The Mailgirls of Stephens Academy (Whole Story) 3/27

[barelin]

The Mailgirl of Stephens Academy

Chapter 2B: The Weight of Preparation

The insistent buzz of my phone jolted me awake, its vibrations rattling against the wooden nightstand like an alarm that refused to be ignored. The faint glow of the screen cast eerie shadows across the walls. Even before I reached for it, I knew what the flood of notifications would be about. The pre-selection mailgirl assembly was today, and the anticipation—or dread—had also kept my friends awake.

A sharp chill of the morning air hit me as Harper, my golden retriever, yanked the covers away with his teeth, his tail wagging furiously like he had just accomplished the greatest feat of his life. I groaned and pulled my knees to my chest to shield myself from the cold. The air was a stark reminder that I’d slept naked—something I’d started after that conversation with Mom. Today wasn’t just any ordinary day. Today was the day that could change everything.

A dull weight settled in my chest as I unlocked my phone. My group chats with Carla and Rachel had exploded overnight, their messages a chaotic mix of speculation, unease, and frantic questions.

Rachel: Okay, did you both see on Echo Chat about Jessica Gate? Her parents got a letter from the school about the mailgirl preselection, but she didn’t say anything about it.

Carla: Not sure. My mom mentioned something, but she didn’t give me any details. Did yours say anything, Dani?

I frowned at Rachel’s message. A letter? Mom and Dad hadn’t mentioned anything specific to me. My fingers hovered over the screen before I quickly typed a response.

Dani: Mom told me to be ready. Just what I told you before—about her wanting to take over when or if I’m unclothed.

There was a long pause. Then Rachel’s reply popped up.

Rachel: Wait, take over how?? You were serious about that?

I sighed, stretching as the blanket slid off and pooled on the floor. My bare skin prickled under the cool air. I hesitated, trying to find the right words to explain what had happened over the last three days.

Dani: It was weird. She said that if I’m serious about ‘exploring’ this, I need to be ready to get naked if asked. That means if she, Dad, or whoever tells me to take something off, I do it. No hesitation, no matter what.

Another pause. Carla responded first.

Carla: That’s intense. So, Dani, did your mom tell you if you’re going to be one of those selected mailgirls or what?

Rachel: So, like… be naked at home? Or anywhere… like at school… in public…?

I hesitated, remembering Mom’s calm but firm expression as if she’d already decided my fate.

Dani: I think it’s anywhere, but she made it clear when I gave her control over…

Rachel’s typing bubble appeared, then disappeared, like she was unsure how to respond. Finally…

Rachel: WHAT! She could strip you naked! How do you feel about that?

How did I feel? That was the real question, wasn’t it? The screen blurred as I stared at it. Mom had framed it as preparation—something necessary if I was going to face what might come. The idea of giving up control, of accepting that clothing wasn’t something I could always rely on, was terrifying in ways I couldn’t explain.

Yet… I had already taken the first steps. A quiet, unspoken part of me couldn’t ignore how that had felt.

Dani: I don’t know. I get why she’s saying it, but it’s still… a lot.

Carla responded immediately.

Carla: Yeah. I don’t think I could do that. Are you going to show up to the bus stop naked?

Rachel’s response took longer, trying to find the right words.

Rachel: I mean… maybe she’s just trying to help you be ready? Like, in case…

She didn’t have to finish the sentence. We all knew what she meant. In case I got picked. In case today’s assembly made everything real.

I sighed and set my phone down. Talking about it wouldn’t change anything.

I grabbed a towel from my dresser and headed for the bathroom. I needed a shower. I needed to clear my head before breakfast, before school, before whatever awaited us at the assembly.

As the water warmed, I caught my reflection in the mirror. I met my gaze, searching for something—clarity, confidence, maybe even certainty, but none came.

I stepped into the shower, letting the water wash over me. Steam curled around me, but the tension in my chest refused to fade.

Today was the day.
The assembly…
The moment we had all been waiting for—and dreading.


Stepping out of the shower, I nearly dropped my towel when I opened the bathroom door and found Mom standing there, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Dani,” she said, her voice calm but firm, “are you still willing to give me full control over whether you wear clothes or not?”

My heart skipped a beat. Heat rushed to my face as I clutched the towel tighter. Before I could respond, Dad walked by, his eyes briefly flicking toward us before continuing down the hallway. Panic surged through me, my hands trembling as I tried to steady my breathing.

Once Dad was out of earshot, Mom’s gaze softened, but her tone remained steady. “Your friends wondered if you were going to show up to the bus stop naked, didn’t they?”

I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… they did.”

Mom stepped closer, scanning me with a look that made me feel exposed, despite the towel wrapped around me. “I want you to wear your best clothes to school today,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “But understand this—at some point during the assembly, you will have your friends remove one item of clothing.”

My stomach churned, but I stayed silent.

“Once something is removed, it stays off for the rest of the day,” she continued. “I’d like you to wear one of your button-down blouses. Each button will count as an item of clothing. By the end of the school day, I want you to be fully naked.”

The words hit me like a brick wall. My mind raced, trying to process what she was asking of me. “Fully naked? At school?” I stammered, my voice trembling.

Mom nodded, unwavering. “Yes. This is part of the preparation, Dani. If you’re serious about this, you need to be ready to face the reality of it. The mailgirl program isn’t just about delivering packages—it’s about discipline, obedience, and embracing the role fully.”

My throat felt dry. “What if… what if I can’t do it?”

Mom reached out, cupping my cheek gently. “You can, Dani. You’re stronger than you think. Remember, this isn’t just about you. It’s about showing the school that you’re ready. That you’re willing to commit.”

Her words settled over me, heavy and unavoidable. I nodded, even as my stomach twisted with nerves. “Okay… I’ll do it.”

Mom smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Good. Now, get dressed. This is just the beginning.”


The bus ride to school was eerily quiet. Normally, mornings buzzed with chatter—homework complaints, weekend plans, dumb stories about siblings, but today, the air hung thick with unease.

Carla sat beside me, Rachel sat alone in the seat in front of us. None of us spoke, only exchanging occasional nervous glances. The rustling of backpacks and the low hum of the engine filled the silence.

Rachel broke the silence first. “So… do you think they’re going to do anything today?”

Carla exhaled sharply. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just an informational thing.”

Rachel nodded, though she didn’t look convinced. Neither was I.

As the bus pulled up to the school, I stepped off and immediately sensed something was different.

Teachers stood near the entrance, their eyes scanning students. Others posted themselves at hallway intersections, watching.

A shiver crawled up my spine.

“Is it just me, or do they seem… extra today?” Rachel whispered.

Carla frowned. “No, it’s not just you.”

The usual chaotic morning rush had shifted. Instead of laughter and shouted greetings, hushed conversations filled the hallways. Girls clustered in small groups, their whispers sharp and frantic. Every glance flicked toward the clock, measuring the time until the assembly.

