was different, yet still… Anya.
“Hey, Sy-on!” Anya’s voice cut through the hum of the courtyard, her tone just as light and playful as ever, but now, there was something else—a new kind of confidence he hadn’t expected.
Damian’s breath hitched. She was right there. She hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed her—how much he’d thought about this moment. He missed the way her voice softened his rough edges, the way her presence seemed to make everything around him lighter. How could she be standing so casually in front of him after all this time?
“A-An… Forger.” His voice cracked slightly—he hadn’t meant for it to. He’d almost said her name out loud. The words tumbled out awkwardly, completely abandoning his usual calm exterior.
Anya laughed, her voice ringing out with that familiar brightness, and it hit him hard—the sound he hadn’t heard in months. “Bonjour, deuxième fils!” she twirled lightly, showing off her new uniform with a grin. “What do you think?”
Damian’s mouth felt dry as he tried to respond. “Y-yeah, I guess it’s… okay.” But inside? Inside, he was a mess. She didn’t look ‘okay.’ She looked… stunning. More mature, more poised, but still glowing with the same energy that had always drawn him in. He felt the sudden, sharp urge to reach out and touch her—her hair, her hand—anything, just to know she was real and not some dream his mind had conjured.
“Just okay?” Anya teased, raising her eyebrows as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing gently against the pink strands. Damian’s eyes were drawn to the movement, the way the sunlight caught her hair and made it shimmer—just like her eyes, so bright and alive.
He caught himself wondering what it would be like to touch her hair, to feel those soft strands slipping through his fingers. Or even… He shook the thought away before it could fully form, but his pulse wouldn’t settle. Why was he thinking like this?
“I-It’s just… different from Eden’s,” he managed to say, his voice barely steady. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, threatening to betray the whirlwind of emotions he was barely holding together.
Anya smiled, seemingly unaware of the storm swirling inside him. “It feels strange being back. Everything’s still here, but it doesn’t feel the same, you know?” As she spoke, she reached out, lightly touching his arm, her fingers brushing against his sleeve.
A spark shot through him. The simple touch made his pulse quicken, catching him off guard. Her touch felt different. It was like her hand had left a mark, lingering on his skin even after she pulled away. He wanted more. Her nails were longer now, painted a soft, shimmery color—something small, but it stood out to him. She seemed even more feminine now, not that she hadn’t before, but there was a new grace in the way she moved and spoke that hadn’t been so obvious before she left.
“You… really have changed,” he blurted out, the words slipping through before he could stop them. He wasn’t just talking about how she looked. She felt different to him—someone he wanted to be closer to, in a way he had never let himself think about before.
Anya blinked, her smile turning thoughtful as she glanced at her hand, then back at him. “You think so? I hadn’t really noticed,” she replied with a casual shrug, like it didn’t even matter. That was the thing about her— she was completely unaware of how much she’d changed, how much she stood out, or how utterly beautiful she was. She had no idea how much Damian noticed every little thing about her.
Damian swallowed hard. “Y-yeah, I guess,” he muttered, feeling his face grow hot.
“Well,” Anya chirped, giving him a quick wave, “I’ve gotta go find Becky. See you around, Sy-on!”
And just like that, she was gone—her hair bouncing lightly as she walked away, her glowing form disappearing into the distance.
Damian stood there, rooted to the spot. His heart was still racing, his mind a jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected her to look like this, to seem so different and yet so… Anya. Most of all, he hadn’t expected how much he’d missed her—or how much seeing her again stirred up feelings he had never truly let himself feel before.
For the first time, he let the thought in. He liked her. He really, really liked her. Maybe more than that. His mind betrayed him, flashing images of touching her again—or even leaning in to kiss her, an urge so foreign to him that it made his stomach twist.
He’d always known there was something about her, but now, he understood. He wasn’t just thinking about her as Anya Forger, the girl who made him laugh and frustrated him to no end. He was in love with her.