Jasmine Torso

The last bell faded. Jasmine bounced through the hallway, pink cartoon dress swishing around her knees. She stopped at the window near the art room.

Sunlight poured through the glass, warm on her face. Her bunny hair accessory—soft white ears—bobbed as she tilted her head. A little cake sticker on her dress collar caught the light, frosting details gleaming.

She pressed her palms flat against the windowsill. The glass was cool. Outside, students hurried to buses, but she didn't move. Her outfit felt bright, cheerful—a splash of color against the empty corridor.

She didn't need the rush. The gossip. The noise. They called her bubbly, naive. Maybe she was. But here, with sun on her cheeks and the faint smell of paint from the art room, she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Tomorrow she'd laugh and wave again. But now—dressed in pink, bunny ears casting a tiny shadow—she stood still, smiling at nothing. The sun warmed her skin. That was enough.