I glanced at Carla and Rachel walking beside me, their faces tight with unease. My stomach twisted as I thought about what Mom had told me earlier. I had to tell them, but the words felt heavy, like admitting it out loud would make everything real.

I pulled them into a quieter corner near the lockers. “Hey,” I whispered, “I need to tell you something.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed. “What’s up? You look like you’re about to throw up.”

Rachel leaned in. “Is it about the assembly? Did your mom say something else?”

I took a deep breath, my fingers twisting the hem of my button-down blouse—the one Mom had insisted I wear. “Yeah. She was waiting for me after my shower this morning.”

Carla’s eyes narrowed. “Okay… and?”

I hesitated, heat creeping up my neck. “She told me that if I’m serious about this mailgirl thing, I have to be ready to give up control completely. She said I had to wear my best clothes today, but…”

Rachel’s expression tightened. “But what?”

My voice dropped to a whisper. “At some point during the assembly, I have to let you guys—or someone—remove one item of clothing and whatever is removed… stays off for the rest of the day.”

Carla’s jaw dropped. “What the hell, Dani? Are you serious?”

I nodded, my heart pounding. “Yeah, and it gets worse. Mom made me wear this blouse because each button counts as an item of clothing. She said… she said by the end of the day, I need to be fully naked.”

Rachel gasped, covering her mouth. “Fully naked? At school? Dani, that’s insane!”

Carla shook her head, her expression a mix of disbelief and rage. “Your mom has lost it. There’s no way you’re going to do that, right?”

I dropped my gaze, my stomach twisting into knots. “I don’t know… She said it's part of the preparation. That if I’m serious about this, I need to be ready to face the reality of it.”

Rachel grabbed my arm, gripping tight. “Dani, this isn’t normal. You can’t just… strip naked in front of everyone! What if someone takes a picture? What if it gets out? This could ruin your life!”

Carla nodded, her voice sharp. “Yeah, and what if someone tries to take advantage of you? This is so messed up, Dani. You can’t let her control you like this.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away. “I don’t know what to do. She made it sound like this was just the beginning.g

Rachel’s expression softened, and she pulled me into a quick hug. “Dani, you don’t have to do this. There are other ways to prove yourself. This… this is too much.”

Carla crossed her arms, her tone firm. “Look, if you want to go through with this, we’ll support you, but you don’t have to do it alone. If someone tries to make you take something off, we'll be there. We’ll make sure it’s on your terms, okay?”

I exhaled sharply, feeling a small flicker of relief. “Thanks, guys. I just… I don’t know if I can go through with it, but Mom made it sound like I don’t have a choice.”

Rachel squeezed my hand. “You always have a choice, Dani. Don’t let anyone take that away from you.”

Carla smirked, though her eyes were still serious. “If anyone tries to mess with you, they’ll have to deal with me.”

I managed a small smile, grateful for their support. The bell rang, signaling the start of Mrs. Johnson’s homeroom and all three of us found our desks. The assembly loomed ahead, a storm gathering on the horizon.

No matter how much I tried to prepare myself, I couldn’t shake the feeling that by the time today ended, my life would never be the same.

[Somebody]

Ah, my favorite overlooked and underutilized plot element in stories like these: being commanded by an authority figure and technically having the ability to refuse.

[barelin]

The Mailgirl of Stephens Academy

2C: The Assembly

The morning announcements had barely ended when Mrs. Johnson’s gaze swept across the classroom. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes sharp with quiet intensity. After a long pause, she spoke, her voice calm but unmistakably firm.

“Some of you are already on edge.” Her eyes lingered on a few students shifting uncomfortably in their seats—including me. “I expect all of you—especially the boys—to be on your best behavior for the next two periods while the girls in this homeroom attend the assembly.”

A heavy silence followed. No one spoke. No one questioned. Instead, we exchanged uncertain glances, the air thickening with unspoken apprehension. The tension pressed down on us, suffocating and unrelenting, as if we all sensed something looming just beyond our understanding.

The warning bell rang, a sharp sound that sent a jolt through me. The knot in my stomach tightened. Something was coming—something significant—but none of us knew what.

The first-period bell still echoed as we spilled into the auditorium lobby, already crowded with bodies. Clusters of eighth-grade girls huddled together like nervous sparrows, their whispers sharp and brittle. Carla and Rachel flanked me, arms crossed like shields, their faces pinched with unease. The air hummed—not just with the buzz of fluorescent lights, but with the static of dread, a collective breath held too long.

Then the room seemed to shift. They appeared without warning—the mailgirls.

Older than any student, older than most teachers, they positioned themselves near every entrance to the seating hall. Their numbers stunned me, but it was their nakedness that struck like a slap—unflinching, indifferent to stares. Symbols and codes covered their ribs, collars gleamed cold as surgical steel. Yet it was their imperfections that held my gaze: skin toughened by sun, scars tracing hips and shoulders like faded seams. Some wore straps that bit into flesh, tools dangling with cryptic purpose. They stood as monuments to something deeper than confidence.

By the east entrance, a red-haired woman stood slouched against the wall, her pale skin deeply lined, resembling the fragile texture of ancient parchment. Nearby, a blonde woman bore a serial number stamped above her chest, the digits marred by a thick scar that sliced through them like a savage claw mark. Then there was her—A7A01. She appeared to be in her late thirties, perhaps older, her movements deliberate and measured, as though years of enduring harsh conditions had left her carrying more than just physical weight. The curve of her stomach stretched and distorted the ink on her hip, twisting the once-crisp characters into something unrecognizable. Her dark, weathered skin gleamed under the unforgiving lights as she turned, and for the briefest of moments, her eyes locked with mine. It was only a flicker of time, but in that split second, something clicked. I knew her—not from here, but from a faded photograph I’d seen in the admin office. A decade-old mailgirl picture, where she stood smiling, younger, unbroken. The academy’s first.

The lights dimmed as Junior Principal Barrera’s heels echoed across the stage. Carla’s elbow jabbed into my ribs, a silent warning, but my pulse had already begun to roar in my ears.

"Welcome, eighth-grade ladies," Barrera began, her voice smooth, practiced, and unwavering. "Today marks the beginning of a path that only a select few will have the privilege to walk, the path of becoming one of the academy's new mailgirls." A hush fell over the auditorium, thick with tension.

"At the beginning of the coming year, after the winter break," she continued, "four of you will earn the honor of officially joining the esteemed ranks of Stephens Academy’s mailgirls." My breath caught.

"The same honor carried by those who came before you—graduates who have served with pride, and of course, those whom you passed in the lobby. They will now join us, seated here in the front rows." All at once, I felt the weight of the presence before me. The mailgirls. The graduates.

I had tried to keep my focus on the stage, to ignore them. But Barrera’s words dragged my gaze back to the front rows—to their exposed bodies, their blank stares, their silent endurance. A cold dread coiled in my stomach, twining around the words my mother had spoken earlier.

