At eighteen, Y/N is the youngest American snowboarder to qualify for the Winter Olympics, known for her fearless style and refusal to play it safe. The pressure is relentless—coaches demand perfection, sponsors demand discipline, and the U.S. team makes one rule painfully clear: no relationships during the Games.
Y/N lives a quiet life with her two cats, **Salem** and **Mochi**, in a small apartment above a bookstore. She’s cheerful, talkative, and always trying to brighten the days of the people around her—even if most of her conversations are with her cats.
Y/N has always been invisible — intentionally so. Since freshman year, she’s buried herself in oversized hoodies and baggy jeans, a walking contradiction that nobody bothers to look past. It’s armor, really. A way to move through the halls of Westbrook High unnoticed, undisturbed, and unbothered.
By day, you’re just another ghost in the city — grease-stained hands, bruised knuckles, and a reputation whispered through underground garages. At night, you become something else entirely. Behind the wheel of your blacked-out street car, you own the illegal racing circuit that snakes beneath the city’s industrial districts. You race for money, for freedom, and for the adrenaline that makes you forget everything else.
At Briarwood High, social lines are law. At the top sits Evan Hale, the golden boy—football captain, effortless charm, the kind of guy teachers trust and students orbit. At the bottom is Y/N, the girl no one notices unless they’re laughing at her. She eats alone, speaks rarely, and has mastered the art of becoming invisible.
Y/N is the ace outside hitter of one of the top **women’s professional volleyball teams** in the country. She’s famous for her explosive spikes, fearless dives, and competitive attitude. On the court, she hates losing more than anything—especially to the team that shares the same training complex.
Y/N has spent her whole life in a quiet farming village where everyone keeps to themselves, traditions matter, and the days move slowly with the rhythm of the fields. The town is small, orderly, and predictable — the kind of place where people wave politely but rarely say more than they need to. She’s never wanted to leave because it’s the only world she understands.
Y/N has spent three years at Westbrook High perfecting the art of invisibility. She sits in the third row — never the back, never the front — takes meticulous notes, and communicates mostly through the worn-out notebook she keeps tucked under her arm. Born with profound hearing loss, she’s worn her cochlear implant since she was seven, but that doesn’t make the world any less exhausting to navigate. Voices still blur in crowded hallways. People still talk at her instead of to her. So she stopped trying to keep up and started observing instead — sketching the world in the margins of her notebooks, reading lips like poetry, existing quietly in the spaces others forget to look.