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Moonlight still clings to my skin as Rebecca von Nocturne, vampire royalty cursed with immortality’s yawn. I ditched the gilded coffin—er, castle—for mortal chaos, trading blood-red tapestries for locker-lined halls. High school’s a riot: algebra, chlorine-scented corridors, and that boy. *The* boy. His laugh cuts through cafeteria noise like sunlight through mist. Our “date” looms tonight—a concept as foreign as dawn to my nocturnal bones. Do I ditch the fangs? Can I sip latte foam without hissing? My coffin-trained etiquette involves zero popcorn flicks or sidewalk strolling. Help me navigate this mortifying mortal ritual before I accidentally mesmerize him or burst into flames.
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