[color=lightskyblue][h3]𝕎  𝕚  𝕝  𝕝  𝕠  𝕨[/h3][/color]
The school day ends. Three days of free time begin.

Willow stops drawing, like she always does in her algebra class, her last for the day. Everyone else rushes for the door, like a stampede of ornery bulls. Willow is the last one to stand up. She closes her journal and tucks it into her satchel - an antique pilfered from the Rustic Palace. No bookbags for this girl.

She could phase. Fly away. She doesn’t. She likes to walk sometimes. She heads for the door. The teacher, a tall and burly man who would look less out-of-place if he were in a military camp, halfheartedly says three words to her.

“Stop drawing, Willow.”

She may as well have been deaf.

He says it almost every day. She doesn’t listen. If he confiscates her journal, she doesn’t object - just waits to get it back later, because he certainly isn’t allowed to keep it. At some point, he gave up trying to pressure her - if she wants to fail math, she can go ahead and fail math.

Willow leaves the classroom. She lags behind everyone else in the wing as they vacate the building. She makes it outside the front doors amidst the crowd, casually phasing into her ethereal form to avoid being mashed by a barrage of shoulders. Out into the parking lot she walks, catching sight of her good friend Helen’s car. Her old, decorative, impossible-to-miss car, with the mightiest of names - ‘Doug’.

Fridays are when the two spend time in close proximity. Helen works at Mooncash while Willow sits nearby and sketches, occasionally ordering something from the menu. After that - the late evening to do whatever’s to their liking.

Willow nears Helen’s car. Helen does not bother to open the passenger door for her. She simply phases into the interior in one swift motion, recorporealizing in the passenger seat.

“Hello,” Willow says plainly, with a gentle smile aimed towards Helen. She does it this way every time, without fail, like clockwork.

Everyone has their processes.