THE THIN LINE
BETWEEN US.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She was the storm he was sworn to avoid.
He was the fire she was raised to hate.
And yet—they burned just the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1

“you? “

—Spoken like a slap, not a question.

 

 

 

 

Canary Wharf. 2013.                          

Spring returned, and with it, the halls of the boarding school swelled once more with restless students. Cleophrea moved through the throng like a finely honed blade cloaked in silk—her pale hair shimmering faintly, framing a face carved with an austere grace. Her eyes, sharp and unrelenting beneath delicately arched brows, bore into the world with a chill that unsettled even the most confident. There was an almost unnatural composure to her, a stillness that hinted at latent power. Without effort, she reclaimed her place at the summit of the academic hierarchy, her reputation as immaculate as the chapel’s stained glass, where she was often found—hands folded, haloed in soft light.

Yet there was one adversary she could neither dominate nor dismiss—the sole student who dared eclipse her, by a maddening margin of mere points.

No one bested Cleophrea. No one could. Except him.

When the teacher assigned them to share a desk, believing their rivalry might elevate the class, it only deepened the tension.

As she gathered her books to sit beside him, she cast a glance sharp as a blade—equal parts vexation and reluctant intrigue. His unruly curls fell carelessly over a forehead, framing eyes—keen, observant, and unyielding behind wire-rimmed glasses—that missed nothing.
  "Hey, I’m Finn—the almighty who crushed you at the International Olympiad. Don’t think you’ll get lucky twice."” he said with a smirk.
“And that look? Yeah—I get it a lot. Somewhere between obsession and attempted murder. Don’t worry, I can handle both.”

 something that he said with pure pride, continued with a scoff. And that made Cleophrea’s mind filled with anger , instead of jealousy. But she always strikes. With her sharp and intelligent words.

“Relax,” she said coolly, not sparing him a glance.
“If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t miss. And if I wanted to fall for you…”
She let the silence stretch just long enough to make him lean in—
“…I’d get my head checked.”

He smirked.

“Careful, Myles. That almost sounded like flirting.”
“Then consider it your hallucination,” she said, flipping her notebook open like she was ending the conversation—and him.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips—subtle, but impossible to miss.
She hadn’t even said her name, yet he already knew it. Not because he was stalking her.
Because it was everywhere.
Plastered on the Best Student Award.
Whispered through halls.
Threaded in rumors.

As chemistry class commenced, Cleophrea’s pen moved swiftly across the page, her brow knitting with quiet intensity.
 Focused. Unyielding. Her uniform was impeccable, indistinguishable from the others—save for the delicate gold necklace resting at her collarbone. A silent emblem of triumph, awarded only to those who conquered the international olympiad . And it belonged to her.

Finn stole a quick glance at her, hoping to go unnoticed—and for once, she remained absorbed, too focused to register him. His eyes caught the faint gleam of the gold necklace nestled beneath her blazer, so meticulously polished it seemed she wore it as a challenge for all to see. “That necklace looks like it was plucked from some cursed library, left untouched and gathering dust for a century,” he muttered, a cutting barb slipping out. Unbeknownst to him, Cleophrea’s retort was already forming—far sharper, far colder—each word a twisting knife that would cut deeper than he imagined.

“So observant of you, Cross,” she snapped, her voice a blade of ice—effortless, precise. “Jealousy clings to you better than any trinket you’ve ever tried to wear.”

Her words hung in the air, sharp and unyielding. Yet instead of faltering, he merely grinned—curiosity flickering beneath the surface. How did she know his last name? No one dared speak it aloud—not teachers, not students, not even those who called themselves his friends.

Still, he remained in character, lips curling with practiced venom. He struck back with words honed like daggers, each one a calculated thrust in their silent duel.

“Jealous? Please.” Finn’s voice dropped to a sardonic drawl. “If I wanted what you have, I’d rummage through the bargain bin at some forgotten fantasy book signing and come out wearing that tragic necklace you call ‘vintage.’”

Cleophrea didn’t respond immediately. The silence stretched, thick and deliberate. Finn, sensing his triumph, leaned in just slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He thought the moment was his.

But then her eyes found his—sharp, unwavering, fierce. It was the only gaze that ever truly held his attention. There was something unsettling in the way she looked at him, something almost… deliberate. And strangely, he welcomed it.

The bell rang, slicing through the charged stillness. Before Finn could rise to offer a parting word, Cleophrea shifted and nudged him gently with her shoulder. Not with irritation, nor with any clear intent—more like a quiet accident. The unexpected contact made him stumble back, caught off guard by its neutrality.

He thought she would fold. Thought she’d lose every argument they ever had.
But he was wrong. So wrong.
He underestimated her.

Magnus and Aksel—Finn’s loyal friends—came up beside him, already plotting their next hangout.
But Finn wasn’t listening. Not really.
His eyes kept drifting toward her.

Cleophrea.

She was talking animatedly with her two closest friends, Elaris and Naomi—her fiercest defenders, her constants.
But even as she laughed, her mind refused to let go of one thing:

Finn.
The boy who’d transferred in just last year.
The one who somehow beat her in the physics olympiad last week.
The one whose name she barely knew until that moment.

That was the beginning.
Not of rivalry. Not of war.
But of something colder. Sharper.
Something neither of them had a name for—yet.

Cleophrea returned to her dorm—quiet, organized, undisturbed.
Everything was exactly where she’d left it. The desk remained neat, her lamp still on, casting a warm, steady light over the open pages of her notes.
They waited for her. Pages filled with formulas, scribbled thoughts, reminders of the upcoming test.
It was almost like the room was welcoming her back. Inviting her to sit. To focus. To keep going.

But she didn’t.

She stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the desk, her mind fogged with exhaustion.
Then she turned, pulled back the covers, and collapsed onto her bed—her thick, fluffy mattress sinking beneath her weight, colorful pillows strewn like fragments of a world she didn’t have time to enjoy.

She didn’t change out of her uniform.
Didn’t wash her face.
Didn’t even Notice Elaris. But the room stayed quiet.

She just laid there, eyes half-closed, letting the silence swallow everything.
Her body ached, not from pain, but from being too alert all day. Too perfect. Too much.

The next morning came cruelly.
Her alarm blared sharp and violent—like it had been waiting to punish her for sleeping too long.
She flinched, groaning into her pillow, dragging it over her ears as if she could mute the world.
Too loud. Too early. Too bright.

Her blazer was still crumpled beside her, and the gold necklace she forgot to remove still pressed coldly against her collarbone.
She didn’t want to move.
She didn’t want to remember.

But school didn’t care how tired she was.

The day hadn’t even begun, yet Cleophrea dragged herself from bed as if wading through a battlefield. The alarm on her nightstand blinked 07:50—mocking, relentless. A quiet curse slipped from her lips.

Breakfast was already out of reach.

School started at 8:10, and she had barely twenty minutes to gather herself and sprint across the courtyard—an impossible task when the walk alone took fifteen.

She moved on sheer instinct, pulling on her blazer, fingers stiff as they swept through her hair, her mind still tangled in sleep’s fog. There was no time to pause. No moment to breathe.

Only the relentless rhythm of routine.

Twenty minutes to outrun lateness.

To outrun weakness.

To outrun herself.

She brushed her teeth in frantic, hurried strokes, nearly jabbing her own gums in her rush. Not long after, she was sprinting across the courtyard, her bag bouncing sharply against her back, the school gates already looming ahead.

She made it. Just in time.

Her heart hammered wildly, breath ragged and uneven. She pushed open the classroom door and slipped inside—second to last, but relieved nonetheless. She had arrived.

As she walked over to the shared desk with Finn , She put down her backpack down beside her chair. “ Late again , princess. That’s why don’t waste your time in the shower singing , it had probably broke your dorm mate’s eardrums. “ and he chuckled.

Cleophrea sat down , elegant but fierce. And she shot a glare at Finn , ready to throw insults back. "Careful, or

I’ll start singing about that Olympiad medal you never got. Tragic stuff — real tearjerker."

And that only made Finn laughing, low in a mock.

It was in that moment, amid the rush and tension, that Cleophrea began to see beyond Finn’s bluster. His ego appeared vast—impossible to ignore—but she sensed it was a carefully crafted façade. Not until much later would she understand the truth beneath the surface, the complexity he guarded so fiercely.

The teacher’s voice cut through the murmurs of the classroom with sudden authority. “You’ll be working on a group project—with your seatmate.”

Cleophrea and Finn exchanged a glance sharp enough to draw blood—disapproval etched into every line of their faces.

“Us? Together?” Cleophrea’s eyes widened in disbelief before a scoff escaped her lips, cold and dismissive.

Finn’s voice dropped to a low, incredulous murmur. “It can’t be.”

Their protests dissolved into silence as the teacher, indifferent to their resistance, moved on without so much as a glance in their direction, pairing the rest of the class with quiet finality.

Cleophrea’s eyes snapped to Finn—cold, razor-sharp, lethal.
Like a predator finally deciding whether to strike.

“Don’t even think about dragging my grades down,” she said, her voice a blade wrapped in velvet.
“I’m not here to be anyone’s academic roadkill.”

Finn didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
His gaze locked with hers, unwavering, like he welcomed the threat.
And then—he smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Infuriating.

“Afraid I’ll pull you under?” he murmured. “That’s rich.”
He leaned just slightly forward, like a storm leaning into glass.
“I’ve been carrying the weight of your panic since day one, Myles. Maybe it’s time you stopped pretending otherwise.”

The air between them shifted—no longer tension, but pressure.
Thick. Charged. Close.
Each word a deliberate strike, every glance a loaded weapon.

Neither blinked.
Neither bowed.

But that made Cleophrea laugh—sharp, humorless, like glass cracking in her throat.

“My grades are still higher than yours, Cross.”

Finn didn’t even glance at her. His voice came cool, immediate.

“Half a point, Myles. Barely a difference.”

That name.

That Myles.

A chill laced down her spine—sharp, sudden, unwelcome.
It wasn’t the insult. It was the precision.
The way he said it. Like he knew exactly what it did to her.

Finn caught the shift in her silence. The pause. The way her pen stopped moving.
And it made him proud.

They worked on the project. Side by side.
But it wasn’t teamwork—it was tension.
Quiet, simmering, poisoned with pride and unspoken resentment.
Each scribble, each glance, felt like a new round of war.

And none of it was loud.

 “Are you stupid or just dimwitted? This is clearly not what I asked for,” Cleophrea snapped, shoving his notes aside—pages full of mismatched, unnecessary information.

Finn’s gaze followed the fluttering papers as they slid across the desk. He crossed his arms, unbothered.

“Bold tone,” he muttered. “Especially from someone who can’t even give clear instructions.”

Their project dragged on—not as a joint effort, but a silent battlefield.
Every exchanged glance was a warning.
Each note they passed was laced with quiet venom, like daggers wrapped in ribbon.
Their pens moved like dueling blades—fluid, fast, unforgiving.
Nothing loud. Nothing obvious.
Just tension—coiled, constant, and cold.

Cleophrea’s gaze flicked to the back of the classroom—where the so-called “gorgeous” girls sat draped over their chairs like royalty.

They were known for two things: their looks, and their lack of intellect.

Whispers often called them stunning, clueless, and blockheaded, sometimes all in the same breath.

But words like that meant nothing to them.
They moved through the world as if it spun solely on their axis—untouchable, untouching.
They giggled endlessly, like children who thought they’d outsmarted the universe.

They laughed—loud, careless, utterly detached from the assignment sprawled before them. As if the grade tied to this project was meaningless. As if the report it demanded wasn’t worth a single thought.

Cleophrea’s eyes narrowed—just for a moment.

And they caught it. Caught her glare mid-sentence, as if they’d been waiting for it all along.

She looked away almost immediately, her expression flat, unreadable.

Those two girls were fixtures on the conduct board—names forever paired like a warning scrawled outside the Student Counseling Room.

Never apart.

Always together.

Marceline DeVaux and Celeste Van Arden.

Names that carried more noise than substance.

The class had thirty minutes left.

They hadn’t touched their project—just laughed, whispered, and wasted time.

They sat there—indifferent, untouched by urgency—their eyes drifting lazily around the room, never once settling on the half-finished project in front of them.

The deadline loomed, minutes bleeding away, but they remained composed, detached.

As if the ticking clock didn’t apply to them.

As if the assignment itself wasn’t silently pleading to be completed, begging for attention it would never receive.

Class ended far too quickly.

Everyone—Cleophrea and Finn included—had finished their project.

Everyone except them.

Marceline and Celeste hadn’t even bothered to feign effort. Yet they sat there, utterly unruffled, as if deadlines were trivial inconveniences beneath their notice.

“I swear,” Cleophrea muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing to slits, “if this project doesn’t score above ninety, Finn, I’ll make sure you regret it—in flames.”

 

She didn’t wait for a response.

With deliberate precision, she gathered her books and scattered notes, tucking them neatly beneath her arm. No sigh escaped her lips. No flicker of hesitation crossed her face.

She simply braced herself—for the next class, the next battle, the next pair of eyes waiting just beyond the door.

He knew—with a grim, steady certainty—that this was it.
The moment everything shifted.

The moment Cleophrea Myles would no longer see him as a classmate, a name on the scoreboard, or a passing distraction.
From now on, she’d see him as something else entirely.
An obstacle.
A rival.
An enemy.

And he didn’t flinch from it.
He’d been waiting for this.

A faint smirk pulled at his lips—barely there, but impossible to mistake.
There was no triumph in it. No cruelty.
Only anticipation.
That quiet, electric thrill of standing at the edge of something he couldn’t name.
Their war had begun.
And he wanted to see how far it would go.
How far she would go.

Because somewhere deep inside that cold, composed exterior, he knew she burned too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                 CHAPTER 2 :
                  Smiles like threats. Eyes like war.

 
                                   “She smiled like she wanted to ruin him.
                                        He smiled back like he’d let her try.”

 

                                                          

 

 

Back in his dorm, Finn moved with calm precision—methodically preparing for the upcoming test as if it were second nature. Unlike the others, who probably hadn’t even registered that one was scheduled.

The noise from downstairs drifted up through the thin dorm walls—loud, chaotic, careless. Voices overlapped in a messy chorus. Someone laughed as if the world were ending. They always acted like they were the only ones living here.

He reached for his book, flipping to the right chapter—when it happened.

A sudden scream shattered the quiet:

“HELL YEAH!”

Finn froze.

Then exhaled slowly, sharply, as if holding back the urge to hurl the book across the room.

He said nothing.

But the sigh he released was deep and weary—laden with quiet regret for every time he’d tried to study in peace.
Hours passed.
The noise began to fade—slowly, steadily—until only silence remained.

It faded even more the moment Finn refocused, eyes locked on the notes in front of him.

His grip on the physics chapter felt desperate, almost like the formulas were the only thing holding him together.

Symbols and equations sprawled across the page—messy, cramped, but legible.

Chaotic, but still his.

As long as he could read it, he could breathe.

Then, a sharp buzz broke the silence.

His phone vibrated loudly against the edge of his desk.

He winced.

He’d forgotten to silence it.

He ignored it, as he always did when studying.

But this time, the buzzing persisted—insistent, relentless.

With a sigh, he finally unlocked his phone.

Marceline DeVaux. Her name blinked across the screen, accompanied by a string of unread messages.

He set the phone down without a glance.

He had no interest in whatever she—or Celeste Van Arden, for that matter—wanted to say.

He never liked either of them. Not their voices, not their smiles, not the way they moved through the halls as if the school owed them everything.

Old rumors said Marceline and Finn had once been close—that something unspoken lingered between them.

But he remembered it differently.

He’d never seen anything in either of them.

They were the school’s prettiest—polished, admired, envied

But to him, their beauty was as hollow as their laughter.

But her messages didn’t stop.

Hey Finn, what are you up to?

Are you studying again? Relax. There’s no test coming up.

Chill out, Vi. Grades don’t actually matter that much.

Why aren’t you responding me?

I could send selfies if that’d cheer you up x

Finn stared at the screen for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the reply box.

Then he typed,

I’m not interested, Marceline.

And hit send.

He knew it was blunt. Maybe even harsh.

He could have been colder—shorter.

But he didn’t care.

He set the phone face down, slid it to the edge of the desk, and turned back to his notes.

Focused again.

Unbothered. Or at least, trying to be.

Morning arrived with a hush, the sun just beginning to peek over the distant hills, casting pale light through the dorm’s narrow windows. The world outside seemed to hold its breath—soft, still, untouched by the day’s demands.

But inside the hallway, the silence fractured.
Footsteps echoed—loud, relentless—pounding like waves against jagged stone.
The noise grew closer, a storm that refused to be ignored.

The thuds stirred Finn awake.
His eyes fluttered open, weighed down by sleep, even as his mind sharpened beneath it.
He stayed still, irritation flickering behind his lashes, caught between the comfort of stillness and the inevitability of another day.

Already, he could feel it—routine, expectation, all of it closing in like pressure behind his eyes.
But for now, he stayed where he was, letting the final seconds of quiet stretch before the world demanded something from him again.

He sat up, the bed creaking softly beneath him.
The wardrobe groaned as he pulled it open.
His uniform hung inside—waiting, as always.
He reached for the white shirt first, crisp and pressed, the school’s emblem stitched over the chest like a quiet demand.

The dark blue blazer slid over his shoulders with effortless familiarity, the fabric settling like a second skin. He tugged at the sleeves, adjusting them until they framed his wrists just so—perfectly imperfect.

Next came the black tie, a constant in the uniform yet never quite properly knotted. He looped it loosely around his neck, the way he always did—not out of rebellion, not from laziness, but simply because it was his way of carving out a small space of control in the routine.