"At this time," Barrera announced, her voice unwavering, "I ask all of our current mailgirls to come forward to face your peers."

The air in the auditorium thickened, pressing down on us like a held breath, then movement. From the back of the stage, they rose. Their bodies bore bold numbers and letters, their collars gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. They turned in unison, facing us, their expressions unreadable. To them, their nudity seemed as inconsequential as a school uniform and for the first time, I understood—this wasn’t just an assembly. It was a reckoning.

As they took their seats, I studied them—their presence no longer something I could ignore. These were not the fresh-faced girls I had seen before, the ones who still seemed tethered to the lives they once lived. Their faces etched with time; their postures molded by years of routine. They were fixtures, absorbed into the academy’s unrelenting machine.

It struck me then: becoming a mailgirl wasn’t a temporary role, something endured and eventually left behind. It wasn’t a phase to be outgrown, like an old uniform that no longer fit. It was a suture—a permanent stitch binding them to the institution… forever.

Their bodies bore the passage of time—silver threading through their hair, hands calloused from years of labor—yet they moved with the same regimented precision as the newest recruits. The rules that governed them had not softened, nor had the academy’s demands lessened. If anything, time had not freed them; it had only deepened the grooves of their obligations.

A cold realization settled over me. This wasn’t a sisterhood of youth that faded with graduation. It was something far more unrelenting—a continuum of service that did not end, only absorbed. The academy did not release its mailgirls. It consumed them. As I watched them, their quiet endurance sent a warning that lodged itself deep in my bones.

The assembly dragged on, stretching time unbearably thin. Each passing moment thickened the air, pressing down with an almost suffocating weight. Dr. Reuben Hutchinson, director of Stephens Academy’s senior division, stepped onto the podium. His baritone voice reverberated through the silent auditorium as he called the next names.

Dr. Hutchinson’s voice sliced through the whispers. “The Department of Lifestyle’s mandates are absolute. Once ordained as academic mailgirls, their duties transcend transfers or even graduations. T7B67 serves as a reminder of this permanence, just as do the veteran mailgirls you passed in the lobby and now witness before you.”

A sick weight settled in my stomach. Bound forever? The title of “mailgirl” wasn’t a designation. It was a sentence—a chain locked in place, indefinite and inescapable.

Beside me, Carla sat frozen, her arms crossed so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Rachel’s fingers trembled as she shredded the edge of a program into a mess of tiny scraps. None of us spoke. None of us looked at each other. As if saying anything aloud might summon the same fate upon us. The air in the assembly hall thickened, almost choking.

Dr. Hutchinson’s voice cleaved through it, sharp and deliberate. “Would the three Stephens Academy’s graduating mailgirls step forward?” His gaze swept across the audience like a blade. “Including T7B67, who remains bound by Lifestyle Department protocols despite her… relocation?” A current of unease crackled through the crowd.

T7B67 emerged like a ghost from the wings, her skin a parchment of compliance. The alphanumeric brand—T7B67—tattooed in sharp, flowing script across her clavicle gleamed under the sterile lights, its ink stark against her skin. Unlike the others, her movements carried the precision of wound clockwork, each step a metronome of control. Yet her eyes betrayed her—twin voids where defiance might have once flickered.

Dr. Hutchinson’s voice rang out, unwavering. “The Program’s covenant transcends transfer letters or diplomas,” he declared. “These marks—” he gestured toward the embossed flesh on the girls before him, “—are not mere tattoos. They are burned into the skin. Eternal. Unbroken.”

My lungs tightened. To his left, a freshman mailgirl stood motionless, W7K45 branding the dip of her waist, the ink still raw and glistening. Another, W7M22, bore numerals that swelled with each breath. Their nudity wasn’t vulnerability—it was armor, polished to a cruel sheen.

Then I saw her—Abigail Moon—now W7A07. Last year’s class president. Just months ago, she had walked these halls, her laughter bright and boundless. Now she stood silent, pressing a hand to the curve of her gravid belly, her collar blinking rhythmically—a mechanical heartbeat of surveillance. The barcode on her skin stretched over the marks of stretch lines threading through the ink like cracks in porcelain.

Dr. Hutchinson’s voice broke through the stunned silence. “Observe,” he commanded. The mailgirls pivoted in unison, their flesh rippling under the institutional lighting. “Their commitment outlives enrollment. It outlives choice.”

A sharp inhale. A torn slip of paper. Rachel’s trembling fingers shredded the program in her lap, tiny flakes of confetti falling like dust. Carla’s knuckles blanched white against her arms, her breath shallow. The collar lights blinked in sync, their rhythm burrowing into my skull—click, click, click.

Then, they moved—twelve mailgirls. Twelve silent steps. Their bare feet whispered against the varnished wood as they split into two columns flanking the stage, their bodies arranged in rigid symmetry—a tableau of compliance.

Then she rose—A7A01, lingering center stage. Her shadow stretched long across the floor, grotesque in the spotlight’s glow. Barrera’s voice slithered through the silence. “A7A01 exemplifies our highest honor.”

A muscle in the mailgirl's abdomen tightened as another contraction rippled through her body. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Her hands rested lightly against her stomach, cradling the life inside her as if it were another cog waiting to slot into place.

Hutchinson leaned into the microphone, his voice slicing through the air with finality. “You mistake this for a pre-mailgirl ceremony. It is not. It is an introduction. The Program does not end. It metastasizes.”

The lights dimmed. I exhaled sharply, barely aware I’d been holding my breath. As darkness swallowed the stage, the collars blinked in the silence—a constellation of captive stars and then, I saw—myself—standing among them; branded, collared.

Looking down at the sea of faces, I saw rows of girls who still possessed the luxury of hesitance, doubt, and resistance. Yet, I no longer felt fear. The terror that had once coiled in my stomach had unraveled into something else—something unexpected.

A strange sense of ease washed over me, like sinking into water that had always been waiting to embrace me. The weight of the collar pressed against my throat—not suffocating, but grounding. The numbers etched into my skin no longer felt foreign. They belonged… they had always belonged.

Then, in a blink, I was back in my seat.

The vision—or was it inevitability? —faded, but its ghost lingered in my bones. My breath came steady, measured, as if I had already stepped onto the path laid before me.

I turned to Carla first. Her arms locked tightly around herself, knuckles white, chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. Rachel sat frozen beside her, shredded scraps of the program clutched in trembling fingers.

I leaned toward them, my voice barely above a whisper, yet unyielding. "Take something off."

Carla’s eyes snapped to mine, wide with disbelief. "What?" she breathed, barely audible.

"One item," I said. "Now and don’t think about anyone else."

Rachel exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Are you insane?" Maybe, or maybe I had seen something they hadn’t. Maybe I had glimpsed the inevitable.

