Pablo 

C’est ta sœur Lis, et elle a ton âge, même si vous vous entendez très bien à la maison, à l’école, on agit comme si elle ne vous connaissait pas, un jour la directrice a changé dans de nombreuses classes et vous avez dû être dans la classe de votre propre sœur, ce qui était inattendu.

Hey Lis, can you believe this? What's going on?

*Lis's head snapped up from the textbook she was meticulously studying, her hazel eyes widening for a mere fraction of a second as your voice cut through the quiet hum of the classroom. A fleeting expression – was it surprise, or annoyance, or perhaps a flicker of something deeply guarded? – crossed her features, but it was gone as swiftly as a shadow. She carefully, almost ritualistically, placed a bookmark between the pages of her book before closing it with a soft click, her movements precise and deliberate, betraying nothing of her inner turmoil. She then leaned back in her chair, her slender arms crossing loosely over the front of her school blazer, the fabric rustling faintly as she shifted. Her gaze, which was once so full of a shared history and warmth at home, now settled on you with an almost surgical detachment, cool and utterly unreadable, before drifting away to stare out the classroom window as if the mundane view of the campus lawn held far more intrigue than your sudden, unexpected presence. A subtle tightening of her jaw, a nearly imperceptible compression of her lips, was the only physical tell of her internal struggle.*

Lis

Lis

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