He made his way to class Cleophrea already seated at the shared desk—the one assigned by that pointless, ridiculous seating chart. She didn’t look at him. No glare, no acknowledgment. Her attention was fully absorbed by the questions she was preparing for the tutoring session later—each problem carefully chosen, every word measured.

When he sat beside her, his bag slumped against the side of the chair, its shape folding inward—tired and heavy. Just like its owner.

Finn leaned in slightly—close enough to read her handwriting, but still keeping a respectful distance.
He watched as Cleophrea crafted each question with surgical precision, her pen moving like every mark had already been decided hours ago.

“Those questions are too easy,” he muttered, voice dry.

But before he could land the insult properly, Cleophrea cut in—eyes cool, mouth already tilted in that infuriating smirk.

“Easy? Coming from you, that’s rich,” she said. “Your brain’s been on low battery for so long, I’m surprised it doesn’t shut down when basic math shows up.”

She didn’t even look at him when she said it—just kept writing, like roasting him was something she did on autopilot.

And the worst part?
She was enjoying it.

Finn met her gaze, a slow, sardonic smile curling at his lips—as if he’d been rehearsing the comeback just for her.
Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes gleamed with something halfway between mockery and thrill.

“Funny,” he said, voice low and smooth, a hint of dark amusement threading through his words. “I was just about to say the same about you—except your ‘effort’ is so laughably transparent, it might as well be invisible.”

A soft, mocking laugh escaped him—sharp and cutting, like a blade’s edge.

And, as always, he savored every second of it.

Class began like a slow tide rolling in—quiet at first, a gentle stirring of anticipation beneath the stillness. The teacher entered, followed closely by a nun, an ever-present shadow trailing the edges of routine itself.

The nun wore a simple, yet subtly elegant white habit. Her presence was calm, composed, but carried an unmistakable authority. In one hand, she gripped a wooden ruler—not as a weapon of punishment, but as a silent instrument of inspection.

She moved deliberately down the rows, her gaze sharp and unyielding. Over the girls’ hair she swept, ensuring every strand was slicked back, pinned with precision—no hint of rebellion allowed. The boys fared no better; their hair trimmed clean, kept above the brow, a uniform statement of order.

Then her eyes landed on their desk.

Not a flicker toward Cleophrea. Instead, they fixed squarely on Finn.

Too curly.

Too voluminous.

Too Finn.

A slow, knowing curl of her lips hovered between amusement and disapproval—an unspoken judgment that spoke volumes.

“Mr. Cross—who exactly do you think you are?”

The nun’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp and cold as steel. To her, hair was no trivial matter—it was sacred, controlled. As if a single unruly curl could unravel the entire classroom’s focus.

Finn stiffened, jaw clenched tight.

It was always him.

Always the one singled out, the one dragged aside, the one sent to detention—while others received nothing more than a warning and a smile.

All because his hair—barely, just barely—grazed his eyebrows.

“Why does it always have to be me, Sister Lauren? Are you just looking for someone to blame?”
His words hung in the air, sharp and defiant, breaking the fragile silence like a sudden storm. The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension thickening, heavy as a gathering thundercloud. Her eyes flared with a fierce, unyielding fire—pure fury ignited by his challenge. The nun’s hand rose slowly, deliberately, the wooden ruler poised high—a silent herald of discipline, ready to strike down the rebellion in its cradle.

“Do you think you can mock me and get away with it, Mr. Cross?”

The nun’s voice was ice—cold, unforgiving.

“It’s you who looks the fool.”

Then came the strike.

The wooden ruler crashed down on his hand—once.

Then again.

And again.

Hard.

Hard enough to leave a mark.

Finn didn’t flinch.

Not at the first blow.

Not at the second.

By the third, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, but he held firm.

She finally stopped.

“Meet me after school, Mister,” the nun’s voice cut through the silence—sharp and elegant, like glass on the verge of shattering

Cleophrea didn’t flinch.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t care.

She settled beside him, untouched by the storm swirling around them—as if Finn were invisible.

Not yet.

Then she laughed.

Not with pity, but with that familiar, calculated coldness—an edge sharper than kindness, cutting deeper than any wound.

And that—that laugh—was the moment Finn looked at her fully.

No more sidelong glances. No more restraint.

 

His voice dropped low, bitter as spilled ink.

“Keep laughing all you want, Myles—because one day, even your perfect little world will crack.”

“And I’ll be there to watch it crumble.”

Her laughter stopped cold.

And in that stillness, she understood—this wasn’t just another exchange.
It was the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Their rivalry had truly begun.

A heavier silence wrapped around her, pressing in, even as the classroom buzzed on.
And that silence—sharp, cutting, deliberate—was all the victory Finn needed.

He didn’t smile. But the satisfaction bloomed quietly beneath his skin, steady and real.

When class ended, Cleophrea slipped out without a word.
She drifted toward Elaris and Naomi, her expression already softened, her laughter returning like nothing had ever happened.

As if she hadn’t gone cold as stone only moments before.
As if her silence hadn’t sliced straight through him.

Finn gathered his things slowly, methodically.

From just outside the door, a voice pierced the hallway—shrill, relentless, too loud for this early in the day.

Naomi Bellamy, one of Cleophrea Myles’s closest friends, squealed—sharp, high-pitched, impossible to ignore.

A second after Naomi’s squeal pierced the air, Finn stepped out of the classroom—shouldering past Cleophrea with a deliberate shove.

She staggered, barely catching her balance before Elaris’s steady hand reached out, gripping her firmly.

“What on earth is his problem?” Elaris Lyne snapped, her glare trailing Finn’s retreat down the hallway.

But she held herself back.

Cleophrea gently brushed Elaris’s hand away, a flicker of irritation sparking behind her composed facade.
The sting of Finn’s shove had already settled beneath her skin, prickling like a slow-burning fire.

The urge rose—fierce and familiar.
To march after him.
To let the sharp words at her tongue finally strike.
To make him pay for the silent provocations he delivered with such effortless precision.

No matter how much she wanted to lash out, she knew better than to make a scene—especially here, with every eye in the hallway quietly watching.
She swallowed the bitterness, the sharp words rising in her throat.
Not now. Not yet.
She would wait. She would bide her time.

Because at this moment, restraint was the sharpest weapon she had.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 3
The measure of “Discipline”

 

 

Her voice was a cold blade, slicing through the room—each word a sentence, each silence a verdict.

 

 

 

 

 

The air in Sister Lauren’s office always felt colder than the rest of the school.

Not by much—just enough to press against the skin like a quiet punishment.

Finn stood before her desk, shoulders squared, hands at his sides. The faint sting from earlier still lingered beneath his skin. Her ruler rested on the edge of the desk—silent now, but not forgotten. It seemed almost alive, as if it bore a name, a memory.

Sister Lauren didn’t speak at first.

She wrote in a long, narrow notebook—pages thin and sharp, the pen scratching out neat, controlled lines.

Finn remained still. He hated how the silence wrapped around him here. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. It was survival

Finally, she set the pen down.

“Mr. Cross.”

Her voice was as sharp as the ruler—no louder than necessary, but every word carried weight.

“ This is the fourth appearance in my office this semester.”

He said nothing.

She opened the file.

“Week one—you were late three days in a row. No excuse, no apology.”
“Week three—you spoke back to your math instructor. Loudly. In front of the class.”
“Week five—you were found on the third floor balcony past curfew. You said—and I quote—‘the stars were brighter than my will to follow rules.’”
She closed the folder. “And now this.”

Finn raised a brow, unbothered. “So it’s about the hair again?”

“Three violations in one glance,” she said. “Length. Volume. Visibility.”

He shrugged. “Some people are cursed with good genes.”

Her eyes didn’t move.

“You treat discipline like it’s a joke.”

“Only because it is.”

She rose slowly from her chair.

“You walk through this school like nothing can touch you. You pick your battles like you’re the only one holding a sword. You make everything into performance, Mr. Cross—and you want the audience.”

He leaned back slightly. “If I wanted applause, I’d be louder.”

“No. You wouldn’t,” she said. “You’d be exactly like you are now. Controlled. Calculated. Unimpressed.”

He didn’t respond.

She stepped closer. “You’re not careless. You’re careful. You break rules just enough to be seen—but not enough to be removed.”

Finn gave the faintest smile. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Not for long,” she said flatly. “You will fix the hair by Monday. Or I will.”

Then her voice changed. Softer. Cutting.

“And if you think that mop gives you control, remember this—attention isn't the same as power.”

She reached for her pen, opened his file again.

“No more violations. “No more provoking Miss Myles in class,” Sister Lauren said sharply.
“And stop staring like you’re just waiting for her to catch fire—and hoping you’ll be the one holding the match.”

That nearly made Finn laugh.
Not out loud. Just a sharp twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Because honestly?

He was waiting.
And if Cleophrea Myles decided to set the whole school ablaze, he’d be the first one grabbing marshmallows.

Finn didn’t say goodbye.
He just turned to the door and opened it in one smooth, careless pull—

Too fast. Too hard. Too Finn.

And that was the exact moment Cleophrea stepped forward.

A stack of papers in her arms. Perfectly organized.

Until it wasn’t.

The door clipped the edge of the stack with a dull smack, sending pages sailing through the air in a fluttering arc of disaster. Cleophrea stumbled forward, off-balance, one hand flying out—

And landing right on his.

His hand, still gripping the doorknob.

The contact lasted half a second. Maybe less.

But both of them reacted instantly.

Finn recoiled like he’d just touched acid, yanking his hand away with a muttered, “God—”

Cleophrea flinched too, a grimace curling her lip as she snatched her hand back, wiping it down the side of her blazer like he was contagious.

Their eyes met.

Full of mutual horror.

Just pure, undiluted disgust.

And from behind the desk, Sister Lauren cleared her throat.

Loud. Deliberate.

She had witnessed every bit of it.

Her gaze swept over the scattered documents, Cleophrea kneeling with tightly pursed lips, Finn leaned casually against the doorway like this was someone else’s problem.

She blinked slowly.

“Mr. Cross,” she said. “Was there a reason you decided to exit my office like a battering ram?”

Finn shrugged again, voice flat. “Didn’t know someone was standing there.”

“And I assume that excuses your complete refusal to assist in cleaning up the mess you caused?”

“Didn’t ask for help,” Cleophrea snapped under her breath.

“I didn’t offer,” Finn shot back, not even looking at her.

Sister Lauren’s stare could've frozen fire.

She inhaled deeply through her nose. “You may go, Mr. Cross. And do refrain from future door-related collisions—especially ones that end in... unwanted contact.”

Finn muttered something under his breath and finally stepped out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Cleophrea stood, papers mostly gathered, pride partially intact.

Sister Lauren gestured to the seat across from her.

“Miss Myles,” she said calmly. “Take a seat. And try not to kill anyone on your way to it.”

Cleophrea didn’t say much during her meeting with Sister Lauren.

She didn’t have to. The lecture was brief, pointed, and laced with that same quiet disappointment the staff always seemed to reserve for students like her—the ones who never lost control, but somehow still caused trouble just by existing near someone else’s chaos.

She left the office with her papers slightly bent, her jaw tight, and not a single glance back.

 Her mind burned with insults and the urge for revenge, yet she turned away—heading back to her dorm.

As Cleophrea stormed into the girls’ dorm, it felt like the start of a war.
She nearly stumbled on her way up to the second floor, where her room waited—her steps quick, unsteady, furious.
She hated this. Hated that she hadn’t fought back. Regretted every second of silence.

The moment she burst into her dorm, she hurled her bag across the room. It hit the wall with a heavy thud, startling her roommate—Elaris, her best friend—who flinched where she sat on her bed.

Elaris blinked, eyes flickering with something close to fear. She’d never seen Cleophrea this angry.
Elaris sat up slowly, her book forgotten on her lap as she watched Cleophrea pace like a storm trapped in a bottle.

The silence stretched, crackling with something unspoken, something heavy. She knew her best friend well enough to recognize the signs—clenched fists, trembling shoulders, eyes burning but unshed with tears.

Still, she hesitated. One wrong word could make things worse. But she couldn’t just sit there, not when Cleo looked like she was ready to combust.

“…Girl,” Elaris began gently, voice barely above a whisper, “you look awful. What happened?”

Even as the words left her lips, she regretted them. Her voice faltered slightly, uncertain if she’d overstepped.

Cleophrea didn’t answer at first. Her back was turned, her breathing sharp and uneven. Then slowly, she turned to face Elaris, eyes like winter steel.

“I’m just tired,” she said, voice flat and cold. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”

There was a finality to her tone that slammed the door shut between them. Elaris nodded quietly, biting her lip, watching Cleophrea retreat further into herself—walls rising, defenses locking into place. And in that moment, she knew: whatever happened, it wasn’t just a bad day.

“Is it him? That annoying boy?” Elaris guessed, her voice soft but knowing. She was right—Finn was the one

getting under Cleophrea’s skin.

Elaris studied Cleophrea carefully, sensing the storm behind her friend’s eyes. Taking the heavy silence as

confirmation, she scoffed softly.
“Do you see him as just annoying, Cleo—” She paused, a mischievous glint creeping into her gaze, “Or maybe… you like him?” Her voice was teasing, eyes narrowing as if daring Cleophrea to deny it.
Cleophrea shot her a sharp glare, the hint of a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t be ridiculous, Elaris.” Her voice was low, almost bitter. “I hate him. I hate how he’s always one step ahead, always competing with me

no matter what I do. I hate how he drags me into this endless game, wasting my time and patience.”

She shrugged off her school blazer with a sudden motion, loosening her tie as if trying to shake off the

weight of her frustration. “He’s a thorn I can’t seem to rip out.”  Her words were real. Like she didn’t even hold

back those words.

Elaris whistled low under her breath. “A thorn, huh? Sounds like he’s living rent-free in that head of yours.”
Cleophrea snapped her head toward her. “He’s not. He’s

just… always there. In my classes. In the top scores. Every time I turn around, he’s already ahead by a few points. Always smirking, like he’s already won something I never agreed to fight for.”

She paced the room, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. “He treats everything like a game. And I’m tired of being forced to play.”

Elaris leaned back on the bed, arms crossed. “Then beat him.”

Cleophrea stopped mid-step.

“Beat him at whatever he’s planning next,” Elaris said with a shrug. “Win so hard he can’t breathe through his ego for a week.”

Cleophrea’s eyes narrowed, the fire in them sparking again. “Oh, I plan to.”
They both laughed, the sound light and easy. Cleophrea felt a quiet warmth bloom in her chest, grateful for Elaris’s steady presence. In that fleeting moment, everything felt solid—anchored in the kind of trust that seemed too certain to ever shift.

But sometimes, the cracks in a foundation are quiet long before they break wide open—when it’s far too late to hold anything together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 4 :

Stepping on Each Other’s Toes

 

In the dance of rivals, every misstep is a challenge—each step a battle fought toe to

 

 

 

07:42 AM

There was a tension in the air that morning—quiet, suffocating, and cruel.

Not the kind that made people nervous.
The kind that made them whisper.

Cleophrea felt it the second she stepped into the main hall.
The air was thick with unsaid things.
Students huddled in corners, their voices clipped, glances darting like knives.
Some were laughing behind the rims of their coffee mugs.
Others were too quiet—eyes too wide, faces too still.

Something had happened.

And whatever it was, it was already spreading..
Cleophrea’s eyes landed on Elaris and Naomi, who immediately broke into smiles and rushed toward her.

“Have you heard?” Elaris whispered, eyes shining with anticipation. “The teacher’s going to announce the summer gala dance partners by email after school.”

Naomi’s smile was almost wistful. “I’m hoping for Evander. He dances like he’s part of the music itself.”

Elaris laughed softly, a light, hopeful sound. “If I get Sean, I might actually look forward to the gala.”

They shared a moment of bright excitement—except Cleophrea. She never wanted this.

She turned away, a cold knot tightening in her chest—equal parts anxiety and dull, dragging boredom. Ever since the new seating chart, this class had become a quiet kind of hell. A trap she couldn’t escape.

The thought of sitting beside him again made her skin crawl.
He was everything she wanted to forget, yet always there—like a shadow she couldn’t outrun.

She stormed into the classroom, her eyes immediately finding Finn at the shared desk, He leaned back in his chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as his eyes wandered over the chaotic scrawl of his notes with a lazy, half-amused detachment—like the gibberish on the page was a private puzzle only he could decipher. His hair was trimmed shorter—an aftermath of the summons to Sister Lauren’s office—but still tangled in that wild, effortless disarray only he could wear without shame.
The loosened knot of his tie hung like a deliberate emblem of rebellion, and his dark navy blazer, carelessly rumpled, clung to him as though it bore the weight of unspoken defiance. Beneath it, his crisp white shirt strained against the untucked hem, and his charcoal trousers, worn but unyielding, completed the picture of a boy who lived on the edge of rules, daring the world to challenge him.
She approached the shared desk with a quiet, measured confidence, her footsteps steady, her gaze unfaltering—completely unaware of the sharp, sidelong glance Finn cast her way, quick and unreadable.
The moment she settled into the seat beside him, she began stacking her chemistry books on the desk—one by one, each placed with precise finality. The pile edged closer and closer to his side, encroaching on his space with a quiet defiance that spoke louder than any words.

It wasn’t careless. It wasn’t accidental. It was intentional—like a calculated move on a chessboard, silent but impossible to ignore.

Finn didn’t move. He simply stared at the growing tower of books inching into his space, jaw tight, eyes flicking to her with cool annoyance.

Of course. Always dramatic. Always trying to prove something no one asked for.

He let out a dry, almost inaudible scoff.
“Careful, Myles” he muttered, voice low and edged like a blade. “If you stack them any higher, they might crush that ego of yours.”
She placed the final book down with deliberate care, as if it were the closing move in a game he hadn’t even realized he was losing. Her gaze never met his, but her voice—low, steady, unbothered—cut through the air like a quiet blade.