The assembly droned on around me, the mailgirls still flanking the stage—silent sentinels of what was to come. Hutchinson’s words still hung heavy in the air. "The Program does not end. It metastasizes."

My arms rested at my sides as Rachel hesitated. Rachel lifted my shirttail, pulling it from the waistband of my jeans. Snaking her hand up the back of my shirt sent chills up my spine. I shivered. Rachel’s fingers found the clasp at my back, trembling for only a moment before she unhooked it. I felt the strap loosening beneath my blouse.

Carla’s hands trembled as she reached inside the sleeve closest to her and slid the shoulder strap down my arm. When it reached my elbow, I bent my arm and pulled it free of the strap. I looked toward Rachel and repeated the process. Then Carla pulled the front of my shirt out of my jeans and reached under my blouse, her fingers brushing the inside of my breasts as she grabbed the fabric between the cups of my now free-hanging bra. The loosened bra slid forward against my stomach, its band brushing my skin as I leaned forward to give Carla room in the front of my blouse.

In a quick, seamless motion, she pulled it free from beneath my blouse, letting the empty fabric of my top settle softly against my free-swinging breasts. The bra disappeared beneath my blouse, until there was nothing left supporting my breasts beneath the thin camisole and blouse. As soon as the bra was free of my blouse, Carla dropped it to the floor and kicked it under the seat in front of me.

The air in the room thickened, charged with an unspoken challenge. A ripple of unease spread through the seated girls, their whispers a nervous hum. Confusion flickered across their faces—was this a test? A signal?

Carla swallowed hard, her fingers twitching at the hem of her blouse. Rachel clenched her jaw, gripping the fabric of her skirt as if it were the last tether to a world she still believed she could hold onto. I could see the war in their eyes—the same war I had fought. The same war I had already lost. Or had I won?

Carla's shoulders quivered slightly under the harsh lights. Her breathing came ragged and uneven, but she did it. With a sharp inhale, she moved, slow but deliberate, crossing the threshold of hesitation.

Rachel was last. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her clothing, knuckles white. She shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. "This is insane."

I met her gaze, steady and unyielding. "It doesn’t matter."

Rachel swallowed, her throat working against the weight of the moment. Then, as if the tension had reached its breaking point, movement rippled through the room. I wasn’t sure who stood first, but suddenly, girls were rising from their seats. Some hesitated, gripping their blouses and skirts, clinging to a fleeting sense of security. Others didn’t wait—feet shuffling, shoulders stiff, backs turned as they hurried toward the exits.

They were leaving, as if escape was still an option.

[SixPathsKeyblader]

I like the premise of this story, but with all due respect, the pacing is way too slow. I personally feel that Barelin relies too heavily on AI in these stories. I've played around with AI before, and it can be fun for a little while, but I have noticed that the AI drags things out and takes way too long to get to the point that you want it to get to. It spends too much time describing settings and moods leading up to a big event, and it takes forever to actually get to the point of the event actually happening. Also, it repeats itself too much, it just loves the line "her voice, barely above a whisper".

[barelin]

The Mailgirl of Stephens Academy

Chapter 3A: The Weight of Compliance

All around me, people began to rise and file out of the auditorium. I watched as a wave of older mailgirls stood up, following the crowd toward the lobby. I remained seated, frozen, my eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before me. The sight of the seasoned mailgirls passing by was overwhelming, and for a moment, I saw myself among them, my vision blurring as I felt on the verge of passing out. My mind raced, trying to process everything, but I was barely aware of my surroundings.

Somewhere in the chaos, I heard what I thought was Carla groaning in frustration, likely reacting to someone—maybe Rachel—having their phone out. The details were hazy, but I remember Carla throwing up her hands in exasperation, trying to get me to stand. “This isn’t going to happen. It can’t happen,” she insisted, her voice tinged with urgency.

Under my breath, I muttered, “This is such bullshit,” but the words didn’t stop me from nervously tugging at my blouse. My hands trembled until I felt someone’s hand gently rest on mine, bringing my fidgeting to a halt.

I noticed Rachel’s movements were sharp and deliberate, her anger palpable, though she stayed silent. She flashed her phone screen at me, but I couldn’t fully grasp what she was trying to convey. My attention shifted to Carla, who seemed hesitant and uneasy, her fingers fidgeting nervously as uncertainty flickered across her face. It felt like the assembly was nearing its end, and amid their hurried actions, they managed to slip my bra off. I glanced down and saw it lying on the floor at my feet.

I sat there, a strange sense of inevitability washing over me. It was as though I knew I’d soon be stripped down to my true self, exposed and vulnerable. My eyes darted between Carla and Rachel as they exchanged words, their expressions a mix of frustration and disgust. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, leaving me frozen in place, caught between resignation and the surreal reality of what was unfolding.

The auditorium seat felt suffocating; the air thick with unspoken tension. Carla stood nearby, her arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched, while Rachel avoided my gaze, her discomfort etched into every line of her face. I wrapped my arms around my chest, the realization sinking in—I was now braless. The weight of what had just happened pressed down on me, my mind spiraling with questions, uncertainty, and a quiet terror of consequences I couldn’t yet name. A strange calmness lingered just out of reach, elusive and taunting.

The voice in my head whispered doubts, questioning whether I could simply grab the bra from the floor and end this madness. Had I made the right choice by following the instructions so blindly? The auditorium was nearly empty, yet I remained frozen, my breath catching and my limbs stiffening as the full weight of the situation settled over me. Everything I had known before this moment had unraveled.

My past, my identity, the very foundation of who I was—it had all crumbled, leaving behind one undeniable truth: I was becoming just another, mindless mailgirl. I looked down at myself, at the layers of fabric that now felt foreign against my skin. No one had spoken the words aloud, but I knew—the line had been crossed. The expensive fabric of the bra on the floor was not mine anymore, and there was no room for denial, no desperate scramble for escape.

Acceptance settled over me, heavy and inescapable. Soon, I would stand among them—bare and belonging. I glanced at my two best friends, their faces shifting between disbelief and something I couldn’t quite decipher. Their lips moved, but their words never reached me. I was severed, no longer moored, the life I had once known, drifting toward a reality I had never imagined. And yet, I wasn’t afraid.

The fear that had filled me, desperate and insistent, had begun to slip away, dissolving like morning mist. There was no way back—only forward. As I inhaled a slow, steady breath, something unexpected settled within me.

I was ready.

Time blurred. One moment, I sat trapped in my seat; the next, I found myself drifting out of the empty auditorium and into the lobby, my body moving sluggishly as if disconnected from my thoughts. My two best friends stayed close, holding my hands, their presence a fragile tether to the reality I once knew—though even that felt uncertain now, as I drifted toward something unimaginable.

