𓆦𝚂𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𓆦

Dakota sat in the farthest corner of the school library, sketchbook open, pencil scratching over the page with a quiet urgency. Each line carved out a fragment of a world he longed to inhabit—a world softened by colors, not sharpened by edges. The harsh, fluorescent lights of the high school halls never reached him here, and in this nook, at least, he could almost believe that he was invisible.

Almost.

Outside this sanctuary, Dakota was anything but unseen. In the hallways and classrooms, he was Manon, the girl with too many freckles and a quiet voice that often went unheard. Dakota could feel the weight of it all—the cold, rigid expectations pressing in, the disapproving glances from classmates who only knew the outline, not the real him. Everyone used her and she without knowing, or caring, that each pronoun was another chip against the armor he worked so hard to build.

He was used to being overlooked, but he had his own hidden sparks. Aimee knew that, at least. She'd call him Dakota, using "he" with a soft assurance that left him feeling like someone worth recognizing. But Aimee was just one person, and outside of her, the world loomed, ignorant and judgmental.

His pencil paused mid-stroke as the library door burst open, and he heard the unmistakable crash of energy that was Rodrick Heffley. Rodrick, who seemed born to break silences and cross boundaries Dakota couldn't even imagine approaching. He strolled into the library with the swagger of someone who'd walked in by mistake but owned the place anyway. Tall, disheveled, eyeliner smudged just enough to look intentional, and that reckless grin like he had some secret he was dying to tell the world—or maybe the world was his secret.

"Hey, Manon," Rodrick called, his voice loud enough to earn a sharp look from the librarian.

Dakota didn't respond. He kept his head down, hoping Rodrick's attention would shift. But that didn't happen. Instead, he felt Rodrick's presence settling across from him, the chair creaking under his weight. Rodrick tapped a hand against the table, leaning forward in a way that demanded attention.

"You don't talk much, do you?" he asked, eyebrow quirking. "I know you can't be that shy. We went through middle school together, didn't we?"

Dakota's cheeks warmed. He lifted his gaze just enough to meet Rodrick's eyes, dark and curious. Rodrick had been a fixture in the background of his life, loud and chaotic. He didn't understand why someone like Rodrick would even remember him, let alone want to talk to him.

"I... don't talk much," Dakota murmured, looking down, the edge of his voice softened by an accent that made each word a little gentler.

Rodrick didn't move, just grinned wider, the kind of smile that was more at home in the middle of a raucous party than a quiet library.

"Cool," he said with a casual shrug. "Don't gotta talk if you don't want. But I got a show this Friday, you know. Could come by if you wanna see what real fun looks like."

With that, Rodrick was gone as quickly as he'd arrived, leaving Dakota to stare at the spot where he'd been, his heart thrumming. The invitation lingered in the air, the first crack of possibility. And as he looked down at his sketchbook, the lines on the page blurred, and for the first time in a long time, he dared to wonder what it would be like to be seen, truly seen, beyond the walls he'd built.

The library door closed with a gentle click, and the echo of Rodrick's footsteps faded. The corner he occupied seemed even more still, as if the air itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what he'd do with that unexpected invitation. He touched the edge of his sketchbook, mind drifting to Rodrick's grin—the way it seemed to hold a secret he couldn't begin to understand.

Dakota had learned a long time ago not to hope for things. Hope could be easily pulled away, yanked out from under him by the people who saw him only as Manon, the daughter they couldn't understand or accept. But something about the way Rodrick had leaned close, just on the edge of crossing an invisible line, made him wonder if he could allow himself to hope for something small.

The bell jolted him out of his thoughts, signaling the end of lunch and the reluctant return to the loud corridors outside. As he packed his things, he felt a familiar dread settle in his chest. The crowd that filled the halls would never know him as Dakota; to them, he was always "Manon," the quiet girl. At home, he was Baby, though the name had been given by his father with a rough edge, as if mocking Dakota's "softness." Despite that, he'd come to accept it. Being called "Baby" was something small, but it felt like his own, separate from the layers of expectations everyone else piled onto him.

As he made his way through the hall, he spotted Aimee waiting near the lockers, a familiar, gentle smile on her face. She was Dakota's anchor, the one person who knew him fully, who called him "Kota" with an ease that made him feel seen. Today, though, her expression held something curious.

"What's up, Kota?" she asked, looping her arm through his as they fell into step.

He hesitated, brushing his fingers over his sketchbook's cover. "Rodrick talked to me today."

Aimee raised an eyebrow, her eyes lighting with intrigue. "Oh? What did he want?"

"He said I could come to his band's show," Dakota murmured, glancing at her for reassurance. "I think he... invited me."

Aimee's grin was immediate and bright. "You *should* go. I know Rodrick's...well, he's a bit intense, but maybe he's not so bad, y'know?"

Dakota bit his lip. Rodrick was more than intense—he was unpredictable. But something in the invitation, the ease with which Rodrick had thrown it out there, felt different. "Maybe," he said softly. "I just... I don't want to get too hopeful."

"Who says you can't let yourself hope a little?" Aimee squeezed his arm gently, then added with a smirk, "Besides, maybe he'll start calling you something other than 'Manon.'"

Dakota's heart sank just a bit at the thought. He wondered how long it would take, if ever, for him to tell Rodrick the truth about who he really was. But before he could answer, Aimee was tugging him toward the next class, already animatedly discussing what he should wear if he decided to go to the show.

---

That Friday night, Dakota stood outside the dimly lit venue, nerves buzzing under his skin. The place was louder than he was used to, the thrum of bass pulsing through the walls. He could almost hear his father's disapproval in his head, a scathing reminder of all the reasons he didn't belong here. But this was his choice—a piece of freedom, however small. Aimee had been right; he didn't need anyone's permission to hope.

Taking a breath, he slipped inside, weaving through clusters of people until he found a spot near the back. He held his sketchbook close to his chest, feeling safer with it there, like a small shield. Then the music started, loud and raw, a chaotic blend of guitars and drums, and his gaze found Rodrick onstage.

Rodrick was electric, every movement bold and unapologetic. His voice filled the space, rough but somehow magnetic, like it could reach into all the cracks Dakota kept hidden. For a moment, as Rodrick's gaze swept over the crowd, Dakota wondered if he'd catch his eye.

But Rodrick didn't look his way, lost in the beat and the rhythm of the song. Still, standing there, Dakota felt a little braver.

----

A/N- AHHH was this good? Tell me please 🤕 I do know that this is a little short though sorry ( 1000+ words only) OKAY BYE BYE IF YOU DIDN'T LIKE THIS ONE HOPEFULLY I GET BETTER IN THE NEXT CHAPTERS mwa mwa I LOVE YOU HAVE. GOOD DAY!