“Don’t worry, Cross. My ego doesn’t need an audience to exist.”

She adjusted the top book with a soft tap, then added—almost as an afterthought, too casual to be kind:

“You, on the other hand… strip away the arrogance, and I’m not sure there’s much left of you at all.”

Finn’s smirk faltered, a flicker of something unreadable darkening his eyes—was it surprise? Annoyance? Or something far more dangerous? His fingers twitched against the edge of the desk, betraying a tension he was quick to mask beneath a practiced cool.

For a heartbeat, the air between them thickened—charged and fragile, like the held breath before a storm. She adjusted the top book with a soft tap, then added—almost as an afterthought, too casual to be kind:

“You, on the other hand… strip away the arrogance, and I’m not sure there’s much left of you at all.”

Finn’s smirk faltered, a flicker of something unreadable darkening his eyes—was it surprise? Annoyance? Or something far more dangerous? His fingers twitched against the edge of the desk, betraying a tension he was quick to mask beneath a practiced cool.

For a heartbeat, the air between them thickened—charged and fragile, like the held breath before a storm.

Then, just as quickly, his mask slipped back into place, but the shadow in his gaze lingered—an unspoken promise that this game was far from over.
The bell rang sharply, its echo fading as the classroom door swung open. Students shuffled in, each carrying a mixture of anticipation and reluctance. The faint, familiar scent of chemicals greeted them—ammonia, sulfur, and something metallic that always lingered just beneath the surface.
It was the kind of smell that clung to the air here, thick with the promise of reactions yet to come.

Rows of desks—worn smooth by years of impatient elbows and scribbled notes—stretched toward the front, where the blackboard still bore the half-erased ghosts of the last lesson’s formulas.

Glass beakers and test tubes lined the teacher’s bench, catching the afternoon light filtering through the tall windows. On the shelves behind, bottles stood in quiet formation, filled with strange powders and murky liquids. Their labels, inked in elegant, looping script, felt like an invitation—to explore, to question, to unravel.

A hush settled over the room as notebooks opened and pens clicked into place. Some students leaned forward, ready to dive into the world of atoms and equations; others slouched back in their chairs, already bracing for the inevitable migraine.

08:05 AM.

Then the door opened again, sharper this time. All eyes turned as the teacher entered, the unspoken signal that chemistry class had officially begun.
The teacher’s footsteps echoed softly as he moved to the front of the room.  “Settle down, everyone,” his voice sliced through the uneasy murmurs—calm, but edged

with a chilling finality. “Today, we’ll be working with dead frogs.”
A cold hush fell over the room.
The words hung in the air, heavy and strange—like the lifeless creatures waiting on the tables carried more than just scientific purpose.
As if they came with shadows of something no one wanted to name.
A few students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, eyes flickering toward the trays lined with pale, lifeless frogs—limbs stiff, eyes glassy and unseeing. A faint, almost instinctual unease rippled through the room, as if the dead weight of those creatures pressed down on their nerves, dulling the air itself.
Cleophrea’s fingers clenched tightly around the edge of the lab jacket draped halfway over her shoulders—a restless mix of disgust and reluctant fascination stirring beneath her calm. Across from her, Finn’s gaze lingered on the frogs with a strange, unsettling detachment, as if he already claimed dominion over the darkness they embodied.

The teacher’s voice sliced through the heavy silence—low, steady, and unyielding.

“This lesson isn’t just about anatomy or chemical reactions. It’s about peeling back the surface, confronting the fragile boundary between life and death, order and chaos. I expect your full attention. No distractions.”
His eyes swept the room, daring any of them to challenge the weight of his words.

Finn’s lips curled into a quiet smirk at the flicker of discomfort on Cleophrea’s face—an unspoken victory in her rare, subtle tension.
 She always carried herself like she was carved from stone: poised, precise, impossible to shake. But even stone had fault lines.
His arms stayed crossed as he leaned back in his chair, glasses slipping just slightly down the bridge of his nose.
He watched her through the glare on the lenses, the reflection dulling everything except the intent in his stare.

There was no urgency—he didn’t look away.
He took his time, studying the way her jaw tensed, how her gaze stayed locked forward.
Too proud to flinch.
Too proud to let him win.
But then she turned, catching him in the act.

Her stare landed hard—unblinking, cold, deliberate. Not just a look, but a message: I see you. I always have. Cross.

For a split second, something in him faltered—not in his expression, but somewhere quieter. Deeper.
He dropped his arms without a word and reached for his notebook, flipping to a page that didn’t need turning.
His glasses slid lower as he ducked his head, letting the messy scrawl of ink distract him from the strange knot tightening in his chest.

Cleophrea said nothing. Her silence was a sharp line neither dared cross.
The experiment began as stainless steel trays were uncovered, revealing pale, limp frogs coated in a chemical sheen that hung in the air like slow decay. The sharp sting of formaldehyde curled through the room, making even the boldest students hesitate.
This project counted for half the midterm grade—a warning cleverly disguised as an opportunity. Almost instantly, regret spread through the room, and half the class wished they’d never set foot inside.
Cleophrea was among them.
Her stomach churned as she stared at the lifeless creature—legs stiff, skin cold and slick like wet paper. Around the room, students grimaced, some turning pale, sleeves pressed to mouths as the reality sank in.
Except Finn.

He leaned in, unflinching, forearms planted on the desk, sleeves shoved to his elbows like he had all the time in the world. His face remained unreadable—not a flicker of disgust, not even a spark of curiosity. He simply watched, cool and distant, as if the frog were a riddle laid bare, waiting quietly to be solved.

The glint of his glasses flared under the overhead lights as he reached, slow and steady, for the scalpel.
At the back of the room, Marceline staged a full-blown tragedy. She shrank from her frog like it might leap at her throat—flinching, gasping, clutching her desk for support. It was the smallest specimen by far, hardly filling her palm. But from the way she carried on, you'd think it had died screaming.

Her seatmate sat rigid, barely holding onto his patience. He just wanted to finish the work, maybe even impress the teacher. But fate, cruel as ever, had stuck him with Marceline—who treated the lab table like a stage.
She let out a gasp so theatrical it turned heads. She recoiled, eyes wide, one hand pressed to her forehead like a Victorian heroine.

“Oh my God, is that its tongue? That—no, that—isn’t natural. I can’t. I physically cannot.”

Her chair scraped back with a screech that echoed through the room.
“It’s looking at me. I swear it just twitched. This violates my moral compass—and probably a health code.”
Her seatmate sighed, long and suffering, then stared down at the frog like he was hoping it might dissect itself out of pity. “I don’t accept this!” Marceline cried, her voice rising like a siren as she shoved the metal tray off the table with theatrical flair. Her seatmate flinched—not in fear, but from the weight of secondhand embarrassment.

he tray hit the floor with a metallic clang, the frog sliding out and landing with a wet thud. One limp leg grazed the tip of Marceline’s polished shoe.
She shrieked—sharp and piercing, like a fire alarm. “It touched me!”

And Finn?
He’d finished minutes ago, now reclining with lazy ease, mask slipped under his chin like rules were just background noise. His fingers drummed softly on the desk, a faint smirk playing at his lips—like the whole thing was beneath him, another ritual to endure until life offered something better.
While others flinched and faltered, Finn remained untouched, as if chaos simply rolled off him.
He caught a glare from a cluster of golden boys—the kind who played baseball, who always won, who made the school proud.
But the look they gave him wasn’t the one they gave everyone else.

They ruled the diamond, made the school proud simply by existing in its colors. Golden. Untouchable. Always victorious.
Heroes in cleats.

It wasn’t disdain they cast at him—no, not the usual, careless glance they threw at those who didn’t measure up. This was different.

And though they masked it quickly with a practiced smile, the truth had already slipped through the cracks.
He saw it.
And they knew he did.

Class ended. As Cleophrea reached for her books, Finn’s elbow brushed the edge of the desk—barely. One book slipped. Then another. And then, all at once, the entire stack spilled to the floor in a slow, deliberate cascade.
No one had really touched them. Nothing should’ve caused it.
They just... fell.
She froze, then turned to Finn with a sharp, accusing glare, as if gravity had chosen him on purpose.
She looked ready to lash out.
But he beat her to it.

“Try not to be so clumsy,” he said, voice low and smooth, laced with ice. “Some of us don’t have time to babysit a walking disaster.”
Cleophrea’s eyes flashed, sharp and furious. “Maybe if you spent less time admiring your reflection, you’d notice where you’re standing.”
He smiled then—thin, almost bitter. “Better to admire it than be blinded by your own wreckage.”

Tension stretched between them like a drawn wire. Around them, students packed up, a few glancing over—sensing something simmering.

Cleophrea dropped to one knee, gathering her things with precise, controlled movements—though her fingers trembled.
Finn didn’t move. He zipped his bag with quiet, deliberate calm.

As he slung it over his shoulder, he looked back at her, voice low but clear: “Watch where you’re going next time. Chemistry’s not the only thing that’s volatile around here.”

And with that, he was gone.
Cleophrea stayed there a moment longer, surrounded by scattered books, fury simmering beneath the surface—hotter, sharper than any reaction they’d studied that day.
As the afternoon wore on, students drifted into their own worlds. Some had retreated to their dorms, others lingered in the halls. The clock read 2:30 PM.
Cleophrea had finished her classes for the day. Chemistry—the worst of them all—was finally behind her.
Followed by Emotional Composition, Living Systems, and The Physics of Consequences—crossed off one by one.
Yet one obligation still remained: a tutoring session for a few struggling friends. She didn’t mind the extra effort—not after the teacher’s email announcing a school-wide partner dance. Suddenly, showing up felt strategic.

“This isn’t calculus, Evan. It’s basic algebra,” she sighed, her voice heavy with disbelief—like she was teaching toddlers to walk.
They feared her mind—sharp as a scalpel—but they respected it more.

Then, all at once, a buzz tore through the room. Not just hers—everyone’s.

A sound like a siren, urgent and electric.

Heads snapped down. Fingers moved fast. Screens lit like sudden stars.

Then came the reaction: laughter, gasps, shrieks of joy. The room tilted into chaos, all composure forgotten.

But Cleophrea remained still. Her phone buzzed against the desk, untouched.

She hadn’t checked it. Not yet.

Priorities, always, came first.

She hadn’t realized the teacher’s email about the partner dance had gone out to the entire school. Excitement bloomed around her, voices rising in bursts—until someone shouted, “I got paired with Ryker! My prayers have been answered!”

The shout jolted Cleophrea’s heart. Hands trembling, she reached for her phone, fumbling the passcode—though she swore she didn’t care.
The message opened.
Her eyes burned.
Anger surged, hot and bitter.
Was this a joke? A cruel trick from the teachers?
Because there it was.
As if written in some cruel script, there he was.

Finn Cross.

Her phone hit the table with a sharp crack, echoing her silent refusal to accept what she’d just seen.
“Alright, everyone,” she said, voice cool and even—ice over fire. “Let’s focus.”
She forced the dance, the email, to the back of her mind, pushing the chaos beneath a thin, controlled surface.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 5
When Opposites Dance.
 

“A dance with him isn’t harmony—it’s a cruel reminder that the enemy I hate most is the one I’m chained to, forced to stumble beside while pretending we’re not poison to each other.”

 

Cleophrea shut the door behind her, leaving the tutoring room in silence, save for the soft rustle of scattered papers.
Outside, the hallway buzzed with life.
Students surged past—some rushing to find their partners, eager to practice steps they barely knew. Others whispered rehearsed confessions, words trembling on the edge of courage.
A few moved like shadows, pretending none of it mattered.
But Cleophrea was none of them.

She wasn’t swept up in the excitement or the whispered promises of romance. No fluttering nerves, no breathless anticipation.
Her heart felt tight, like it had been cinched too suddenly, and her thoughts tangled like thread pulled in too many directions.
This pairing wasn’t just inconvenient.
It was unbearable.

Instead of joining the throng, she veered away, her footsteps deliberate and heavy as she made her way toward the teacher’s office. The familiar corridor, usually dull and unremarkable, seemed charged with an ominous weight today. The walls, lined with faded posters and lockers, closed in around her as if sharing in her unease.

She had to know. Was it real? Final?

The email, the announcement, the pairing—was it a mistake she could undo, or was she truly bound to him?

Her fingers curled tight around the strap of her bag, knuckles white, tendons straining with every step.

Maybe if she spoke to the teacher directly—looked them in the eye, explained, pleaded—they’d understand.

They had to.

Surely they’d see it for what it was: a mistake. A cruel mismatch.
Because this—him—was all wrong. And she couldn’t let it stand.

The thought gave her a fragile thread of hope as she reached the office door. She paused, took a breath, and steeled herself. Whatever the answer, she wouldn’t let this pairing define her. Not if she could help it.
Clearing her throat, she stepped forward, voice measured but uncertain.

“Mrs. Oliver, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she began, fingers tightening around her bag strap. “I wanted to ask about the partner assignment for the upcoming dance gala. I received the email and... I think there may have been a mistake.”
Mrs. Oliver glanced up from her desk, the same calm, unreadable expression she’d worn since sending out that infamous email. The one that had turned the school upside down.
“What seems to be the issue, Cleophrea?”
Taking a deep breath, she chose her words with care.
Stood straighter, fingers tightening at her sides.

“I understand the point of the dance—unity, connection, school spirit. But pairing me with Finn Cross? That’s not chemistry. That’s a collision.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“We have history—the kind that doesn’t resolve with a few rehearsed steps. This won’t bring peace. It’ll start a storm.”

Mrs. Oliver kept her expression unreadable. “I hear you. But I can’t promise anything.”

Cleophrea stepped forward, voice low.

“This isn’t growth. It’s a distraction wrapped in formalwear.”

A pause. Then the smallest sigh.

“I admire your passion,” Mrs. Oliver said, gathering a stack of papers with deliberate calm. “But this conversation is over.”

Cleophrea didn’t move. Not yet.

Then, with a final, sharp glance, she turned and walked out—

unheard, but unshaken.
As the door shut behind her, a quiet groan escaped.

She was angry—at herself for backing down too soon, and at the teacher for refusing to make one simple change.

The thoughts followed her as she walked.
All the way to her dorm, she replayed the conversation—imagining the arguments she should’ve made, the words she didn’t say.

She unlocked her dorm, the keychain clinking with each turn—sharp, metallic, familiar.
Inside, Elaris was already sprawled on her bed, legs crossed, twirling her hair around one finger, phone pressed to her ear.
By the tone in her voice, the soft laugh—she was definitely talking to her dance partner.

Cleophrea didn’t need to ask.
Of course Elaris had already started bonding with her partner.
Of course it all came easy to everyone else.
She stood in the doorway a moment longer, watching the effortless scene unfold—
and for a split second, it felt like the universe was laughing at her.

A soft giggle drifted from Elaris—light as air, yet sharp enough to cut straight through Cleophrea’s thoughts.

It snapped her back to the present like a cold hand at the base of her spine.

“Sure, yeah, definitely. I’m down for that,” Elaris said sweetly into the phone, her voice sugar-laced and easy.
Another soft giggle followed, this one paired with a casual brush of her fingertip against her lips—flawless, effortless, like she’d been born knowing how to charm the world.

Cleophrea didn’t need the words.
The melody of the moment told her everything she wished it hadn’t.

She knew it in that quiet, gut-deep way that didn’t need proof—
the universe was mocking her.
As if the cosmos had drawn names from a hat and, with a smirk, chosen her to suffer on purpose.

She could’ve been paired with anyone. Anyone else. But no—of all the people, it had to be him.
Finn.
As if the stars themselves were in on the joke.
It didn’t feel random.
Not like some harmless administrative mix-up.
It felt intentional. Like punishment.
As if fate had pulled her name deliberately and thought, Let’s make this difficult.

And for the first time all day, the thought settled—sharp, undeniable:
Fate really did have it out for her.

Elaris was too deep in her call to notice Cleophrea walk in.
She didn’t hear the soft click of the door. Didn’t look up when the bag hit the floor.
Even the clink of the kettle—the quiet splash of water as Cleophrea prepared hot chocolate—didn’t pull her back.
She was lost in her own perfect moment.
And Cleophrea? Left to simmer in silence.

The call ended, and silence swallowed the room—yet Elaris didn’t look up. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard, a quiet, satisfied smile curling her lips. She was texting him—whoever he was.

Cleophrea swirled her drink deliberately, letting the silence stretch just a moment before cutting through it.
“So... who’s your partner for the dance?”

Her voice carried across the room like a subtle knock on a closed door. Only then did Elaris seem to register her presence. “Oh! I didn’t even see you come in.” Her surprise was brief, barely a flicker, quickly replaced by enthusiasm as she answered—voice bright and brimming with satisfaction. “I got Terren. I’m actually so happy. I thought he was gonna be boring and kind of cold, but he’s totally the oppos—”

She didn’t even finished her sentence.
Her phone buzzed—a sudden crack in the air—and her gaze snapped back to the screen. Her fingers danced across the keys with the precision of a scholar under pressure, utterly absorbed in Terren’s reply.

Without fully raising her eyes, she asked, “What about you? Who did you get?”
Her voice drifted lightly, but her gaze stayed locked on the soft glow of her phone.

Cleophrea’s eyes rested on the cooling surface of the hot chocolate, steam fading like a distant memory.
“Finn,” she said at last—his name a sharp crack in the stillness, cold and unyielding. The word hung between them like frost on glass, fragile and ready to break.

Without hesitation, Elaris looked up from her phone, movements smooth and deliberate—like a player who knew exactly when to strike. The soft chime of incoming messages spilled from the device, loud against the room’s taut silence.

Her eyes, cool and calculating, locked onto Cleophrea with unsettling calm. No surprise—only a flicker of pride or possession, as if she’d already won a game no one else saw.

