Beneath the Surface Chapter 1: Life Hits You in Different Ways

Life has a way of dragging you to places you never expected. Sometimes it’s a slow pull, like the tide drawing back to reveal something new. Other times, it’s a tidal wave, leaving you scrambling to understand where you’ve landed.

I met Amara when I was 14. We were in the same math class, and by some stroke of fate—or maybe a cruel joke by the universe—I was assigned the seat next to her. We spoke once or twice, nothing more than the awkward exchanges of strangers forced to share space. But even in those brief moments, something clicked. Not in the way people talk about soulmates or grand gestures, but quietly, like a string had been tied between us, thin and fragile.

From the moment I saw her, I think I was in love.

My name is Willa Jean Juniper. Most people just call me Willa—it’s less of a mouthful, and honestly, the “Jean” part feels like it belongs to someone else. I’m 18 now, but this story begins when I was younger, still trying to figure out who I was in a world that never seemed to stay still.

I live in Clovelly, a sleepy little town just outside of Rye, in East Sussex. The kind of place where everyone knows your name and your business—and pretends they don’t—but also secretly hates you for reasons they’ll never explain. Just small-town things.

We weren’t always here. I grew up in London, a city that pulses with life and chaos. But four years ago, my mum decided we needed a change. She’s an artist—one of those free-spirited types who says things like, “We need to be closer to the sea to truly breathe.” So we packed up our flat and moved to Clovelly, trading the gray hum of the city for the muted charm of cobblestones and salty air.

Mum has always been a force of nature. She paints for hours, losing herself in a world of oils and canvas, often forgetting little things like dinner or that I exist. She loves me, I know that, but her love is messy and scattered, like the paint smudges she leaves on the walls and furniture. My dad’s been out of the picture for as long as I can remember. According to Mum, he wasn’t much of a picture to begin with.

Saint Mallory’s, my school, is another world entirely. It’s a school for the wealthy and well-connected, the kind of place where the students are practically royalty, and the faculty bow under the weight of tradition. The main building is a sprawling Gothic manor, with ivy crawling up its stone walls and windows that seem to stretch endlessly toward the sky. The courtyard, framed by ancient oaks, is the heart of the campus, bustling with laughter and chatter every morning.

The schoolmasters are like sentinels, standing at the wrought-iron gates to greet—or inspect—you as you arrive. Bags are checked, phones confiscated if they catch a glimpse of one, and uniforms are scrutinized down to the last button. It’s not just a school; it’s a performance, every student playing their part as the elite of tomorrow.

I felt like an intruder on my first day, a glitch in the polished system. My uniform was secondhand, the pleats on my skirt refusing to lie flat no matter how much I ironed them. I could feel the stares of the other students, their curiosity tinged with the faintest hint of judgment.

And then I saw her.

Amara.

She was standing in the courtyard, her dark hair catching in the breeze, laughing at something one of her friends had said. She didn’t see me, but in that moment, she stole my breath away. I’d never seen anyone like her before—someone so effortlessly radiant, like she belonged in every moment she occupied.

But here’s where things get complicated.

You see, there wasn’t just Amara. There was someone else. A girl I’d met entirely by chance, walking down the road near my house. I don’t even know her name, but something about her stayed with me. She was like a ghost, flickering in and out of my thoughts. And as confusing as it sounds, I liked them both. Two people. Two impossibilities.

This is the story of how it all began—the story of Amara, the mystery girl, and the tangled mess of feelings that followed.