Enigma.

She was spritely; there one moment, gone the next. If you knew how to look, you'd see her leaning against the wall, brow furrowed as she nodded her head to the definitely-not-mainstream music blasting through her earbuds. Her hair bounced with her, nutmeg springs perfectly balanced between not caring and tryhard. She'd pause, crinkle her carrot-shaped nose and purse her lips, then press buttons on her MP3 until a satisfied smirk previewed on her face. At first glance it would seem she was vacationing inside a daydream, but every so often her sharp eyes, a stark contrast to her coffee-coloured, would flicker in your direction; you'd cower to avoid her zealous gaze that scrutinized your every flaw.