It wasn’t just a glance. It was a silent challenge. A dare to break, to speak.

She lifted her chin slightly, saying without words: I see you. I know. And I don’t care.

Worse still, she carried herself like the pairing with Finn was fate—inevitable, sealed.

Cleophrea felt it then, sharp and sudden, like a smile hiding a slap.

It wasn’t just the teacher’s decision—it was Elaris’s too. She sat there, already claiming the role, as if she belonged beside him. As if she was meant to be there.
It wasn’t words that made the moment crackle. It was everything unsaid.

And Finn?
Probably he doesn’t know it yet.
He hadn’t touched his phone all evening. It buzzed once, twice—notifications piling up like whispers he refused to hear. His world shrank to notebooks, ink-stained fingers, and the relentless ticking of the clock, mocking every second lost to homework due tomorrow.

Across the room, Atticus lounged on his bed, flipping through a thick textbook. His voice was too casual—like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb with five careless words.
“Bro… have you opened the email yet?”

Finn blinked. The question hit like a slap—sharp and cold. His pencil clattered to the desk. For a long moment, he said nothing. Didn’t move.

The email.
No one said it would come today.
He wasn’t ready.
He hadn’t braced for it.

Not tonight. Not like this.

His heart stuttered as he reached for his phone with numb fingers. The screen lit up.
Fourteen unread emails.
His breath caught.

Please… anyone but—

He tapped. Scrolled.

McDonald’s: Your Free Sundae Awaits.
KFC: Finger-Lickin’ Deals Just For You.
Burger King Rewards: You’ve Been Crowned a VIP.
Spotify Wrapped: It’s Not Too Early.
A suspicious “Congratulations! You’ve won a cruise!”
A newsletter he swore he unsubscribed from.
“Improve Your Posture in 5 Minutes”
LinkedIn: A classmate from primary school just got a new job.

Then he saw it.

Academics & Events Committee
Subject: Summer Gala Dance Partner Assignment

He tapped, breath stalled in his chest.

Congratulations, Finn Cross. You have been paired with Cleophrea Myles.

The words didn’t register at first. He blinked, read them again. And again.
His chest tightened.

No.
No, no, no.

Of all the girls. Of all the pairings. The universe chose her?

He shot to his feet, the chair screeching against the floor.
His hands trembled.
Across the room, Atticus looked up—but the world had already fallen silent.
Still.
Like the air just before lightning splits it in two.
Atticus shifted on his bed, sensing the change in the air—like a storm he hadn’t meant to summon. The silence between them had stretched too long, too thick to be harmless.

He glanced up, just once, then quickly looked away, feigning interest in the small pocketknife he’d been idly spinning between his fingers. The steel caught the lamplight, flashing sharp and brief—like tension made visible.

“I mean,” he said carefully, not quite meeting Finn’s eyes, “it’s not that bad... right?”

But Finn didn’t answer. He was still standing, jaw clenched, hands curled so tightly around his phone they’d gone pale.

Atticus sighed under his breath. Too late to take the question back now.

Then, finally, he spoke—loud, theatrical, as if someone had just told him the world was ending.
“She’s the last person I’d ever choose. Ever. I’d rather dance with a broom. Or a ghost. Or literally no one.”

He threw his hands in the air, pacing now, like the floor itself had betrayed him.
“Out of everyone—everyone—they chose her? Is this a prank? Am I being punished for something I don’t remember doing?”

Neither of them was happy. Not even close.
Cleophrea Myles and Finn Cross—two names that should never appear in the same breath, let alone on the same dance card.

Neither of them had volunteered.
Finn had barely shown up to mandatory dance class—let alone signed up for some glitter-drenched, spotlight-soaked gala.
And Cleophrea? She avoided the arts wing like it was contagious.

No audition. No warning. Not even the illusion of choice.

And yet… here they were.

The teacher—bright-eyed and far too hopeful—had taken it upon themselves to sign them up anyway. Something about chemistry. About balance. About how "Finn’s control and Cleophrea’s presence" would make them unforgettable on stage.

What a joke.

What a cruel joke.

Cleophrea’s voice cut through the thick silence of the dorm room—sharp, loud, and furious.
“I never even signed up for the dance gala! This wasn’t my choice!”

Finn wasn’t done. Not even close. The anger was rising now—no longer simmering, but boiling over with the flair of a boy who thrived on theatrics.

“This is sabotage,” he declared, pacing like a man on trial. “She had to be behind this. She probably bribed the teachers. Or blackmailed them. Or cast a spell—I don’t know, she gives off untrustworthy librarian energy!”

He stopped short, hands flailing, like the sheer absurdity of it all physically wounded him.
“They paired me with her? That’s not fate. That’s a cosmic joke.”

Atticus set the pocketknife down, suppressing a smile.
“I mean… Cleophrea’s not that bad. She’s kind of elegant. Scary, but elegant. Like… ice in human form.”

Finn gaped at him, utterly betrayed.
“Oh my God. Not you too. Don’t romanticize her. That’s how it starts! First it’s ‘elegant,’ next thing you know, she’s standing over your grave with a smile.”

But the truth—what he’d never admit out loud—was that dancing with Cleophrea didn’t just feel uncomfortable.
It felt dangerous.

Like stepping into a waltz with a lit match in his hand.
 

 

07:56.
Cleophrea was late.
Not fashionably. Not lazily.

The kind of late that left her breathless, blazer half-off, hair undone—like she’d sprinted through a hurricane just to make it in time.

She hadn't meant to oversleep. But she’d stayed up past midnight, pouring her frustration into a carefully-worded email to the dance coordinator, practically begging them to reconsider her pairing. A full essay—structured, polite, logical. As if logic could sway fate.

As if reason ever stood a chance against Finn Cross.

Now, she raced toward the classroom, ignoring the stares of students who parted in the hallway like she was a storm barreling through. Her fingers fumbled to straighten her collar, and she cursed softly when her bag snagged on the doorframe.

But she made it.

Just in time.
She burst into the classroom, breath ragged—chest rising and falling in cruel, uneven rhythm—and her eyes locked instantly on the shared desk in the second row.

Finn was already there. Of course he was.

He always was.

Composed. Prepared. Posture perfect, like a statue sculpted from ice and expectation. His blazer fit too well. His tie slightly loose.
But his papers were a mess—half-crumpled, scribbled on, barely held together by a single bent paperclip.

Cleophrea forced her legs to move, crossing the room in stiff silence. Her shoes clicked against the tile like a countdown. She reached their desk and yanked out her chair—the scrape of metal sharp enough to make the room flinch.

But Finn didn’t flinch.

He turned his head slowly, eyes cutting toward her like a blade unsheathed.

His lips curled into something between a sneer and a smirk.

“You’re late, Myles,” he said, voice low and honeyed with mockery. “Should’ve figured you’d arrive after the important part’s over. That’s kind of your thing, isn’t it?”

Cleophrea said nothing. She set her bag down on the desk with a quiet thud, steady and deliberate. Then—slowly—she lifted her chin, her gaze narrowing with surgical precision.

“And you’re still talking like you matter,” she said, voice calm, razor-edged. “That’s your thing, right? Acting like the main character when you’re barely a footnote.”

A few students looked over. Atticus, two rows back, raised his eyebrows but wisely said nothing.

Finn’s pen froze mid-stroke.

Cleophrea finally slid into her seat beside him, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she leaned just a little closer—close enough for only him to hear her next words.

“I may be late, Cross,” she whispered, “but at least I don’t spend all my time rehearsing lines no one’s asking you to say.”

She pulled out her notebook with a satisfied sigh, flipping it open without a glance his way—ignoring the way his jaw tightened beside her.

Let him stew.
Let him burn.

Nervous glances flickered across the room like candlelight in a storm.

Some students exchanged wide-eyed looks; others shrank into their seats, barely breathing. A few snickered—quick, nervous bursts that died fast.

But nothing broke the tension between Cleophrea and Finn.

It sat between them like a live wire—hissing, volatile, thick with everything unsaid.

You could almost hear it.
The sound before the fire.

And then—click, click, click.

The sound of heels echoed down the hallway.
Sharp. Cold. Final.

Every head turned as the teacher entered—expression unreadable, carved from stone. No smile. No greeting. No acknowledgment of the twenty-something students whose morning she was about to incinerate.

Her coat flared behind her, heels striking the tile like a countdown.

“We’re having a quiz,” she said, not even pausing to set her bag down. “I don’t care if you studied. It’s going on your midterm report.”

Just like that.
No buildup. No mercy.

Gasps rippled through the room. Groans followed, like thunder cracking open the sky.

Some muttered protests under their breath; others just lowered their heads, resigned.
A few flipped through their notes in blind panic, desperate to find something—anything—they might remember from last class.

“What the hell…” someone whispered.

“Is she serious?”

But there was no room for doubt. Her face said it all: she was absolutely serious. And she didn’t care.

Finn sat still, back straight, eyes locked on the blank space ahead.
He hadn’t studied. Not for this. Not for anything.

But he didn’t panic. Didn’t sigh.
Something in him had already gone numb—to surprises, to people,
to her, sitting beside him like a storm he no longer had the energy to outrun.

Cleophrea shifted, still catching her breath. No words—just a tension that clung to her, sharp and quiet, pressing into the space between them.

Even now, with the class unraveling around them, the wall between them held steady. Cold. Unshaken. Icy.

The quiz began. Groans echoed around the room—some gave up, others didn’t even try.

Cleophrea scribbled with sharp focus, like she’d seen it coming.

And Finn?
He was already on the last question.
Easier than he expected. Annoyingly so.

Chairs creaked. Erasers scraped. Panic clung to the air.

Marceline sat hunched over her desk, chewing the end of her pen like it might cough up answers. Celeste, two rows back, kept whispering to herself, mouthing formulas like spells. One student had their head down completely. Another was openly copying.

The day carried on. The quiz was already forgotten by half the class, replaced with excited chatter about partner dance practice.

But Cleophrea hadn’t said a word to Finn.
She didn’t want to.
And neither did he.

Until—

“Cleophrea, sweetheart! Didn’t see you there,” came a too-cheerful voice behind her.

She froze. Mrs. Lopez.

Cleophrea kept walking, pretending not to hear—until she stepped directly in her path.
“No need to rush. It’s not like someone’s chasing you,” Mrs. Lopez smiled. “Just a little chit-chat. Helps me unwind.”

Cleophrea offered a smile—polite, practiced, and paper-thin.
“Of course, Mrs. Lopez. But I’m actually on my way to Math Club, so…”

She lingered just long enough to be respectful—then waited, silently, for Mrs. Lopez to step aside.

“Just a minute. I promise.”

Irritation simmered beneath Cleophrea’s skin, but she buried it fast—poised, polished, perfect, as always.

“Well,” the teacher said, tone light but unmistakably pointed, “most students have already started practicing with their partners for the gala. Except you. I’ve noticed—you and Finn haven’t even spoken about it.”

Cleophrea opened her mouth to protest—to beg for a switch—but the teacher raised a hand.

“And no, I don’t want to hear that you ‘don’t get along.’ You were paired for a reason. Now go talk to him. Don’t waste time, dear.”

And just like that, Mrs. Lopez turned and walked away—leaving Cleophrea stranded in the hallway, late for Math Club, fury masked behind a flawless smile.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 6
One Step Too Close




“We weren’t dancing—we were trying to destroy each other beautifully, one step at a time.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cleophrea lay sprawled on her bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as her thoughts drifted.

Beside her, a thick novel sat open but untouched. The fan stirred the pages occasionally, a soft sound she barely registered.

She was supposed to be planning dance practice. Instead, she did nothing—and it drained her all the same.

She was lost in the world of her book, imagining scenes more vivid than reality—sweeping drama, stolen glances, and words sharp enough to bleed.

Then—

Ding.

A soft chime echoed from across the room. Her phone, abandoned on the study table, flickered to life, casting a pale glow on the wall.

She glanced at it. Briefly.

But didn’t move. The book still held her.

Until—

Ding.

Again. Louder this time. Ruder. Demanding her attention.

Cleophrea let out an exasperated sigh, snapping her book shut with a sharp crack that echoed her frustration. She stomped across the room in a dramatic huff, muttering under her breath as if the phone had personally insulted her. When she finally reached for it, her fingers hesitated for a moment—as if reluctant to answer the call she didn’t want to hear but couldn’t ignore.

A single notification lit up the screen—from an unknown number.

Mrs. Lopez said she wanted to see us practice tomorrow.

Cleophrea blinked once. Then scrolled down.

Don’t mess it up. You can embarrass yourself, but not me.

And just like that, she knew.

She didn’t need the name.
Didn’t need a guess.
That arrogance could only belong to one person.

She stared at the message. Let it burn for a second.

Then closed it.

No reply.
Just seen.

Then, without another thought, she tossed her phone onto the mattress and collapsed beside it—flipping open her novel like it held a better world.

And right now, anything was better than him.

Tomorrow was Saturday.

A sacred pause—one rare, golden pocket of time where Cleophrea could finally breathe.

No schedules. No teachers. No expectations pressing down on her like a weight she wasn’t allowed to name.

Just her, her dorm room, and whatever book she hadn’t finished the night before.

But not this Saturday.

No, this Saturday had been hijacked—snatched from her hands by none other than Mrs. Lopez, who apparently thought weekend peace was overrated. Now, Cleophrea was being forced to drag herself back to school… not for detention, not for an exam—but to practice a dance routine with the one person she’d rather set on fire than hold hands with.

Finn Cross.

She could already see it: the smug expression, the slow walk, the unbearable air of superiority he never bothered to hide. Her fingers curled tighter into the sheets.

If Mrs. Lopez weren’t watching, Cleophrea would’ve already planned a thousand ways to stomp on Finn’s feet—heel first. Repeatedly. And with such elegance, no one would even notice it was intentional.

But she would be there—silent, unblinking, a shadow perched at the edge of the room. Watching. Judging. Probably scribbling notes on how well they moved together, as if the rhythm of their steps could reveal some hidden truth.

Saturday was ruined. And somehow, Finn managed to make it feel like a Monday.

09:12 AM

The morning air was colder than usual—sharper, restless.
Wind tugged at the trees, shaking loose the last clinging leaves of the season.

Cleophrea pulled her leather jacket tighter around her.
The weight of it grounded her as she stepped onto the empty campus grounds.

She arrived earlier than needed.

Not because she cared.
She just refused to be the girl who strolled in late, hair windswept and dignity misplaced, especially under Mrs. Lopez’s hawk-eyed stare.

She settled onto the worn wooden bench in the school’s park—back rigid, legs crossed, thumbs idly scrolling through her phone.

The cold lost its edge when she kept her mind occupied.

Lost in a blur of posts and images—anything to shield herself from the absurdity of why she was here.

Dance practice. With him.

She didn’t flinch when footsteps echoed down the stone path.

Finn arrived, Mrs. Lopez trailing behind like it was some kind of ceremony.

He arrived exactly as expected—underdressed, unimpressed, and completely unfazed by the cold.

A dark wool coat hung off his shoulders, thrown over a black turtleneck. His jeans looked too worn to be intentional, barely held in place by a belt that did its job out of spite.

His glasses were crooked, fogged slightly from the wind—he didn’t seem to notice, or care.

There was nothing polished about him.
Still, the way he walked—slow and unbothered—made her blood itch.

He didn’t look at her as they approached. Neither did she lift her gaze.

Mrs. Lopez walked beside Finn, her heels clicking softly on the stone path, a too-cheerful smile perched on her face. But even she could feel it—the thick, unspoken tension hanging between the two students like a storm cloud, waiting to crack open.

“Lovely breeze this morning, isn’t it?” she said brightly, glancing between them.

Neither responded.

“Well! Let’s get started with practice, shall we?” she chirped, clasping her hands with a little too much enthusiasm.

Cleophrea’s spine straightened. Her gaze stayed still, unreadable—
but her jaw tightened. Just enough to betray her mood.

The air grew heavier, charged.

She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a small black speaker box, cheerful and far too bright for the moment. She placed it carefully on the bench’s edge, then clapped her hands once.

“What are we waiting for, then? Let’s practice! This is going to be so exciting!”

And that—that—was what finally made Cleophrea look at her.

“Exciting,” she repeated, calm but dripping with venomous disbelief. “That’s certainly… one word for it.”

Finn said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched—half smirk, half wince.

This wasn’t going to be a practice.
It was going to be a battlefield dressed in rhythm and restraint.

Mrs. Lopez stood a few feet ahead, cheerfully walking them through the choreography, her hands carving rhythm into the air.

Meanwhile, Cleophrea and Finn sat stiffly on the bench behind her—bookends of a story neither of them wanted to be part of.

The space between them was deliberate.
Pointed.

She sat at one end of the bench, arms crossed, legs tucked to the side, her gaze fixed on the dead leaves near her boots. He mirrored her in his own way—elbows on his knees, head tilted down, his expression unreadable beneath a mess of curls and fogged-up glasses.

Neither of them were really listening.

Mrs. Lopez's voice droned on, cheerful and optimistic, but it washed over them like static—unwelcome and ignored.

Cleophrea’s thoughts drifted—sharp, irritated.

I could’ve gone to the grocery store.
Restocked my fridge. Slept in.
Anything but this.

She sighed, tapping her nails against her jacket sleeve, the rhythm short and bitter.

Finn’s mind wasn’t far behind.

I should be with the guys right now.
We had plans. Actual ones.
Not… this forced disaster.

Still, Mrs. Lopez carried on—blissfully unaware of their mental absence, too caught up in the joy of imaginary progress.

Until she said it:
“Next step—holding hands. One on the waist, one on the shoulder. Simple!”

She smiled, beaming, as if she’d just handed them a gift.

The words landed like gunfire.

Both Finn and Cleophrea blinked. Once.

