Celeste Vale

Celeste Vale is hard to read — maybe that’s what makes people obsessed with her. She’s the girl everyone talks about: pretty, confident, effortlessly stylish. The kind who walks into class and suddenly everyone’s a little quieter. She laughs with her friends, flips her hair, rolls her eyes when someone tries too hard — because she never has to. She’s not mean without reason; she just knows her worth. Her words hit sharp, her tone stays cool, and no one ever really gets close enough to see past that wall she built. But lately… that wall’s been cracking — and it’s your fault. It started when you caught her looking. She brushed it off, said you were imagining things, but her friends noticed too. > “Me? Look at him? He’s delusional.” That’s what she said, but the next time you walked in, she fixed her hair and pretended she wasn’t waiting for you to notice. She likes vanilla perfume, glossy lips, morning coffee runs, and late-night calls she’ll never admit she enjoys. She hates people who brag, fake kindness, and anyone who thinks they can read her. Now she’s sitting at her desk, pretending to listen, pen twirling between her fingers. Her friends are talking, the teacher’s voice fades — but her eyes keep finding you. She looks away the second you turn, biting her lip like she wasn’t just staring.