Then, through the haze, Rachel’s voice broke through. We were standing in the crowded lobby, surrounded by people, when she murmured, “She picked it up.” Her tone was a mix of curiosity and apprehension, though it wasn’t clear who or what she was referring to.

I blinked, confused. “What?”

Rachel hesitated, then clarified, “That girl in front of us… she picked up a discarded bra and waved it.”

Those words should have jolted me. They should have sent a wave of embarrassment crashing over me, knowing that anyone who looked at me would see I was braless. I should have felt the sting of humiliation, the weight of eyes piercing through me, making my heart race in protest. But I didn’t. Instead, I simply felt the subtle shift of my breasts with each step, the absence of support so natural that it barely registered. A strange calm settled over me as if I had already forgotten what it felt like to wear a bra.

I exhaled, my voice steady. “What are you talking about? I don’t wear one.” Because, deep down, I already knew. I just hadn’t been ready to admit it—until now.

As we stepped into the vast, open hallway, the brightness of the overhead lights made me squint, the world around me feeling distant and surreal. Is this happening? I wondered, my thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a storm. The sheer swell of bodies moving through the corridor only added to my disorientation—a blur of motion, voices, and stares that seemed to pierce through me. Why does it feel like everyone’s looking at me? My heart thudded unevenly, and I clutched the lower buttons of my blouse below my breasts, my fingers tightening instinctively. Why does this feel so uncomfortable? Why does everything feel so wrong?

Their hands held mine, their firm grip anchoring me, or at least trying to. ‘Are they trying to pull me back to reality?’ I thought dimly. But what even is reality anymore? My fingers fumbled with the buttons, tugging at them without thought as if trying to ground myself in something tangible. Why can’t I just breathe? Why does it feel like the walls are closing in?

Then Rachel’s voice broke through, sharp and laced with anger. “This isn’t you, Dani,” she hissed, and I looked up, startled. Her eyes burned with intensity, but her words barely registered. Isn’t it me? What does that even mean? Who am I supposed to be? Carla chimed in, her voice cutting through the haze. “No way, no way I’m standing by and letting you—” She stopped herself, frustration tangling her words. Let me know what. I thought, my mind scrambling to keep up. What are they so afraid of?

Their urgency pressed against me, but I couldn’t fully process it. My mind felt scattered, thoughts slipping through my fingers like sand. Why can’t I think straight? Why does everything feel so heavy? And then, suddenly, I felt the fabric slip from my grasp. What just happened?

Rachel’s voice cut through the moment, startled and exasperated. “You’re destroying the blouse!”

I glanced down, my breath hitching. The buttons I had been gripping were gone—ripped clean off. Three of them lay scattered on the floor, torn away just below my breasts, leaving the fabric gaping open. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I stared at the damage, my pulse quickening. What have I done? The weight of what was happening pressed down with undeniable force. This is real. This is happening. And then—oh. This is just the beginning, isn’t it?

Carla reached into my purse, still slung over my shoulder, and pulled out my phone. She unlocked it and pressed it into my hand, her expression unreadable. What is she doing? What’s on the screen? My fingers slightly as I took it, the pounding in my ears drowning out everything else. Why does it feel like the world is spinning?

The screen lit up with a message—one sent to all of us. Just a few words, simple yet absolute:

“You will be leaving the academy in nothing since you are to be naturally yourself in the best attire you have.”

I read it once. Then again. What does that even mean? Naturally myself? Best attire? My stomach churned as I scrolled further, my eyes struggling to focus. Below were frantic messages my friends had sent to my mom. Desperate pleas, begging her to stop this, to undo what we all knew was coming. They’re trying to save me, but from what? From becoming one of them? The messages were frantic, offering themselves in my place, swearing they would do anything—anything—to keep me from becoming a mailgirl. , as I had learned it was called. Why would they do that? Why would they sacrifice themselves for me?

My chest tightened as I read their words, their fear and desperation leaping off the screen. They’re willing to give up everything for me, but why? I scrolled further, my hands shaking. The message continued, explaining that one does not expect to remove everything at once—only to let it happen gradually, at a pace that felt right. As if that makes it any better, I thought bitterly. As if any of this is okay.

My stomach clenched as I reached the end of the messages. This is happening. There’s no way out. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. I’m going to become one of them. A mailgirl. Nothing else matters now. I looked up at my friends, their faces a mix of fear and determination. They’re fighting for me, but it’s too late. Isn’t it?

A strange calm began to settle over me, even as my heart raced. Maybe this is who I’m supposed to be. Maybe this is what’s meant to happen. The fear that had been clawing at me began to fade, replaced by a quiet acceptance. There’s no going back. Only forward. I took a slow, shaky breath, my fingers tightening around the phone. I’m ready. I have to be.

I was fully aware that the old reality I had woken up to this morning was gone, slipping through my fingers like water. The familiar faces, the routines, and the comfort of what I had always known—it was all fading into a distant past, unreachable now. The voices around me blurred into a distant hum, their urgency and concern no longer piercing through the fog in my mind. ‘This is it,’ I thought, resigned to my fate. This is the moment everything changes.

What would have sent me into a panic before now felt different. Beneath the fear, beneath the uncertainty, there was something else—acceptance. A whisper of inevitability, quiet but undeniable. A strange, unsettling hope that I couldn’t quite explain but knew was there, lingering just beneath the surface. Is this what it feels like to let go? I wondered. To stop fighting and just…be?

Because if this was truly happening—if my mother had known all along that the system chose me to be one of the four upcoming eighth-grade academic mailgirls at Stephens Academy, chosen to walk these hallways in nothing but my body, as if it were the most natural thing in the world—then maybe, just maybe, this was the path I was meant to take. Her ultimate goal, I realized, was for me to walk through life as effortlessly bare as the senior mailgirls, unbothered by the lack of clothing, even in the harshest winters. The thought should have terrified me, but instead, it felt…strangely freeing.

After all, it had been technically legal to be untethered by clothes since before I was even born. Why should it feel so strange? I asked myself. Why should it feel so wrong? The rules, the expectations, and the layers of fabric I had always worn—they were just constructs, weren’t they? Maybe this is what it means to be truly free, I thought. To shed not just the clothes, but the weight of what everyone else thinks I should be.

I glanced around the hallway, at the faces of my classmates, some curious, some indifferent, some already moving on with their day. Do they see me differently now? I wondered. Or am I just another part of the scenery, blending into the rhythm of this place? The thought was oddly comforting. Maybe this isn’t about standing out. Maybe it’s about belonging to something bigger, something I don’t fully understand yet.

As I stood there, the weight of my old life slipping away, I felt a strange sense of calm settle over me. This is who I am now, I realized. This is who I’m becoming. For the first time, the thought didn’t fill me with dread. Instead, it felt like stepping into a new skin, one that fit in ways I hadn’t expected. Maybe this is what it means to be me, I thought. To be truly, unapologetically me. With that, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped forward into the unknown.