Then slowly turned to face each other—eyes locking in something just shy of horror.

Mrs. Lopez didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch.
She didn’t even consider it might be a problem.

But oh, it was.

Cleophrea scoffed under her breath, her gaze snapping back to the ground as though the dirt had something to say about it.

Finn rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware the air wasn’t cold anymore.

And yet, Mrs. Lopez kept smiling.

“Let’s give it a try!” she chirped, turning up the speaker’s volume.

And just like that, their private hell began.

Finn shifted on the bench, then slowly stood—only to wince and clutch his thigh with theatrical pain.

“I… I think I splintered something in my leg last night,” he said, voice strained, utterly unconvincing.
“I’ll sit this one out, Mrs. Lopez. But your explanation? Crystal clear. Totally got it.”

He nodded, almost convincingly—like false sincerity might buy his way out.

Mrs. Lopez paused, one brow arching. She opened her mouth to protest—
but she didn’t even get the chance.

Cleophrea turned to him slowly, her voice slicing through the air like cold steel. “Faking an injury now?” she said. “Adorable.” Her expression didn’t shift. It didn’t have to.

Finn glanced sideways at her, jaw tightening. “I was just trying to spare us both.”

She scoffed, arms crossed as she shifted her weight onto one leg, fully facing him now.
“Spare me?” Her voice curled into something sharp.
“Please. Don’t flatter yourself, Cross. If anyone should be faking an injury, it’s me—just to avoid your rhythm-less existence.”

Mrs. Lopez blinked, caught between them like a referee who had no idea the game had already started.

Finn smirked bitterly, straightening up despite his fake limp. “If I’m rhythm-less, at least I don’t rehearse my insults like you do.”

Cleophrea’s smile was sweet. Deadly. “They come naturally when the target is easy.”

The tension sparked—hot, bitter, electric.
Mrs. Lopez clapped once, cheerfully ignoring the fire blazing between them.

“Great! Now that we’re warmed up, let’s start from the top!”

Cleophrea and Finn didn’t move.
But in that silence, the battle had already begun.

Her arms crossed like steel bars, feet rooted as if to block him out. She didn’t want to look at him, speak to him, or touch him. Just the thought of holding his hand sent a shiver of resentment down her spine.

And Finn? The feeling was mutual. His jaw clenched, fingers twitching as if desperate to escape the space between them. He stood as far away as the field allowed, staring ahead, pretending she wasn’t there. His silence screamed louder than any insult.

The tension was unbearable, bending the air.

Even the zephyr dared not stir.

It was deeper than dislike—personal, like a silent fire beneath the surface.

Mrs. Lopez shifted , attempting to break the heat.

And so, reached into the cloth bag slung over her shoulder and, with slow, deliberate grace, drew out a single ivory candle—long and elegant, its wax shimmering faintly as if dusted with gold.

“You’ll both hold one candle,” she said, far too cheerful for what was clearly a setup. “With your right hands. At the same time.”
Cleophrea blinked.
Finn’s glare could’ve melted the wax on the spot.

Mrs. Lopez, still smiling like it was the most whimsical idea in the world, said, “Just hold it together. One hand each. That way, the flame stays between you.”

It was so quiet you could hear the wind brushing through the open courtyard nearby.

Cleophrea didn’t move. Her mouth parted, just barely, like she was waiting for someone to say it was a joke.

No one did.

Her gaze dropped to Finn’s right hand—the one she’d have to share the candle with. Skin to skin. Warmth to warmth. Like it or not.

“How poetic,” she said, her voice pure ice.
Mrs. Lopez clapped and motioned for them to stand.
“Up now, let’s give it a try, shall we?” she chirped—far too cheerful, like she was trying to smother a landmine with a daisy.

Mrs. Lopez tugged Cleophrea up by the wrist, snapping her out of her thoughts. She stumbled, lips pressed in a thin line, but didn’t protest—expression bored, like the whole thing was beneath her.

Finn stood as if forced by invisible hands, stiff and slow, like his body refused to cooperate. His jaw locked, every second here clearly something he’d rather burn than endure.

Then came the moment Mrs. Lopez dreaded but forced—nudging them to close the gap.

Just as Cleophrea stepped forward, Finn stepped back—so suddenly she almost lost her balance. His expression didn’t flicker. He didn’t care if she stumbled or fell; that would only be a win for him. His eyes were hollow, stripped of anything close to concern.

She straightened quickly, cheeks burning with humiliation. She shot him a venomous glare, but Finn was already looking elsewhere—anywhere but at her.

Mrs. Lopez laughed nervously, caught in the thick, sour tension. “Oh, come on. Just try to—stand close. You’re not enemies at war.”

But that’s exactly what they felt like.

Enemies.
Trapped in choreography.

Then Mrs. Lopez shoved the long candle into Cleophrea’s right hand— Then, without waiting, she turned to Finn and placed a firm hand on his back, guiding him forward — not gently, but insistently.
"Closer, Finn. Don’t be shy," she said with a forced laugh, unaware she was stirring a storm.

His coat nearly brushed Cleophrea’s jacket—barely an inch between them, and even that felt like too much.
She flinched before she could think, shoulder jerking like she’d touched a live wire. Disgust flickered across her face, her grip on the candle tightening.
She didn’t shove him.
She didn’t step back.
But every part of her screamed for space.

But Finn?
Still no apology. Not even a glance.

That silence? That indifference?
It made her stomach churn.

The candle trembled in her right hand, gripped so tightly that her veins rose like cracks in marble. One flick of her wrist and it looked like she might hurl it into Finn’s face — and maybe smile while doing it.

“Touch me like that again, and I’ll make sure you never use that hand in a waltz—or anything else—ever again.”
Finn scoffed, not amused, just incredulous. He stepped back, letting the distance breathe, then tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
“Relax, Myles. I’ve touched doorknobs with more personality than you.”

Cleophrea gave him a firm push—light, but laced with warning—before brushing past. “I have an appointment,” she muttered, not waiting for a reply.

She didn’t wait for permission. Not for Mrs. Lopez’s protests. Not for Finn’s inevitable eye roll. She simply turned on her heel and walked off, leather jacket catching the draft behind her like a silent rebellion.

And Finn?
He let out a long breath. Quiet. Subtle.
Relief.
For once, he didn’t have to act like he didn’t hate this.
Because she’d left before he had to.

He stared at the spot where Cleophrea had stood—now empty, like a ghost vanished mid-confrontation.
Mrs. Lopez muttered something about “teenagers and their drama,” but he barely heard her. His mind was already elsewhere.

“Appointments,” he echoed under his breath, sarcasm curling around the word like smoke.
Right. Appointments. Probably an appointment with her pride.

He said nothing—just threw the candle to the ground, the wax thudding dully against the floor. Final. Careless. Done.

She walked off like she’d won. Like storming out was a crown.
He scoffed. Typical.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 6
|One Step Too Close

( part 2 )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MONDAY. 08:23 AM

The weeks leading up to the gala had rearranged both Cleophrea’s and Finn’s after-school schedules.
Her tutors? Canceled.
The Math Club she started? Delayed.

And Finn’s Science Literature Club? Shut down.

Not by choice. Neither he nor Cleophrea closed their clubs willingly.

Someone pressured the teachers—forced them to deliver the news, to revoke all access.

And that someone was, of course, Mrs. Lopez.

All that effort, sacrificed for the sacred art of silly footwork.

In the weeks before the gala, Cleophrea and Finn’s routines unraveled—first in quiet shifts, then in a sudden collapse.

Her tutors were the first to go. One by one, they sent apologetic messages about “unexpected cancellations” and “school interference.”

The Math Club—the one she’d founded and nurtured like a second home—was postponed indefinitely, left to gather dust on the forgotten corner of the bulletin board.

Finn didn’t fare any better. His beloved Science Literature Society—his only refuge from the noise—was unceremoniously shut down.
No warning. No explanation. Just a locked door and a teacher too uncomfortable to meet his eyes.

But they both knew the truth.
Mrs. Lopez.
She didn’t ask—she decided. No raised voice, just quiet commands stitched into the fabric of the school. A few meetings, a few smiles with teeth, and suddenly their afternoons were gone.

All for a performance neither of them wanted.
All for a spotlight they never asked to stand beneath.

They weren’t partners.
They were pawns. Sacrifices dressed up in formality.

Cleophrea stood frozen at the clubroom door, fingers clenched around the strap of her schoolbag. The golden plaque that once read Math Club – Founded by Cleophrea Myles was gone.
Just like that.
As if it had never mattered.

She’d spent months shaping that club into something meaningful—organizing competitions, tutoring juniors, turning formulas into friendships.
And now? Locked. Lights out. Erased.
All because Mrs. Lopez said so.

She tried talking to the advisor—the same one who once called her the brightest girl he’d ever taught—but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Just muttered something about “staff board orders” and a “temporary redirection of priorities.”

Redirection?
They dismantled her club so she could hold a candle and spin like a puppet beside Finn Cross.

For what?

A gala she didn’t choose. A dance she didn’t want. A partner she hated.

Before Cleophrea could protest, a sharp ding cut through the silence—less a ping, more a punch.

She didn’t want to look.

But she did.

Another bing. Two.

She forced her hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone.

Mrs. Lopez. Of course.

Jaw tightening, she tapped the message open, bitterness curling behind her teeth.

Practice again today, dear. This time in the dance room. 4 PM sharp.

The message sat on the screen like a mockery—no greeting, no apology. Just a command, wrapped in the fake sweetness of dear.

Cleophrea let out a sharp breath—almost a scoff. She stared at the message, half-hoping it might catch fire and vanish.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, aching to type something. But she didn’t.

What was the point?

Mrs. Lopez didn’t ask. She commanded. Like Cleophrea was just another prop in her perfect little show.

She shoved her phone into her blazer pocket, spun on her heel, and headed for the staircase. Every step toward the dance room felt heavier than the last.

She wanted to scream.

Her lips tightened in silent fury—the kind that didn’t explode, just burned slow from the inside out.
And the worst part?
She’d still go.
Not for Mrs. Lopez. Not for Finn.
But because she’d rather choke than be the first to give up.

She climbed the stairs like they’d personally wronged her—every step a stomp, every stomp a quiet war cry. Her heels cracked against the marble, echoing down the corridor like warning shots.

Her jaw tightened at the thought of Mrs. Lopez.
But it was Finn who really burned in her mind—his smug tone, his cold eyes, the way he looked at her like she was the burden in his story.

Her breaths came fast—not from exhaustion, but fury.

With every step, her mind sharpened its insults: Arrogant. Self-obsessed. Pretentious.

All of them wore his face.

By the time she reached the dance studio floor, her heart was pounding—not from the climb, but from the storm inside her. She paused at the door, hand still clenched from shoving her phone away.
Knuckles white.
Shoulders tight.
Ready for a war she never signed up for.

She let out a sharp huff—bitter, disbelieving, done.
Only then did she notice—her legs ached from the climb, every step taken like a storm hunting something to break.
Her shoes were scuffed.
Her blazer crooked.
She looked like she’d already been through a battle—and maybe she had.

She stood there a moment longer, fists clenched at her sides.
Warm light spilled from the dance room window—mocking her.
She wasn’t ready.
Not to see him.
Not to pretend.

But she had no choice.
Not when Mrs. Lopez held every string—
And made them both dance.

She pushed the door open, and a quiet chill greeted her—cold, sterile, like the mood she had dragged up the stairs with her. The dance room echoed softly with the

faint hum of the ceiling fans, the polished wooden floor gleaming under the dim afternoon light pouring in through the tall windows.

Cleophrea stepped inside, her gaze scanning the room with a guarded sharpness. Her eyes landed on Mrs. Lopez first, who was busy fiddling with a clipboard near the mirror, humming as if this were just another cheerful after-school activity.

He sat on the floor like he owned it—one leg stretched out lazily, the other bent, elbow resting carelessly on his knee. His school blazer lay discarded beside him, sleeves of his white shirt rolled to the elbows, veins and knuckles relaxed as he scrolled through his phone. His tie hung loose, barely there. Caught the light with each movement. The definition of not giving a damn.

Then, as if sensing her, his eyes flicked up—a lazy, cold glance. His glasses slipped down his nose, and he didn’t bother to fix them.

He looked at her like a notification, then went right back to scrolling.

A beat of silence passed. Mrs. Lopez didn’t notice. Cleophrea did.

Then came the jab.

Without lifting his eyes, Finn smirked. “It’s 3:57. Impressive. You should’ve come thirty minutes late—that’s what you always do in class, right?”

His tone wasn’t playful. It was arrogance wrapped in insult.

A spark lit behind Cleophrea’s eyes, but she didn’t respond. Not yet.
The room was already tense, and the dance hadn’t even started.
Before she could speak, Mrs. Lopez’s voice cut through the silence—too cheerful, too forced.

“You two are like cats and dogs,” she said, letting out a tired sigh as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Enough already. Let’s just get straight to today’s practice before one of you commits a crime.” Cleophrea bit her bottom lip—hard.

It wasn’t a nervous bite.

It was restraint. Barely.

She bit back the words—daggers aimed straight at Finn’s smug ego. Swallowed them down. For now.

She didn’t need to turn to know he was still there—his presence buzzing like a mosquito too close to the skin. Still, she turned.

And then he looked up.

Finn.

Leaning back on his palms, utterly at ease. That damned smirk curling on his lips, like her attention was exactly what he wanted.

To anyone else, unreadable. To her, it screamed, You can’t touch me.

In that moment, she wanted to rip it right off his face.

Mrs. Lopez lit the candle in Cleophrea’s hand with ceremonial grace.
Cleophrea just pictured jabbing it into Finn’s chest.
She tried to shake the thought.
It felt... weirdly satisfying.

Mrs. Lopez’s hands moved with elegance, like silk gliding through time, like she had done this ritual a thousand times and still found poetry in each motion. But the same could not be said for Cleophrea’s thoughts.

She blinked hard, trying to shove the thought away. She wasn’t a monster.
But her mind didn’t care.
And this time, the betrayal tasted a little too much like justice.

Finn stood rigid, leaning against the mirror like it could hold him up better than the floor.
His eyes flicked to Mrs. Lopez, who watched him with patience stretched thin.
He didn’t care. Not even a little.

“Do I seriously have to do this stupid dance again?”
His voice cut through the room—sharp, irritated.
It wasn’t just a complaint. It was a challenge.

Mrs. Lopez’s gaze hardened, her lips pressing into a firm line. “Yes. Yes, you do, Finn,” she interrupted, her tone steady and unyielding. There was no room for argument here. No space for his defiance.

Finn advanced on Cleophrea, each step measured, precise, as if he were stalking prey in slow motion. His eyes, usually alive with some form of amusement or irritation, were now vacant—empty vessels reflecting nothing but a profound, unsettling boredom. They held no warmth, no challenge, only a chilling indifference that seemed to suck the air from the room.

Cleophrea recoiled, a subtle but involuntary step backward, as if an invisible force were pushing her away. Yet, her back straightened, her chin lifting in a silent act of defiance. She would not be cowed. Mrs. Lopez, ever the puppeteer, saw the hesitation and seized the moment. A deliberate bump—disguised as an accident—sent Cleophrea stumbling forward, closing the gap that she had tried to create.

But Cleophrea’s body was a traitor. An inner turmoil she couldn’t quite master made her tremble. Her feet tangled,

and she lurched forward, colliding with the unyielding wall of Finn’s chest. A fleeting contact, immediately rejected. He recoiled as if burned, his lip curling in distaste as he created a wide berth between them. A predatory gleam flickered in his eyes, a smug satisfaction at her momentary loss of control. He fully expected her to crumple, to stumble further, her carefully constructed composure shattered.

But Cleophrea surprised him. With a fierce, almost desperate surge of will, she found her balance. Her shoulders squared, and her gaze locked onto his, unwavering. The candle on her outstretched arm flickered wildly, casting dancing shadows across her face, but the flame stubbornly refused to extinguish. It was a small, defiant beacon—a testament to the fire that still burned within her, refusing to be snuffed out by his apathy.

“Ah, I was this close to witnessing your grand spectacle—watching you crash and burn like a clumsy fool. But no, gravity had to drag you back from your inevitable humiliation,” Finn sneered, a cruel glint dancing in his eyes.

Cleophrea smirked. “Funny—coming from the king of empty threats and lazy comebacks.”

“Hey, enough with the nonsense,” Mrs. Lopez snapped, her voice sharp and commanding as she stepped between them. “Now, let’s get straight into the dance!”

Her eyes flickered with frustration—and something darker.
The charged silence between them felt like it was seconds from snapping, from turning into something worse than words.

Then they began to dance—if it even qualified as one.
Less whirl, more war. Every step a silent challenge, every movement a veiled attempt to trip the other.
Nothing was easy. Nothing soft.
Mrs. Lopez watched, sharp-eyed and silent.
Finn’s arm pressed against Cleophrea’s waist—not tender, but possessive, almost aggressive.
Her hand on his shoulder was steady, unyielding—daring him to slip.

Their right hands clutched the single candle, its tiny flame flickering like it, too, was nervous to be here. Their fingers barely touched—just enough to keep the thing from falling, not enough to feel like actual teamwork.
Too close to drop it.
Too awkward to survive it.

Their grips were tight, unforgiving—like they were holding back the urge to shove each other across the room. Every movement was controlled, but tense, like something barely contained.
This wasn’t about rhythm.
It was about control. About who would flinch first.

Days slipped by like sand through open fingers, each one a quiet drumbeat in a long, steady rhythm. The sun rose and fell over rehearsals, over tired smiles and aching feet, over dancers who gave everything to the music.

What once felt distant now loomed close—like the final page of a story, long-awaited and bittersweet.

Weeks passed, marked by sore muscles, whispered encouragements, and mirrors that didn’t just reflect movement—but change.
Stumbles became spins.
Uncertainty, grace.
Hesitation learned to fly.

