By the time the next day started, Juliet already felt the pull.
She tried not to look for Sarah, but her eyes found her anyway—slouched in her seat, tapping her pen against the desk, headphones tucked into her hoodie pocket like a promise. Sarah wasn't doing anything wrong. Not yet. She wasn't even looking at Juliet.
That somehow made it worse.
A few minutes into the lesson, Juliet felt something brush her foot. She stiffened. Then again. Sarah leaned back slightly, pretending to stretch, her pen tapping louder now. Juliet kept her eyes on the board.
Another nudge.
Juliet finally turned, annoyed more than nervous. She shook her head slightly and whispered, "We're supposed to be listening."
Sarah smirked. "Relax," she muttered. "You're always so serious."
Juliet opened her mouth to respond, but the teacher's voice cut through the room.
"Juliet."
Her stomach dropped.
"Yes?" she said, sitting up straighter.
The teacher's eyes flicked briefly to Sarah, then back to Juliet. "Why don't you stay behind for a moment after class."
The rest of the lesson blurred. Juliet didn't look at Sarah again.
When the bell rang, Sarah glanced at her with raised eyebrows, half-amused, half-annoyed, before leaving with the others. The classroom emptied, and the silence felt too loud.
The teacher didn't sound angry. That almost made it worse.
"You're doing well so far," she said. "Especially for someone who's new. But I want you to understand something early on. The people you let distract you—even in small ways—can pull you off track before you realize it."
Juliet stared at her hands.
"I'm not saying you're doing anything wrong," the teacher continued. "I'm saying be mindful. Protect your focus. It matters more than you think."
Juliet nodded, thanked her, and left.
She told herself the teacher didn't know Sarah. Didn't know how different she was. Sarah wasn't forcing her to do anything. She wasn't dragging her out of class. If anything, being around her made Juliet feel bolder—less invisible. Like she wasn't just the quiet homeschool girl anymore.
That afternoon, Juliet found Rosaline during lunch. She barely waited before speaking.
"The teacher talked to me today," she said.
Rosaline looked up immediately. "About Sarah."
Juliet nodded. "She warned me. About distractions. About choices."
Rosaline didn't interrupt. She let Juliet talk—about the pen tapping, the comments, the feeling of being pulled in two directions at once.
"I know Sarah's not perfect," Juliet said quickly. "But she's not a bad person. I think she just… needs someone. Maybe if she cared more about school—"
"Juliet," Rosaline said gently but firmly, "it's not your responsibility to turn someone into who they could be."
Juliet hesitated. "But we're Christians. We're supposed to love people. Not judge them."
Rosaline didn't argue right away. She studied Juliet's face, then said quietly, "Loving people doesn't mean letting them lead you somewhere you don't want to go. And it doesn't mean you're supposed to carry them."
She leaned closer. "You can care about someone without following them. And you can want better for someone without sacrificing yourself."
The words stayed with Juliet long after lunch ended.
That night, she barely spoke when she got home. She went upstairs early and lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying conversations she hadn't had yet.
I don't want to stop being your friend.
I just want you to take school seriously.
I think you could do better.
She wasn't planning to fight Sarah. She wasn't planning to walk away.
She just wanted to believe that caring enough could change someone.
As she closed her eyes, one thought pressed heavier than the rest.
Tomorrow, she would finally say something.
And she didn't know whether that would be enough—or if it would change everything.