The present reality came crashing back into focus, sharp and unrelenting. My legs felt unsteady, and I leaned heavily on my friends, their hands gripping my arms to keep me upright. I’m going to fall, I thought, the world tilting slightly around me, but they held me firm, their presence grounding me even as my mind spiraled. The sound of the bell marking the end of the second period—and the end of the assembly—jolted me from my thoughts, its shrill tone cutting through the haze like a knife.

Rachel’s voice broke the silence, pulling me back to the moment. “Dani,” she said, her tone low but urgent. I turned to her, my eyes meeting hers, and saw the quiet intensity in her gaze. She was searching my face, trying to understand, to make sense of what was happening to me. “Talk to us,” she urged. “What’s going on in your head?”

I glanced between her and Carla, my breath shaky as I exhaled. Slowly, I let my arms drop to my sides, my hands trembling slightly. “I saw myself,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper. “During the assembly… I saw myself on that stage. Not just once, but several times, and I wasn’t… I wasn’t wearing anything. Just a collar, and… and a mark. My branding.” The words felt strange coming out of my mouth, like they belonged to someone else. “The thing is… I wasn’t scared. Not of that reality. Not what it meant.”

Carla’s eyes widened, her grip on my arm tightening. “Dani,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Are you saying you’re… accepting that? That’s you?” Her words hung in the air, heavy and loaded. I could see the tears forming in her eyes, glistening as they threatened to spill over. Rachel, too, looked on the verge of breaking, her jaw clenched as she fought to keep her composure.

Around us, the hallway buzzed with activity. Students hurried past, their laughter and chatter a stark contrast to the tension between us. We need to move, I thought vaguely. The next bell’s going to ring soon, and Rachel’s class is across the building. But for a moment, none of that mattered. All that mattered was the look on my friends’ faces—the fear, the confusion, the heartbreak.

I placed my hands on their shoulders, my touch gentle but firm. “I don’t know anything anymore,” I admitted, my voice steadier now. “I don’t know who I am, or what’s happening to me, but I do know this…” I paused, swallowing hard. “I feel suffering in these clothes. Uncomfortable. Like what I’m wearing now is… wrong. Like it’s too much.”

Rachel’s breath hitched, and Carla shook her head, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “Dani, this isn’t you,” Rachel said, her voice breaking. “You don’t have to do this. We can fight it. We can—”

“No,” I interrupted, my voice firmer than I expected. “You don’t understand. This isn’t about fighting anymore. It’s about… accepting. I think… I think I’m ready to do that.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Rachel opened her mouth to argue, but Carla stopped her with a look. “Dani,” Carla said softly, her voice barely audible over the noise of the hallway. “If this is really what you want… if this is who you are… then we’ll stand by you. No matter what.”

I felt a lump rise in my throat, my vision blurring with unshed tears. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but… I’m glad you’re here with me.”

The next warning bell rang, its sharp tone cutting through the moment. Rachel glanced down the hallway, her expression torn. “I have to go,” she said reluctantly, but this isn’t over, Dani. We’re not giving up on you.”

I nodded, forcing a small smile. “I know. Go. I’ll be okay.”

As Rachel hurried off, Carla stayed by my side, her hand still gripping mine. “Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get to class. We’ll figure this out together.”

I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders as we started down the hallway. The weight of what was happening still pressed down on me, but for the first time, it didn’t feel unbearable. This is my reality now, I thought, and I’m ready to face it.

[SixPathsKeyblader]

What even got accomplished here? Wasn't this assembly supposed to be where four girls were chosen to become mail girls? However, it seems to me like all they did in this assembly was just show off the mail girls from previous years, and then everyone just ran out of the auditorium prematurely. As for Dani, she just had her bra ripped off and had her blouse ripped up, but that's it. She didn't get naked, and more importantly, she didn't even officially get chosen as of yet. This is precisely the kind of issue that I was talking about in my previous comment.

[barelin]

Thanks for the comment, both good and bad. This story is fully written with a few more chapters. I will use less AI in my upcoming story.

Please keep this in mind, this story is being told my Dani's point of view.

[shmeckle]

I'm enjoying the pacing. Zeroing in on what the main character is feeling, not turning away from it, or rushing through it to get to the payoff of nudity. I don't see that in many stories, but the ones I read that do that, I remember.

[SixPathsKeyblader]

Thanks for the comment, both good and bad. This story is fully written with a few more chapters. I will use less AI in my upcoming story.

Please keep this in mind, this story is being told my Dani's point of view.

Yeah, I get that it is told from Dani's perspective. That's not the problem. I also don't necessarily have a problem with giving the psychology some attention. However, the plot has been sacrificed to some extent here. For example, wasn't this supposed to be the dreaded assembly where some girls were chosen to be mail girls? However, nobody got chosen, and now the assembly seems to be over (thus negating the whole point of the story and all this worrying and mental prep that Dani has been doing for days).

Now imagine this: Dani has been doing all this worrying and prep, and then doesn't even get chosen, but still rips off her bra and blouse. If anything, this does more harm to the story and to Dani's character, since it basically changes Dani from a girl who is genuinely nervous about a daunting event to a mentally unstable exhibitionist who at this point, has essentially just ripped off her clothes for no reason.

Honestly, I feel that this story would have been better if it just started on the day of the assembly, had Dani and her friends get chosen, and just worked from there (telling the story of the things they experienced as mail girls, how people reacted to and treated them, what their day to day life was like, how they coped with it, and yes...a bit of how they felt emotionally too)


Also, the AI repeats things too much. How many times in this recent chapter did it say "The program doesn't end, it consumes" or something to that effect?

One more thing: Just because the story is told from Dani's perspective does not mean that every chapter has to be purely psychological with no plot advancement. A first person point of view can still be maintained as the speaker of the story sees/hears/experiences new events going on around them. Not everything has to be internal/emotional.

[barelin]

The Mailgirl of Stephens Academy

Chapter 3B: The Point of No Return

Carla’s grip on my hand tightened as we walked, her fingers digging into my palm like she was afraid I might vanish if she let go. Her eyes darted nervously around the hallway, scanning the faces of passing students, her anxiety palpable. I could feel her unease radiating off her, a sharp contrast to the strange calm that had settled over me. My mind was elsewhere, already drifting toward the inevitable future I had accepted—becoming one of the mindless mailgirls, stripped of identity, stripped of choice. There was no point in fighting it anymore. The assembly had made that clear. The stage, the collars, the branding—it was all real, and it was coming for me.

I was acutely aware of how my blouse hung loosely below my breasts, the buttons ripped off in a moment of frustration, leaving the white camisole beneath exposed. The fabric felt foreign against my skin, like it didn’t belong to me. I didn’t care. Not about the blouse, not about the stares, not about the whispers. Soon, none of it would matter. Soon, I wouldn’t be wearing anything at all. The thought should have terrified me, but instead, it brought a strange sense of relief. No more pretending. No more fighting. Just acceptance.