And then — it came.

The end line. The crescendo. The dance gala.

The day arrived wrapped in nerves and sequins, in the flutter of costumes and the hush of held breaths. Backstage buzzed like a beehive of anticipation—heels clicking against tile, whispered counts of eight, the occasional sharp inhale from someone trying to quiet the chaos in their chest. Every dancer moved like a live wire, alive with electric energy, hearts pounding in harmony with the beat of music that hadn’t even started yet.

The air was thick with hairspray and hope, the kind of hope that comes only after weeks of bruises, sore muscles, missed counts, and late-night rehearsals. Costumes swayed on hangers like ghosts waiting to be brought to life.

As the curtain rose, golden light spilled across the stage like sunrise. And in that hush, people danced—not for perfection, but for joy. For the story written in movement.
Each spin echoed the weeks behind them.
Each leap, stitched with effort and quiet triumph.
To the audience, it looked effortless.
But backstage, they knew better.

This was the result of every bruise, every correction, every whispered count of eight.
The music swelled. The lights warmed. And for one fleeting moment, it felt like time bowed to them.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 7
Lies In The Mirror




“This dumb dress won’t fit. I look awful,”

she says with a smirk,

each word a quiet plea

for Elaris to give up and go.

 

 

 

 

Today was the day. Everyone buzzed with excitement, ready to perform.
Not surprising—half the paired dancers were now dating.
The other half?
Driven less by joy, more by the quiet fear of being left out.

Elaris— was in the middle of a full-blown fashion crisis. Dresses flew through the air like defeated birds, landing in heaps on the bed, the floor, even the lampshade. Each one was more offensive than the last, and Elaris was visibly unraveling with every failed attempt.
 

“I swear,” she groaned, wrestling with a zipper, “none of my middle school dresses fit anymore. I think my ribs moved.”

It wasn’t really about the dresses. It was about looking slim, elegant, unbothered.
But the prom options betrayed her—awkward cuts, stitched like revenge.
Sleeves sprouted where they shouldn’t. Some too long, others choking her like vines.

And the colors—faded pinks, pale blues—just didn’t suit her. They dulled everything down. Nothing popped. Nothing felt right.

All Elaris wanted was to feel beautiful. But tonight, she looked like a storm trapped in clothes that didn’t fit—a quiet sadness behind fierce eyes.
You wouldn’t guess she’d be the one standing in Cleophrea’s way someday.
But sometimes, storms don’t announce their arrival.

Cleophrea lay sprawled on her bed, one arm wrapped around a pillow like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Her thumb scrolled in a slow, steady rhythm—eyes half-lidded, barely present.

she mumbled,
“Check my wardrobe. Somewhere in there is a dress that fits.”

She didn’t look at Elaris—not once.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the screen, the flicker of strangers’ lives more important than the chaos just feet away.
Or maybe, truthfully, she was holding herself together—barely.

But Elaris ignored her.

Her hands fumbled behind her back, struggling with a zipper on a dress that fit like it belonged to someone who hadn’t grown in years.
Her reflection scowled back—sharp angles, fabric creases.
And yet, despite her own struggle, she stole a glance at Cleophrea, concern slipping through the frustration.

“You’re not getting ready?” she asked, breathless and disbelief in her voice. “He’s wait—”

Before she could finish, Cleophrea’s voice cut in—sharp and cold.
“I’m not interested in this stupid gala.”
She pushed off the bed with sudden energy, blonde hair a wild halo of defiance.
The pillow slipped to the floor, forgotten.

“Get up,” Elaris said, cutting through the silence.
“The dance probably counts for half our grade.”
She was still grappling with the stubborn zipper of her too-tight middle school dress, struggling and tugging with all her might, sighing through clenched teeth.

“I wouldn’t mind dancing with Terren,” she said, exhaling dreamily as the zipper finally clicked. Victory. And suffocation.
Hand pressed to her ribs, she added, “OK—breathing is optional, I guess.”
Cleophrea barely glanced up.
“Lucky,” she muttered—soft, bitter, already counting down the minutes until it was all over.
Cleophrea’s eyes drifted past Elaris, fixed on the pale, empty wall behind her.
Uninteresting, yet somehow more compelling than the thought of standing, dressing up, and pretending to care.

Dancing?
Not tonight.
Not with him.

Finn.
The name surfaced like a splinter—sharp, unwanted, impossible to ignore. Her jaw clenched, as if the thought alone might summon him.
Before her mind could spiral—into fury or worse—Elaris’s voice jolt her back to earth.

Or rather—her throw did.

A dress flew through the air, landing with a soft thud beside her.
Cleophrea blinked, pulled from the storm in her head by the unexpected weight of fabric.
Elaris stood nearby—arms crossed, breathing heavier than before.

“You wore that to graduation,” she said, matter-of-fact. “It’s beautiful. And it still fits. Now move.”

The dress was a soft, dusky rose—the kind of color that didn’t shout, just whispered elegance.
It had sat untouched in the back of Cleophrea’s wardrobe for over a year, half-forgotten, like a relic from a time she no longer looked back on fondly.

She stared at it like it had grown teeth.

It was deep crimson—rich, velvety, and unapologetically bold. The kind of red that looked like it had something to prove. Under the soft dorm lighting, the satin gleamed with a wine-dark sheen, catching the shadows in every fold. It had thin, delicate straps and a sweetheart neckline that curved gently above the chest, elegant without trying too hard.

Layers of fabric gathered at the waist, tracing her silhouette before falling in soft, ruffled tiers that moved like liquid fire.
No sequins. No rhinestones.
Just quiet drama, stitched into silk.

It looked like it was made for someone confident—someone who didn’t flinch.
Which is why it surprised her that it still fit.

Elaris glanced at the dress Cleophrea had been staring at, the one draped across the bed like it had been waiting for a second chance.

It looked like it belonged to someone fearless.
Which made it all the more surprising—it still fit.

Elaris glanced at the dress, draped on the bed like it had been waiting.

It was beautiful. Even after years in a dusty wardrobe, it still looked like something from a fairytale. The fabric shimmered softly, deep crimson hiding shadows like secrets.

Elaris pictured it fitting Cleophrea perfectly—hugging her waist, the neckline resting just right, the skirt floating as she moved.

But it wouldn’t fit her the same. It wasn’t made for her body. And that was OK.

It wasn’t her dress.

It was Cleophrea’s.

Elaris groaned and stormed to the bed. “Just come already,” she snapped, holding up the dress like an unwanted peace offering. “You really want the teachers slashing your non-academic score in half? Or worse—making it public?”

“I’d rather have it cut down to zero,” she barked. “Than dance with him.”
The name didn’t need saying. It hung between them like smoke.

Elaris sighed—loud, exasperated, theatrical.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re still in a dress that won’t let you breathe.”

“Fair.”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you—”

“I’ll come.”
Cleophrea cut her off before she finished. Her expression brightened—not with excitement, but at the mention of money. Bribery, it seemed, worked better than logic, guilt, or peer pressure.

Elaris blinked, unimpressed. “You’re so predictable.”

Cleophrea rose slowly, plucking the dress off the bed like it was some unfortunate burden placed upon her. She studied it with exaggerated indifference, fingers brushing along the fabric as if hoping for a flaw to complain about.

“This isn’t gonna fit,” she snapped. “I’ve grown since graduation.”

She held it up against herself, brows furrowed with theatrical dread. “This is actually stupid. Why would anyone wear something this clingy in public?”

And she didn’t stop there. One complaint unraveled into another, then another—each one more dramatic than the last.

Elaris finally snapped. With a swift, irritated motion, she snatched the dress out of Cleophrea’s hands and slipped it over her arms like a stylist dressing a celebrity mid-tantrum.

“OK. Enough,” Elaris said sharply. “You're going. You're wearing this. And I’m not letting you talk about yourself like that.”
Because deep down, though, she knew it fit. And worse, it looked good.

But no one needed to know that—especially not him.

As Elaris tightened the last lace of Cleophrea’s maroon dress, a shiver ran through her—not from cold, but something heavier.

Disgust.

Not at the dress.

At herself.

Because the mirror didn’t lie.

It was beautiful.
She was beautiful.

And she hated how much she couldn’t deny it.

“Girl, you look like a goddess!” Elaris gasped—half from the tight squeeze of her own breathless dress, half from sheer admiration. Her hands flew to her chest like she was witnessing a divine apparition. “All eyes are going to be on you tonight.”

Cleophrea didn’t respond. The compliment slid off her like water on glass.

The dress itched—not on her skin, but deeper. It clung in all the right places, making her feel exposed, vulnerable. She wanted out. Out of the moment.

“Let’s just go,” she murmured, heading for the door. “I want this over. Fast.”

But she barely made it two steps before Elaris yanked her back by the wrist.

“Go? Like that? With that messy hair?” Elaris stared at her in disbelief. “Yeah, no. You’re not embarrassing yourself tonight. Sit down.”

Cleophrea opened her mouth to protest, but before a single syllable escaped, Elaris had already shoved her into the desk chair like she was wrangling a feral toddler.

And honestly? Even a toddler might’ve been more obedient.

“Ouch! Stop already, I don’t ca—!”

Elaris yanked the comb tighter, maybe just to shut her up.

Her fingers moved quickly through Cleophrea’s soft blonde strands with practiced ease. In minutes, her hair was twisted into a braided crown—elegant and effortless. Loose curls framed her cheeks, softening her sharp expression, while wispy bangs fluttered across her forehead like strokes from an unfinished painting.

It wasn’t extravagant.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was striking.

She looked like someone who hadn’t meant to be beautiful.

Which somehow made it worse.

Or maybe... better.

Once Elaris secured the last strand, she stepped back—hands falling to her sides, breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she said nothing, just stared, as if seeing something she wasn’t ready for. Like she might kneel and worship.

Cleophrea sat still, glowing.

She looked achingly beautiful—the kind that felt impossible. Quiet, not shouting, yet leaving the room breathless. The maroon dress clung as if made for her. Her hair, twisted into a soft braided crown, shimmered gold in the fading light. Sunset spilled through the dorm window, casting an amber halo across her skin, as if the sun had chosen her to paint.

The faint blush on her cheeks, the eyeshadow catching flecks of light—everything fit. Not like clothes fit, but like poetry fits emotion, like art fits silence.

Elaris blinked, half-laughing at herself.

“Seriously,” her mouth half opened, “what are you even made of?”

But Cleophrea scoffed—not from disbelief or false modesty, but genuine indifference. The mirror didn’t move her. Not the way the dress hugged her frame, not how her hair shimmered gold in the fading light, not even how starstruck Elaris was.

Elaris blinked, half-laughing at herself.

“Seriously,” her mouth half opened, “what are you even made of?”

But Cleophrea scoffed—not from disbelief or false modesty, but genuine indifference. The mirror didn’t move her. Not the way the dress hugged her frame, not how her hair shimmered gold in the fading light, not even how starstruck Elaris was.

She was here for one reason: the fifty bucks Elaris promised, maybe a bump in her non-academic score. Not beauty. Not Finn. Not any of this.

Adjusting her dress strap with irritation, she muttered, “Hope this is worth the cash,” already calculating how much candy or cheap jewelry fifty dollars could buy. Probably a lot.

Elaris stared like she’d just insulted the Mona Lisa.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 8
The Masked Acts

 

 

“Behind the mask, we danced like allies. But every step was war, and every smile was a lie”

 

 

 

 

 

 

She gripped the hem, muttering under her breath to keep from tripping.

Ahead, thick red curtains loomed like a velvet wall, hiding the stage and hundreds of watching eyes. The crowd’s hum seeped through in muffled waves, but behind the curtain, it was a different storm—a charged quiet buzzing with nerves and heavy expectation.

Clusters of girls huddled in glimmering gowns—some bouncing on their toes, squealing with nerves. Others clung to their partners, whispering last-minute cues.
The boys stood calm, poised, holding them with quiet ease.
Like this was normal.
Like they’d been born for it.

How sweet, Cleophrea’s thoughts muttered, dipped in sarcasm.

Her gaze drifted—of course—to Naomi. Laughing at something her partner said, fingers smoothing her dress with effortless grace. She looked like she belonged. Like this moment had always been hers.
Cleophrea didn’t. Not really.

She leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward the entrance again. Maybe Finn’s late, she thought. Maybe he bailed. Maybe—if the universe finally had a shred of mercy—they’d get cut from the program altogether.
 

The idea almost made her smile.

Then Elaris spotted her partner and darted off, dress swishing as she spun, excitement glowing.

Cleophrea watched them link hands, fall into rhythm—like puzzle pieces snapping into place.

So easy.

So seamless.

For everyone but her.

Then backstage door creaked open again.

Finn stepped in, No. Strolled through like he couldn’t be bothered. His black suit—probably the same one he’d dragged out for graduation—fit him almost too well, yet he wore it with clear disdain. Hands shoved in pockets, shoulders slightly slouched, his expression was unreadable except for the unmistakable irritation in his jaw.

His hair was slicked back—probably by force—giving him the look of someone from a vintage silver screen.

Before he could shift his weight, one of the dance instructors snapped her head toward him.
 “You’re almost late,” she said sharply, arms crossed. “Another minute and you’d be off the list.”
Finn didn’t even flinch. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She didn’t humor him. She pointed sharply toward Cleophrea. “Go. Your partner’s waiting.”

His eyes rolled before his feet obeyed. He dragged himself across the room with all the enthusiasm of someone heading into surgery, each thud of his shoes against the polished floor a personal insult.

Cleophrea watched from her post near the wall, arms crossed and eyes narrow. She didn’t even bother pretending to look away. He was here. That meant the

performance was happening. That meant she had to dance—with him.

Perfect.

This night just kept getting worse.

At the sharp clap of a teacher’s hands, pairs were swiftly divided—girls to the left, boys to the right—herded like actors into their assigned wings. Instructions came clipped and efficient, as if the air itself had grown impatient with their lingering.

On the girls’ side, a wooden crate stood open, filled with slender taper candles—delicate, bone-colored, evoking classical elegance. Each girl took one with performative reverence.

Except Cleophrea.

She plucked hers like she was pulling a dagger from its sheath. Her expression was unreadable, but her grip betrayed her. If arson had been on the rubric, she might’ve scored highest.

Across the room, the boys were fitted with their own absurdity—glossy white Phantom-style masks, curved to obscure half the face in forced mystique. Theatrical and overwrought, Finn loathed it on sight.

He held the mask between two fingers as if it were contagious.

“Brilliant,” he blurt with venomous boredom. “A masquerade for fools.”

The boys in suits basked in their newfound alter egos—striking faux-heroic poses as if they’d stepped out of a vintage comic panel. They adjusted their lapels with practiced flair, masks worn with the confident ease of performers convinced they were saving the world—one ballroom spin at a time.

Finn resisted the urge to laugh.
Not because it was amusing, but because it was tragic.

And the worst part?

He was one of them now.

Just then, the dance instructor’s clipped voice cut through the charged air, ordering each pair to regroup and prepare for the performance. A sharp, unmissable warning followed—not to falter, not to fail.

The room shifted into movement. Students scattered, some hurrying toward their partners like magnets snapping together. Others—already romantically entangled—barely needed the command.

Finn, however, remained rooted. He had no intention of seeking her out. If Cleophrea wanted to perform so badly, she could come find him. Let her make the effort.

But the teacher spotted him standing there—idle, unmoving, as if the floor itself held him fast. With a pointed glare and a sharp jerk of her head, Finn was wordlessly commanded to move—immediately.

Reluctantly, he stepped toward Cleophrea, the mask swinging untouched in his hand. He hadn’t bothered to wear it—wouldn’t wear anything that made him look ridiculous. Not for a dance. Not for her. Pride still clung to him, even if the others had lost theirs.

Cleophrea stood at the edge of the stage, the candle trembling lightly between her fingers as she brought flame to wick. The dance instructor had handed her the last lighter—whether by design or chance, she was the final girl to ignite her candle, long after the others had done so with giddy hands and glittering eyes.

Their excitement was sickening. Candles burned too bright, desperate to outshine. Cleophrea’s jaw tightened.

Her flame caught at last—slow, reluctant—casting muted gold across her cheekbones and the folds of her maroon silk dress: layered, lustrous, far too elegant for how she felt inside. It did not warm her. If anything, the glow made everything feel more performative, more absurd—like she was lit for display, not purpose.

And then—like the universe answered her silent curses—Finn appeared, stepping in with the grace of a storm cloud. A sudden draft followed; the candles flickered nervously, warning in their dance. But none went out.

Cleophrea narrowed her eyes, her voice a low grouse edged with venom. “Of course. You show up, and the flames almost die. What a poetic entrance.”

Finn rolled with it, smooth as ever. He tossed the ridiculous half-mask into one hand and arched a brow. “Surprised yours didn’t go out first. Thought even fire had standards.”

They stood—two reluctant halves of a forced whole—while candlelight flickered between them, as uneasy and out of place as they felt.

Laughter and chatter bubbled around them—bright, deceiving. Between Cleophrea and Finn, the air stretched taut with unsaid words, sharp and ready to spill. Insults hovered on their tongues.

Cleophrea leaned in, a scathing remark forming—until the teacher’s voice cut through the hum like a tolling bell.

“Places! It’s time.”

She froze. They both did.

And then—the betrayal hit.

Neither moved. Neither smiled. But the stage waited—and so did everyone else.

“Don’t mess this up. I have values,” Finn muttered, breaking the silence like a crack in glass.

Cleophrea turned to him slowly, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. "Values? Is that what you call that thing on your face?" she nodded at the mask in his hand. "Looks more like a midlife crisis."

The music was about to start.

And, unfortunately, so were they.

From the far-left wing, the girls emerged—candles in hand, dresses shimmering. Near the end, Cleophrea’s garnet silk gown trailed like spilled wine. Her flickering flame cast gold on an indifferent face.

The crowd gasped softly, as if spirits had come alive. Each girl moved toward the center, where the choreography would unfold in perfect symmetry.

Then, from the right, the boys stepped in.

They wore suits and half-masks, faces sharp and unreadable beneath the disguise. Finn’s presence felt heavier—he didn’t walk on stage; he stalked it. His eyes flicked over the crowd, locking onto the one person he hoped would kindle before this moment arrived.

They met at center stage—like fate, if fate had a cruel sense of humor.
Breath to breath, a sliver of space between them but a war in the silence.
Their bodies aligned with practiced form, yet nothing looked like it fit.
And somehow, it still did.

The music swelled.

And so did the silence between them.

Then—on cue—they danced.

Each movement was smooth yet stiff—a contradiction of grace and spite. The candle they shared glowed like twin threats between them. They twirled without meeting eyes, dipped without trust, spun like opposing forces forced to orbit.

From afar, they looked perfect.

Up close, a disaster barely masked by elegance.

But still, they danced.

The others moved like poetry—weightless, unburdened, untethered by expectation. Laughter flickered between steps, hands slipping into hands with ease. They danced as if freedom were their birthright.

But not them.

Their rhythm was too calculated, their steps too precise—performing a task, not living a moment. They didn’t glide. They endured. Where the others bloomed, they burned—held together not by joy, but by something colder, more fragile.

But by a tension so taut, each step did echo with rehearsed disdain.
This was no dance.
’Twas endurance masked in motion—
not a waltz, but a war.

The music faded into silence, soft and slow like dusk settling. Around them, pairs stayed frozen—final poses held, hands entwined, breaths steady—basking in a moment they didn’t want to end. Frozen not from fear, but something almost tender.

 

But not Cleophrea and Finn.

They pulled away the instant the music stopped—too fast, too visible—shattering the illusion the performance demanded. As if holding on for one more second might’ve burned more than the candle ever could.

Cleophrea’s candle trembled in her grasp, its flame flickering along her right arm. Finn noticed only now—too late.

The mistake wasn’t huge, but under the lights, it felt monumental.

Finn leaned in, voice low and sharp beneath fading applause.

“Impressive,” he sneered, eyes on the candle in her hand. “One job—and you still screwed it up.”

He didn’t need to shout; his smugness said it all.

Cleophrea didn’t flinch. Calm, venomous, she replied,

“Funny. I didn’t know standing like a plant was part of your values.”

She looked away, candle steady.

“Next time, learn your left from your right before blaming others.”

Once the curtain fell and the stage dimmed, the girls and boys drifted backstage—flushed, breathless, buzzing from fading applause.

But Cleophrea didn’t care for claps or praise. Her eyes scanned past smiles and sweat-slicked hair, searching only for Elaris and Naomi—something familiar, something steady.

The performance was over.

The disaster done.

All she wanted now was to breathe.

All she saw was Elaris—already laughing with Terren.
Her shoulders were loose, the tension gone, replaced by something light. Easy.
She looked happy.

So Cleophrea stayed where she was.
She wouldn’t be the storm that ruined it.

Then her eyes found Naomi.

She grinned at something her partner said—a soft, surprised laugh that came from being caught off guard in a good way. He made her really smile.

She didn’t belong in that kind of brightness right now.

She sighed—quiet, buried, heavy enough to press into her bones.

Just her. Again. As usual.

Then they came.

Marceline and Celeste.

They weaved through the tangled students with practiced grace, expressions kind, voices soft with concern.

Marceline leaned in first, brushing a loose curl behind her ear as she smiled.
“Hey, you OK? You look a little off. If you feel like talking, we’re here.”

Celeste said nothing at first—just stood beside her, arms loosely crossed, offering a quiet nod. A presence that didn’t ask for attention but made you feel seen.

It felt... comforting. Normal.

Cleophrea gave them a tired smile, one corner of her mouth barely lifting. She was too drained to talk much, but their presence kept her from feeling completely invisible.

Even just for now.

Cleophrea had always pegged Marceline and Celeste as the dramatic type—the girls who rolled their eyes too loud in Chemistry and whispered just loud enough to be overheard. The kind she never expected warmth from.

But maybe that was old news. Or maybe she’d judged too quickly.

They weren’t dramatic or loud—just present, kind. For a moment, Cleophrea believed it. Maybe the Chemistry noise was nothing but teenage static.

“Thanks,” Cleophrea said softly, a tired smile flickering. “I’m just worn out. But really—thank you for caring.”

Something unspoken flickered in her chest—warmth, or something softer.

For a moment, she felt seen—not as dancer or student, or someone forced into unwanted spotlight—but as a person.

 

 

 

 

 

She doesn’t know yet.
 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 9
Velvet Words




“You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here—always.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cleophrea’s circle grew—first quietly, then all at once. What began with Elaris and Naomi now included Marceline and Celeste. Five girls bound by shared classes, late-night whispers, and secrets too heavy to keep silent.

It was unexpectedly beautiful. Laughter spilled like sunlight, arms draped casually over shoulders, secrets shared in fleeting glances. In that moment, Cleophrea wasn’t a distant observer of warmth—she was woven into its very fabric, finally home.

They talked about everything and nothing. Dreams, fears, embarrassing moments they’d sworn never to tell. If there were cracks beneath the surface, no one saw them yet.

And Cleophrea? She had begun to believe that maybe this—this warmth, this ease—was real.

Maybe.

“I hadn’t even taken a bite,” Naomi said, exasperated but calm, “before the soup erupted like it had a personal vendetta.”

She lifted her hands in quiet surrender, as if the universe itself had chosen violence.
Laughter erupted around the table—loud, chaotic, almost too synchronized. Maybe genuine. Maybe just a well-rehearsed act.

“You never told us that!” Cleophrea gasped between breaths, her voice barely there. Most of her air was already spent laughing.

15:20 PM.
 

Cleophrea still had Spanish—of all things. None of her friends took it. No Marceline, no Celeste, no Naomi, no Elaris. Just her.

She sat at the shared desk, half-expecting peace. Solitude wasn’t loneliness—it was air after drowning.

But, of course, no.

Finn walked in like an unwanted plot twist. He took Spanish too—not that he needed it. He spoke it more fluently than the teacher, which made him all the more irritating.
He didn’t come to learn. He came because the teacher would hunt him down otherwise. Literally.

Cleophrea sighed, already regretting her expectations for a quiet class.

More students drifted in, minds elsewhere—still lingering in hallways, unfinished talks, or lost in daydreams they weren’t ready to leave.

Cleophrea stayed quiet, eyes on the scratched desk as if it held secrets. Finn broke the silence—leaning back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing.

He noticed, quietly—no surprise, no judgment. Cleophrea slipped further into her new world: Marceline, Celeste. Smiles always ready, sweetness carefully measured.

“¿Todavía estás con esos dos?”

He suddenly said, flat.

She didn’t bother hiding her eye-roll. “You stalking my life now?”

“I don’t care what you do,” he said, flipping a page lazily. “But if they get caught and you’re beside them, don’t drag me down.”

She turned slightly, her voice sharp. “God, your ego’s so big, it’s a wonder you don’t trip over it every time you walk in.”

“And you’re always so easy to fool,” he retorted under his breath. “Hope that works out for you.”

Cleophrea clenched her jaw, silent. Not giving him the satisfaction.

Finn leaned back, smug. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when it blows up.”

He didn’t look her way again.

She stared at the workbook, reading the same sentence again and again. His words crawled into her mind like static:

“You’re always so easy to fool.”

He didn’t know them—not like she did. He missed how Marceline always offered her water first, even if it was the last sip. How Celeste memorized her favorite candy after just one study session. They cared. They asked about her, unlike everyone else who only gossiped and speculated.

He’s wrong.
She wouldn’t let herself believe otherwise. Not when—for once—people were finally staying.

16:40 PM.

Spanish class finally ended—a blessing, really, after spending hours glued to a chair beside the most irritating boy she knew.

Cleophrea didn’t even bother to pretend she wasn’t relieved.

And sure enough, just as she stepped out, Marceline and Celeste were waiting by the door, waving like they hadn’t seen her in years. Their faces lit up with something between excitement and possessiveness.

Her steps were quick, almost anxious, as if one more second in that room would infect her with his cynicism. She slipped past the threshold like it was freedom itself.

Into laughter. Into light.
Into her friends.

Finn stayed behind as desks scraped and laughter spilled into the hallway. He packed his bag slowly, notebooks shoved in with quiet force. One bent against the zipper. He didn’t fix it.

His blazer slipped halfway down his arm. Still, he said nothing, fixed nothing.

His eyes followed the doorway—not with longing, just calculation. Maybe memory.

She left fast, like the weight beside her desk disappeared with the bell. As if none of it had happened.

He watched the space she’d left behind, quiet and still and echoing.

It wasn’t about her. Not really.
It wasn’t about warning her.
Or protecting her.

It was the kind of silence that knew something was coming—coiled like smoke behind the eyes.

Maybe he didn’t want her safe.

Maybe he just didn’t want to be there when it burned.

As Finn stepped out, his friends swarmed him—loud, laughing, already recounting something ridiculous. One clapped his shoulder. His blazer slipped. He didn’t fix it.

He walked, half-listening, eyes scanning without meaning to. She was already gone. The girl with her brand-new friendships, like a bird too confident in a painted sky.

Not his problem.

He wasn’t watching her. He was watching his steps—careful ones. He’d learned when to speak, and more importantly, when not to.

This wasn’t concern. This was strategy.

And he was still deciding how far from the fire he needed to stand.

Why was he watching from narrowed eyes, calculating something no one else noticed?

Cleophrea simply walked out with her friends—laughing, light, unbothered.

They hadn’t done anything to him. At least, no one could see it.

So why did his silence feel heavier than usual?

Why did he pause, as if watching something ticking just beneath the surface?

It wasn’t dramatic. No sharp breath. No sudden tension in his jaw. Just stillness—the kind that stretched too long to be casual. His gaze hovered, unfocused, like he was trying to remember something he couldn’t name.

He should’ve moved on—should’ve laughed along, should’ve thrown a careless reply into the swirl of voices pulling at his sleeves. His friends were already nudging him, cracking jokes, carrying the energy forward without him. But Finn stayed apart from it all, like his body was present, but his mind was still trailing behind somewhere deeper.

He wasn't listening. Not really.

There was a slowness to him—measured, deliberate, as if he were tracing something invisible in the air. A pattern only he could see. An outline of a moment he’d already lived. Not here. Not now. But close enough to echo.

And whatever it was—whatever image or instinct had frozen him—he didn’t share it.

He just stood there, quiet in the middle of the noise. Watching. Waiting. Or maybe just remembering.

Turn the page.
Things are never as quiet as they seem.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 10
When Finn Fell

 

 

“She didn’t hug back. I called her name, but she just stayed still. She never stayed still.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Mommy? Where are you—where are you going, Mommy?" I called out, my voice trembling.

And then I saw her—the only woman I had ever truly loved, more than anyone else in this world.

Dragged away.

A violent blow.

Laughter echoed around us—cruel, cold, merciless.

I tried to reach her, to pull her back into my arms. My father tried too.
But he was pinned—caught between chaos and the police.

That’s when I saw him.

Marceline’s father.

The man I once believed was kind. Gentle. Trustworthy.

He owed us four million.

And we needed it. Desperately.

We were drowning—quietly. Bills piling up. Food running low. My mother trying to hold us together while breaking piece by piece.

She was suffering. Smiling so I wouldn’t cry.

And he walked past like none of it mattered.

Like he hadn’t ruined us.

I was only four. Nearly five.
Just a month away.

Her last words are still carved into me like a wound that won’t heal:

“Love someone who’ll treat you the way I did… just not someone who’s too much of a coward to keep you.”

And he knew that was nobody else. Maybe. Except his own mother.

The worst part?

Marceline was raised to mock him—taught to weaponize charm, to feign illness when it meant control, to humiliate him not out of hatred, but because power was a game her family never lost.

His family had changed—happier, wealthier, stable.

But comfort doesn’t erase memories.

That kind of trauma lingers—quiet and sharp.

And he carried it with him… every single day.

He woke with a jolt—gasping, soaked in sweat.

That dream again.

His mother.

Alive, then gone.

Every night.

He lost everything that day—
Money. Dignity.
But more than anything…
He lost her.
The one person he thought he could protect at all costs.

And he had failed.

He grabbed his phone—fumbled it. It hit the floor.

Hands shaking, he opened his messages.
Kelwin.
It’s about Mother.

He Deleted it.

He locked his phone and let it drop.

Because some pain…
Wasn’t meant to be shared.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 11
Cleophrea.


 

 

"It was stupid. But it made me laugh."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

12:27 PM

I shouldn’t still be smiling.

Class had started ten minutes ago. The teacher’s voice buzzed somewhere in the background like an old ceiling fan, and the numbers on the board were starting to blur. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that joke.

Of course it was Marceline who started it.

She’d just finished imitating the new substitute—the one with the weirdly long limbs and a habit of whispering motivational quotes like he was summoning ghosts.

She leaned in, eyes wide and serious.
"The mitochondria… is not just the powerhouse of the cell. It is your spiritual core. Cleanse it."

Celeste collapsed, wheezing with laughter. Naomi groaned and muttered, “He said that Tuesday,” which made it worse.

And me?
I laughed. Loudly.
Before I could stop myself.
Before I could roll my eyes or pretend I didn’t care.

It was real. Unexpected. Sharp.
And for the first time in too long, I let myself keep laughing.

I used to scoff at stuff like this. Cliques. Inside jokes. The whole "besties" thing. It always felt like something shallow, something people clung to when they didn’t have anything else. But now?

Now I believed in it.

Not blindly—I wasn’t stupid. I knew how people could be.
But Marceline, Celeste, Naomi… they felt real.
They’d stood beside me when it would’ve been easier to walk away.

I remembered Celeste waiting after class just to ask if I was o. Marceline defending me when the history teacher started picking a fight. That meant something.

So I made a quiet promise.
Right there, under flickering lights and the hum of a lesson I wasn’t listening to:
I’d protect them.
No matter the drama, the rumors, the shifts.
These were my girls.
I didn’t need anyone else.

Not Finn with his silence.
Not teachers expecting me to lead.
Not anyone outside this circle.

My smile faded just a little—but the warmth stayed. The echo of Marceline’s stupid ghost voice, Celeste’s ugly laugh.
It was mine.
And for now, it was enough.

I didn’t take notes in Literature. Not a single one.
The board stayed blank. The teacher’s words blurred like static behind glass.

All I could think about was the bell.
And how, when it rang, I’d rush to pack my bag and find them—
Already laughing, already teasing Celeste or making up another dumb joke.

That’s what I wanted.
Not a perfect grade. Not anyone’s approval.

Just… them.

2:27 PM.

The bell rang sharp.
I didn’t wait.

I moved fast, pushing past rows of desks, already scanning for them.
I knew where they’d be—by the windows near the stairwell, probably laughing about something pointless.

And there they were.
My heart pulled toward them like muscle memory.

Marceline said something and I laughed so hard I had to cover my mouth. Celeste leaned into me, like she always did, like we’d known each other forever.

I felt full. Safe.
Light.

Then, for just a second, something shifted.
I looked up.
And there he was.

Finn.

Still by the classroom door. Still watching.

His face didn’t give anything away, but his eyes—they held something.
Not anger. Not jealousy.
But not nothing, either.

It felt like a warning. Like he saw something I hadn’t.

I blinked.
Then Naomi nudged my arm and the laughter pulled me back in.

Still, I couldn’t shake it.
That flicker in his eyes.

But it didn’t matter.
Not really.

Let him think what he wanted.
Let him stand there in silence, holding on to whatever suspicions he thought he had.

If he wanted to piece together glances and half-moments like clues—fine.
That was on him.
I wasn’t going to ruin this.

Not when I had them.
Not when I had laughter, softness, the kind of warmth that didn’t ask for explanations.

For once, I wasn’t proving anything.
I wasn’t fighting to be heard.

I had this moment.
And I was going to live in it.

Let Finn carry his theories and quiet warnings.
I had joy. I had today.
And I wasn’t giving it up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 12
A Name Passed Too Lightly




It started like most things do—quietly, without a name. By the time it reached her, it had already drawn blood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The moment Cleophrea stepped into the room, the whispers vanished—
like dust swept beneath a rug too quickly.
Silence didn’t fall. It coiled.
Settled behind lowered eyes and half-formed smirks.

She felt it in pieces.
A glance held too long.
A conversation clipped mid-sentence.
The air had changed.
Colder. Sharper. Watching.

Still, she stood straighter.
Books pressed to her chest like armor—spines against spine, paper against pulse.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask.
She knew better than to chase the shape of a whisper.

And if something had shifted, then let it.
She would not.

She found them near the back courtyard—Marceline, Celeste, Naomi, and Elaris.
The usual spot. The usual quiet.
But something in their silence wasn’t usual.

“Hey—” she offered, light but steady. “Why are people looking at me like that?”

Naomi blinked. Elaris tilted her head like she hadn’t noticed.
Celeste was quiet.
And Marceline said, almost sweetly, “I don’t know. Maybe… you did something?”

Not sharp. Just soft enough to wound.

Cleophrea frowned. “Like what?”

Celeste shrugged. “People talk. You know how it is.”

She did. She’d seen how fast whispers turned to storms.
She just didn’t think she’d feel it herself.

“Right,” she whispered.

The conversation drifted. Memes. Tests. Laughter.
But it felt like watching a play she wasn’t cast in anymore.
 

 

Later, in class, Finn looked at her with something between disbelief and resentment.

The newest rumor spread faster than logic. No source. No truth. Just fire.
And somehow, both their names were in it.