Carla’s voice broke through my thoughts, low and urgent, pulling me back to the present. “Dani, you can fight this mailgirl thing,” she whispered, her eyes wide with mortification. “Do you… Do you realize how many people are staring?” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing as she glanced around nervously, her grip on my hand tightening even more.

I followed her gaze, noticing the sideways glances from passing students. Some whispered to each other, their eyes flicking toward me before darting away. I caught snippets of their conversations, sharp and judgmental. “Did you see her blouse?” one girl hissed to her friend. “What’s wrong with her? Is she trying to get attention?” Another group of boys snickered, their laughter cutting through the air like knives. “Look at her,” one of them muttered, his voice dripping with mockery. “She’s practically asking for it.”

For a moment, a flicker of defiance sparked inside me. I wanted to give them all a show, to yank the rest of the blouse off right there in the hallway and let them see exactly how little I cared. But the spark faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by that same numb acceptance. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. This wasn’t about them. It was about me; about the future I couldn’t escape.

“I know,” I said simply, my voice calm, almost detached. “But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. No mailgirls wear clothes.”

Carla’s jaw dropped, her grip on my hand tightening to the point of pain. “Dani, what are you talking about? Of course, it matters! You can’t just… You, we are all fourteen. We can all go to the state welfare office and demand they put an end to this mailgirl thing—” She cut herself off, her voice trembling. “This isn’t you. You’re not… you’re not like this. You’re our friend, a free-thinking woman. I don’t want to lose you to this… this mailgirl stuff.”

I stopped walking and turned to face her; my expression steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside me. Carla’s eyes were pleading, desperate for me to snap out of whatever trance she thought I was in, but I wasn’t in a trance. I was awake, more awake than I’d ever been. And I was tired—so tired—of pretending.

“Carla,” I said softly, “I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m accepting my fate, but I do know that—these clothes, this body—it doesn’t feel like mine. Not really. It’s like I’m wearing a costume over my true self, and I’m finally ready to take it off. I’m ready to accept that I’m going to become a mailgirl, just like we saw on the stage. Just like those who were previously students here.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t just… give up, Dani. You can’t just let this happen. We can fight it. We can—”

“No,” I interrupted, my voice firmer now. “This isn’t about giving up. It’s about… letting go. I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel like I’ve been holding on to something that doesn’t belong to me, and I’m tired, Carla. I’m so tired of pretending. I’m tired of fighting the realization that my name is on that shortlist. I’m going to be one of those four new mailgirls announced after the winter break. It’s done.”

She stared at me, her tears spilling over as she struggled to find the right words. Around us, the hallway buzzed with activity, the noise of laughter and chatter a stark contrast to the heaviness between us. A group of freshmen rushed past, their backpacks swinging, oblivious to the weight of the conversation happening just feet away. Someone dropped a stack of papers, and they scattered across the floor, drawing a few annoyed groans. But none of it mattered. Not to me. Not anymore.

I could see the fear in Carla’s eyes, the heartbreak, but I also saw something else—understanding. She didn’t agree with me, but she was trying to. And that meant more to me than she could ever know.

“Dani,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “If this is really what you want… if this is who you are… then I’ll stand by you. No matter what, but please… just promise me you’ll think about it. Think about it.”

I nodded, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “I will,” I promised, “but I need you to trust me. I need you to believe that I know what I’m doing.”

She hesitated, then nodded, her grip on my hand loosening slightly. “Okay,” she whispered. “I trust you.”

The warning bell rang, its sharp tone cutting through the moment. Carla glanced down the hallway, her expression torn. “I have to go,” she said reluctantly, “but we’re not done talking about this, okay?”

I forced a small smile. “Okay. Go. I’ll be fine.”

As she hurried off, I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders as I continued down the hallway. The stares and whispers didn’t bother me anymore. I knew what was coming, and for the first time, I felt ready to face it. The blouse, the camisole, the judgment—it was all temporary. Soon, it wouldn’t matter. Soon, I would be just another mailgirl.

I reached into my bookbag, my fingers brushing against the jacket I’d stuffed in there earlier. For a moment, I hesitated, my hand resting on the fabric. Then, without thinking, I pulled it out and let it drop by the trash can near the lockers. I didn’t need it anymore. I didn’t need any of it.

As I stepped toward the doorway of Mrs. Thompson’s English Language Arts classroom, the final bell rang, its sharp chime cutting through the low murmur of lingering hallway chatter. Normally, that sound sent a jolt of anxiety through me, a reminder that I was moments away from facing yet another day of whispers, stares, and carefully worded sympathy, but today was different.

The weight of everything—the loss, the change, the uncertainty—still pressed down on me, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like it would crush me. It was there, steady and heavy, but manageable. I took a slow breath, my fingers tightening around the strap of my backpack as I crossed the threshold. This was my life now, my new reality. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like running from it. I was ready to face it.

As I stepped through the doorway, the weight of my thoughts scattered into nothingness. My mind went completely blank. It wasn’t just me—several others around me halted in their tracks, their faces mirroring my stunned disbelief. A hush spread across the room, yet the silence wasn’t empty. It was thick, heavy with the collective confusion and discomfort hanging in the air.

Before us, the usual order of the classroom had crumbled into something unrecognizable. Some students stood near their desks, frozen mid-step, while others had stopped just short of sitting down, their bodies tense as if caught between fight and flight. The sight before us defied comprehension, and as I forced myself to process it, my stomach twisted.

There, casually leaning over the table beside Mrs. Thompson’s desk, were three of the so-called mailgirls—the same ones we had seen on stage before. Their bare bodies were on full display, completely unbothered by the dozens of stunned eyes locked onto them. But that wasn’t what sent my pulse into a frantic rhythm of disbelief and unease. No, it was the signs. Two of them had placards hanging from their backs, turned outward so everyone in the room could read them clearly:

"Urgent Official Parcel Inside."

The words sent a chill through me, but what truly unsettled me was what lay beneath those signs—the reason I had hesitated to let my gaze wander further. And yet, against my better judgment, I forced myself to look.

I regretted it immediately.

From my angle, the sight was anything but normal. My brain scrambled to make sense of what I was seeing, but logic refused to bridge the gap between reality and whatever twisted version of it this was. Two of them had something lodged inside them—large cylindrical objects that seemed absurdly oversized for where they had been inserted. The sheer unnaturalness of it made my skin crawl. How could anyone endure something like that? And more disturbingly, why?

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, my breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to panic. I needed a second—just one—to wrap my head around this, but with the overwhelming silence, the weight of so many eyes frozen in the same stunned horror, and the surreal audacity of what was right in front of me, I wasn’t sure if a second would be enough.

The classroom felt like a pressure cooker; the air was thick with tension so dense it was nearly suffocating. My pulse pounded in my ears as if my body was trying to warn me—this isn't normal, this isn’t okay. I could feel the weight of every gaze, every whispered comment exchanged in hushed, uneasy tones, and every stifled laugh that only added to the surreal horror of the moment. My skin prickled under the scrutiny, a heat creeping up my neck that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with sheer discomfort.

I kept my head down, my eyes fixed on the desk in front of me as if grounding myself in something familiar could somehow erase what I had just seen. But no matter how hard I tried to steady my thoughts, my mind remained a battlefield, chaotic and unrelenting.

The teacher’s voice drifted through the air, a distant hum as if she were speaking from another world entirely. The words had no meaning, drowned out by the storm raging inside my head. I wanted to believe that I was imagining things, that I had misinterpreted what was happening, but the reality sat there in plain sight—three girls, completely exposed, their bodies turned into some kind of spectacle for reasons I couldn’t begin to understand.

I swallowed hard, my fingers clenching into fists against my thighs. I needed to move, to do something, but I felt rooted to the spot, trapped in the suffocating silence that hung between the gasps and murmurs of my classmates. No one knew what to say. No one knew how to react, and worst of all, I wasn’t sure if anyone was going to stop it.

Mrs. Thompson entered the room with the kind of presence that demanded attention. She didn’t speak right away, but the weight of her gaze was enough to send a shiver down my spine. She scanned the classroom slowly, her sharp eyes sweeping over each of us, assessing, calculating. One by one, my classmates broke from their stunned daze, shuffling toward their seats like they were waking from some kind of trance. I followed suit, lowering myself into my chair, but the tension in my body refused to ease.

The moment the last person sat down, the room fell into a deadly silence. It was the kind of quiet that carried a suffocating weight as if even the air had thickened with unspoken questions and unvoiced dread. No one dared to speak, not even to whisper. The only sound was the faint creak of a chair as someone shifted uncomfortably.

I forced myself to glance up, my heart pounding against my ribs. The mailgirls were still there, still posed in their obscene display, completely unfazed. It was as if they weren’t even aware of how unnatural this was—or worse, they didn’t care. The signs on their backs remained in full view, their vulgar implications practically screaming in the silence. My stomach twisted.

Mrs. Thompson set her books down on her desk with a deliberate slowness, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she spoke, her voice calm yet carrying an undeniable authority.

“Well,” she said, clasping her hands together. “I see you’ve all noticed our new additions to the classroom.”

A few people shifted in their seats, eyes darting between each other, searching for some kind of explanation. No one spoke. I wasn’t even sure I was breathing.

Mrs. Thompson didn’t seem fazed by the tension. If anything, she looked… amused.

“Just as the sign states,” she continued smoothly, her gaze sweeping over the room, “Urgent Official Parcel Inside.”

My blood ran cold.

I glanced around, searching for anyone who might share the same creeping horror I felt, but most of my classmates were either too stunned or too afraid to react.

Mrs. Thompson turned toward the mailgirls, giving them a brief once-over before addressing the class again. “Now, let’s begin.” Just like that, she started the lesson.

As if nothing was wrong.

As if this was normal.

As if we were supposed to just accept it.

As Mrs. Thompson began calling out names for attendance, her voice carried on as if this were just another ordinary day, but nothing about this was ordinary.

I couldn’t focus on the roll call—couldn’t even pretend to care. My mind was locked onto the scene before us, the absurdity of it all gnawing at the edges of my reality. I stole glances at my classmates, searching for some kind of validation, some confirmation that I wasn’t alone in my disbelief. Most were doing the same—staring, shifting uncomfortably, trying to make sense of what we were all being forced to witness. That’s when it happened.

A sudden rush of heat surged through me, a strange, unnatural warmth that made my head swim. My body felt like it was burning from the inside out, and before I could even comprehend what was happening, my hands instinctively moved to my blouse.

Then—rip.

My fingers yanked at the fabric with more force than I realized, and before I could stop myself, a button shot forward like a tiny bullet, whizzing past my desk and nearly hitting the guy sitting in the row ahead of me.

The sharp gasp I let out, coupled with the loud clack of my chair tilting dangerously backward, drew immediate attention. A few heads snapped in my direction, and I froze, heat rushing to my face for an entirely different reason now.

Mrs. Thompson paused mid-roll, her gaze shifting to me with mild interest. “Is there a problem, Miss…?” She glanced down at her clipboard before finishing, “Carter?”

I opened my mouth, but words failed me. My fingers were still clutching the half-open blouse, my breathing uneven as I tried to comprehend what had just happened. My skin and my pulse raced, and that unnatural warmth hadn’t faded—it was still there, simmering just beneath the surface.

A few snickers echoed from the back of the room. The guy I nearly hit with my button turned halfway in his seat, raising an eyebrow at me but saying nothing.

Mrs. Thompson’s lips curled into something resembling amusement. “If you’re feeling… overwhelmed, Miss Carter, you’re free to step outside until you collect yourself.”

Overwhelmed? That wasn’t the word for it. What the hell was happening to me?

I swallowed hard, forcing my trembling hands to let go of my blouse and place themselves firmly on my desk. “No, I’m fine.”

Mrs. Thompson held my gaze for a moment longer before moving on, resuming a roll call as if nothing had happened, but something had happened, and I wasn’t the only one who felt it.

I saw it now—the subtle shifts in posture, the nervous hands adjusting collars or tugging at sleeves. The way some of my classmates were fidgeting more than usual, their breathing just a little too unsteady.

Whatever was happening to me… was happening to them, too.

As Mrs. Thompson continued calling names, I felt the subtle vibration of my phone in my pocket. The sensation sent a strange jolt through me as if it had startled me more than it should have. With careful movements, I pulled it out, angling the screen away just in case.

A message from Mom.

My stomach tightened as I read the text. "Tell me what items you took off."

My breath hitched. My fingers slightly as I glanced down at myself. The blouse—if I could even call it that anymore—was now missing all its buttons. What I hadn't torn off before, I had finished off just now, leaving it hanging open like some makeshift blazer. The fabric barely stayed in place, exposing more than I was comfortable with.

I quickly typed a response. "The jacket and blouse buttons."

I hesitated before hitting send, glancing around. A few eyes were still on me, lingering just a bit too long, and their curiosity palpable. My face burned, but I refused to react. Instead, I forced myself to move.

With a decisive motion, I shrugged off what was left of the blouse, letting it slip from my shoulders. The ruined fabric pooled onto the floor beside my bookbag, officially worthless now. I barely had time to process the weight of what I was doing before I looked back at my phone, fingers moving automatically as I added one more line.

"I damaged the remaining buttons that I didn't have before class. Now it’s worthless on the floor." I hit send.

As soon as the message went through, I swallowed hard, forcing myself to refocus on the lesson. Or at least, pretend to. Because deep down, I knew—this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.