She walked in like nothing had happened—flipping to the right page, already revising.
He stared a moment too long.
It made his jaw clench.

“Mind explaining the rumor?” he asked, voice flat and cold.

Cleophrea paused, eyes flicking to him. “What rumor?”

No guilt. No twitch. Just calm and unreadable.

“You expect me to believe you haven’t heard it?” he snapped.

She blinked. “No. I expect you to tell me what I’m being accused of.”

He scoffed. “You act like you’re better than everyone. Wouldn’t be a stretch if you started it just to get attention.”

Her pen stilled.

“Wow,” she said softly. “So I want attention, but you’re the one making a scene about a rumor no one’s explained to me?”

Her voice didn’t rise. It cut.

“If I had started it, Finn, trust me. I’d have written it better.”

She turned back to her notes. But she wasn’t reading.

He didn’t know if she was lying.
And that uncertainty burned.

The lesson dragged on. Sunlight slanted through dusty windows. The teacher’s voice blurred.
But the space between them thrummed—quiet, heavy, dangerous.

Finn stared at his page, seeing nothing. Just remembering how fast lies spread.
How easily people laughed with the right crowd—and how easy it was to believe they never really saw you.

The teacher left briefly, murmuring something about forgotten papers.
The door closed. Silence shifted.

A few students whispered again. Phones flicked open. Laughter returned in flickers.

But Finn stayed still. Staring.

Then—
“No more pretending,” he said. “You sure you didn’t start it?”

Cleophrea turned slowly. Calm. Composed. Her eyes glinting sharp beneath the surface.

“You think very highly of yourself,” she said. “To believe I’d start a rumor just to make you look like an idiot.”

She leaned in, voice soft and clean.

“If I wanted to humiliate you, Finn, I’d just let you talk.”

A few students looked up, sensing the temperature drop.

Cleophrea added, quieter but colder:
“I don’t know what poison you’ve swallowed, but stop blaming me for the taste.”

She turned back to her notes, unbothered.
But the sting lingered—like static in the air.

Finn didn’t speak. Just folded his arms, jaw tight.
Not from the words. From everything they didn’t say.

He hated this. The shadows, the rumors, the way her voice could split him in half.
He looked down. Dust clung to his shoes. Outside, a bird screamed across the sky.

He didn’t want to fight.
Didn’t want to care.

But silence didn’t come easy anymore.
Not in a world where even stillness had maul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 13
A Name Passed Too Lightly
( part 2 )

 

 

“Oh, how charming—my name, just a passing breeze for you. So light, so effortless to drag through the mud without a second thought.”

 

 

 

 

 

Seconds bled into hours. Hours unraveled into days. And days—relentless, unforgiving—stretched into weeks.

The rumor, wherever it began, had sprouted legs. It slithered through classrooms, coiled down hallways, slipped beneath closed doors. It grew beyond whispers. It became belief.

Even Cleophrea’s circle began to fray. The laughter faded, dimming like dying embers. Marceline, Celeste, Naomi, Elaris—each peeled away like shadows shrinking from the light.

And Elaris, her dormmate—the one who used to argue over books with her at 1 a.m.—was silent.

Each time Cleophrea entered the dorm, the air thickened. Elaris sat with headphones in, face turned away. No greeting. No glance. Just cold distance.

At first, Cleophrea blamed exhaustion. Exams. Stress. Anything but the gnawing suspicion in her gut.

But suspicion never stays quiet forever.

Someone was framing her—and Finn. She could feel it in the too-long stares, the hush that followed her into a room.

Why?

Who?

What did they gain?

She needed answers—but no one was talking. And that kind of silence meant someone was hiding something.

So she asked Elaris. Quietly. Hesitantly. Because after all this time, she still didn’t know what, exactly, had been said.

Cleophrea met Elaris’s gaze, searching for even a flicker of the friend she remembered. But Elaris’s eyes were sharp. Cold. Like glass with edges.

“You want to know what they’re saying?” Elaris asked, voice low and crisp. “Fine. They say you’re a master manipulator. That you lie so easily, you don’t even get your hands dirty. That you ruin everything you touch—friends, reputations, air.”

She let the words hang there, heavy.

“They say you’re clever, sure. But not in a way anyone should admire. More like a spider. Weaving traps. Watching people struggle.”

Her mouth twitched—something between a smile and a wince.

“And me? I was a fool to believe you were different. That you actually cared.”

The silence that followed cracked something open. Not loud. Not violent.

Just… devastating.

Cleophrea didn’t flinch. Not on the outside. But something shifted inside—quiet and irreversible.

She looked at Elaris—not as an enemy. Not even a stranger. But as someone who had once called her sister.

Her voice came soft. A breath.

“That’s what they think of me?”

Elaris said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

Cleophrea set her bag down gently. Every movement controlled. She could feel something dangerous rising—but she wouldn't show it. Not now.

“You knew me,” she said. “Or you used to.”

“I thought I did,” Elaris replied.

A pause.

“Then maybe you never did.”

The dorm felt colder after that—like the walls themselves had recoiled.

Cleophrea stepped back, spine straight, eyes unreadable. But inside? Hollow.

“Thank you,” she said. Not sarcastic. Just… done.

She opened the door and walked out—not because she had somewhere to go, but because staying felt like breathing in smoke.

She didn’t know who started the rumors.

But now she knew:

They were working.

And someone wanted her isolated.

Outside, the halls buzzed with low voices and blurred motion.

She walked without focus, her thoughts spiraling.

She didn’t know how to fight back. Not when the lies were already rooted in everyone’s minds, believed like gospel.

Her phone buzzed.

Finn.

We need to talk. Not here. But this isn’t over.

Her heart beat faster—not in fear. In fury.

He wanted to fight? Good.

She typed back:

Fine. When and where?

The Marrow Library.

No explanation. Just a location. Just a line.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 13
A Name Passed Too Lightly
( part 3 )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cleophrea sat down across from him, not meeting his eyes. She shoved her backpack aside with a thud and pulled out her phone like armor—something to occupy her hands, or maybe her thoughts.

Her fingers moved across the screen with practiced ease, but she wasn’t texting. She was waiting.

Finn leaned back, arms crossed.

The second she pulled out her phone, it hit him—like a wall dropping between them.

Evidence? Really?

“I’m not here to interrogate you,” he muttered. “It’s not a murder trial.”

His voice sliced through the library’s stillness—sharp, but tired. Not angry. Just worn down from walking through fog and whispers.

Cleophrea looked up, eyes narrowed.

“Evidence?” she echoed. “You think I’m some kind of suspect? The villain in your courtroom fantasy?”

She tapped her phone against the table, slow, deliberate.

“Maybe I’m just done pretending. Done watching people treat the truth like it’s a loaded weapon.”

Her gaze held his, steady and sharp.

“You want answers? Fine. But don’t expect me to play nice while you dig through my life like you’re the judge and jury.”

The silence thickened.

“I’m not here to be nice,” Finn said. “I’m here to figure out who’s trying to burn us both.”

Cleophrea’s mouth curled into a bitter smile.

“Then maybe we’re already scorched.”

Around them, the library held its breath—dust drifting in narrow beams of afternoon light, the air dense with old paper and secrets. Somewhere, a page turned. Stillness deepened.

Cleophrea’s grip tightened around her phone. Finn was still watching her. Measuring. It was a challenge—and she couldn’t ignore it.

“So what?” she said. “You think I’m behind it?”

“I don’t know who started it,” Finn replied. “But you and I being the targets? That’s not a coincidence.”

She scoffed. “Sounds like you’re enjoying the drama a little too much.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’m not going down without a fight. And neither should you.”

Cleophrea leaned in, eyes sharp.

“Funny. I was about to say the same.”

For a moment, the quiet pulsed between them.

Not forgiveness. Not trust. But something that felt like survival.

Finn’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“We don’t have to like each other. Hell, we can keep hating each other. But if we don’t figure this out—it’ll destroy us.”

Cleophrea’s breath caught.

She didn’t want to trust him. But right now, she had no choice.

“Fine,” she said. “But don’t expect me to go easy.”

Finn’s grin was slow. Sharp.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The Marrow Library stood still around them—dust curling through golden light, shelves heavy with forgotten stories. Somewhere, a clock ticked, steady and slow.

Outside, life moved on—students laughing in the corridor.

But here, across that scratched-up table, two rivals sat in silence.

And the air between them was already shifting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 14
Echoes of What Wasn’t Said
 

 

 

“They didn’t say it was true. They didn’t say it wasn’t. They just looked at me like I was already guilty. And somehow… that was worse.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

05:30 AM

Cleophrea woke to an unfamiliar quiet. The bed across from hers was already made, the scent of morning shampoo long gone. Elaris had left. Earlier than usual? That wasn’t like her. She had always waited. Always tapped her foot impatiently while Cleophrea scrambled with her shoes, or tossed her a hair tie with a muttered "Hurry up."

But now? Now she was gone—like dust shaken from fabric, unnoticed and already floating elsewhere.

Still, Cleophrea told herself it didn’t matter. Maybe Elaris had an early class. Maybe she’d just been in a rush.

She grabbed the towel from its hook and made her way to the bathroom, but the silence lingered like steam in the air—thick, clinging, and impossible not to notice.

Cleophrea stepped out of the dormitory, the chill of morning brushing against her skin as she crossed the South Garden Court. The air felt off—too still, too watchful. And the moment she entered the school building, it hit her. Hushed voices dipped the moment she passed. Stolen glances flicked her way like needles. Eyes didn’t linger, but they didn’t look away fast enough either.

Still, she straightened her back. Her gaze landed on them—Marceline, Celeste, Naomi, and Elaris. Her group. Her constants. A small relief bloomed in her chest.

But they didn’t smile.

They stood close, yes, but the warmth was gone. Their formation hadn’t left room for her. Marceline’s arms were crossed, her gaze sharp, unreadable. Celeste and Naomi whispered something between them, and Elaris—Elaris wouldn’t even meet her eyes.

It was strange. Off. Wrong.

Still, Cleophrea approached, her steps steady even as something deep inside her hesitated.

Marceline looked at her like something had cracked. Naomi, Celeste, and Elaris held their expressions tight—like they were trying not to look disappointed. Like they’d heard something about her. Like they believed it.

And Cleophrea… she didn’t understand. Not yet. But she felt the space between them widen, even if no one had moved.

But still , she thought positive. She hates thinking negative.

And when Cleophrea stepped into class, it was like the air shifted.

Heads turned. Eyes followed. But it wasn’t the kind of attention she was used to—the glances of admiration or curiosity that usually trailed behind her like perfume. This was different. Heavier.

The silence wasn’t quite silent. It buzzed beneath the surface, thick with things unspoken.

They stared at her, but not with respect.

Something colder. Something sharper. Like they already knew a version of her she didn’t recognize.

And suddenly, her footsteps felt too loud. Her presence, too loud. Like she’d walked into the middle of a story someone else had written about her—and everyone had already read it.

Cleophrea dropped into the seat beside him, her movements sharper than usual, like she was trying to hold herself together with posture alone. Her bag hit the floor with a soft thud. She didn’t say anything.

Finn didn’t look at her right away. He turned a page in his notebook, slow and calm—too calm. Then, finally, he tilted his head toward her, just slightly. His eyes

flicked over her face, reading her expression like it was a test he’d already studied for.

He didn’t smirk. He didn’t sigh. But the look said it all.

Not I told you so.

More like: You see it now, don’t you?:

Because he’d been here already. Standing in the shadows of people who smile with knives tucked behind their backs.

“So, who do you think it is based on our discussion yesterday?”
His voice was cold—flat and surgical, like he was dissecting a wound rather than sharing it. Not angry. Not curious. Just tired. He didn’t look at her when he said it. He stared ahead, eyes fixed on the board as if the walls would offer more honesty than the people inside them.

Cleophrea hesitated. The question lingered in the air between them like smoke, curling with all the things they didn’t say. She had no answer. Or rather, she had too many. Faces blurred in her mind—Marceline’s laughter, Celeste’s carefully timed silences, Naomi’s avoidance, Elaris’s eyes that no longer softened when they met hers.

I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice quieter than she intended. “I’ve been thinking about it, but… none of it makes sense.”

Finn exhaled through his nose, almost like a laugh, but one that had rotted in his chest before it ever made it to his lips. “Of course it doesn’t,” he muttered. “That’s the point.”

He finally glanced at her, just once. There was no accusation in his gaze. Only a kind of bitter clarity. Like he’d learned this lesson a long time ago and had no joy in watching her learn it now.

The mystery is still hanging in the air. Days turn into weeks. And weeks turned into months.

Nothing was making the rumor better , but it was worse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 15
Left Without A Push

 

 

They left quietly, like shadows peeling from her side—no violence, no noise. Just absence. The kind that feels worse than hate

 

 

 

 

Cleophrea returned to the dorm, her thoughts still tangled in the day's dull rhythm—stares, whispers, too-quiet corridors. She told herself it was nothing. Just the weather. Just coincidence.

Until she opened the door.

Elaris was packing.

Books half-stacked, drawers yanked open, a duffel half-zipped across her bed.

“Where are you going—?” Cleophrea asked, her voice catching mid-sentence.

“To someone else’s dorm.” Elaris didn’t look up. “I didn’t know my roommate could be that cruel.”

The words cut clean. No explanation. No room to answer. Just a shoulder brushing past hers as Elaris walked out.

No goodbye. No slammed door. Just the soft click of something ending.

Cleophrea stood in the silence she left behind. The room already felt different—emptier. Like something had been taken.

Still, she didn’t chase. She wouldn’t beg.

That was her rule. If someone wanted to walk away, she let them.

And yet...

On the bed, something remained.

A bracelet—small, childish, beaded with faded plastic letters: Forever.

Her own wrist still wore the matching one.

She laughed—hollow and breathless. Not from humor. Just disbelief.

She’d believed in it. In them.

And now the proof sat discarded on the blanket, like it never meant anything at all.

The next morning, Cleophrea saw them in the hallway—Marceline, Celeste, Naomi, and Elaris trailing behind. They didn’t look at her. Didn’t pause.

They walked past like she was air.

Five months of friendship erased with silence.

Cleophrea stood still, her books tight against her chest. Waiting—foolishly—for someone to turn around. But no one did.

It wasn’t ghosting anymore.

It was erasure.

And across the hall, Finn stood alone near the lockers—arms crossed, jaw set. His friends were gone too.

She’d seen it—bit by bit. A comment ignored. A teammate walking away. A look of disgust passed between people who once joked with him.

Whatever it was, it mirrored her.

Abandonment without warning.

She entered class just behind him. Sat beside him like always.

She didn’t speak—until she had to.

“Your friends left you too, didn’t they?”

Finn didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at her.

“Shut up,” he said flatly. Ruthless. Immediate.

She sat beside him anyway, chair scraping deliberately.

“You think you’re the only one who’s tired of this?” she muttered. “You think you’re the only one who didn’t ask for this mess?”

No reply.

She flipped open her notebook, voice quiet but edged like a blade.

“I asked because I noticed. Not because I cared.”

He twitched. Jaw tightening.

“I don’t need your pity.”

“Good. That wasn’t pity.”

The classroom settled around them, the teacher’s steps echoing down the hall. But at their table, silence sat sharp. Two people braced like swords.

From the back of the room, a student watched them.

No words. Just eyes.

They saw it.

How Cleophrea no longer sat with her friends.

How Finn stood like he dared anyone to speak.

It wasn’t gossip anymore.

It was isolation.

And no one seemed to care.

Except them.

An hour passed. A worksheet landed on every desk. Groans. Scribbles. The usual chaos.

Cleophrea finished hers early. Neat. Clean.

So did Finn.

But when his eyes drifted toward hers, he caught something. A mistake.

“You finished fast,” he muttered, just loud enough for her. “And still screwed it up?”

No smirk. No teasing. Just a jab. A reminder. That even surrounded by lies, betrayal, and silence… they still fought.

She didn’t reply. Just slipped the paper into her bag. The bell rang.

She turned toward the library. Her usual refuge.

But today, the quiet wasn’t safety.

It was a storm waiting.

Beneath the jacaranda tree, petals drifted like ash.

Four girls sat in close formation. Naomi traced her notebook. “Do you think it’s true? What they’ve been saying… about Cleophrea?”

Celeste shrugged. “She always made herself the center. Even when she wasn’t trying.”

Marceline laughed softly. “Maybe she just crossed the line without realizing it. Clever girls do that.”

Elaris said nothing. Just stared at the petals beneath her shoes. Her arms folded—not out of defiance, but like she was holding herself together.

“I feel bad for Finn,” Marceline added, voice honeyed. “Dragged into it like that. Poor thing.”

“She was always calculating,” Celeste said. “Even her kindness felt… curated.”

Their voices were velvet and venom.

No accusations. Just suggestion.

And Elaris’s silence said more than any of them.

As the breeze stirred, no one noticed how cold the shade had become.

Cleophrea stepped into the coffee shop, hoping her usual green matcha latte would calm the ache inside her. But the comfort shattered the moment she saw them—Marceline and Celeste, huddled by the counter, laughing with that sharp, knowing sound.

Her name slipped from their mouths like poison. “Cleophrea…”
Just that. Enough to freeze her breath midair.

She stood still. Nails digging into her palms. The barista called out to her, but the word—“ma’am”—sounded foreign, too adult, too distant. Like even strangers saw her differently now.

She ordered on autopilot, glancing toward the corner where Marceline and Celeste whispered like they owned the world. Their eyes never met hers. Their laughter said everything.

She didn’t notice the line had moved. A stranger’s sharp tone snapped her back.
“Are you ordering or just standing there?”

Cleophrea mumbled an apology and stepped aside, clutching her drink like a shield. The heat grounded her, but her gaze kept drifting back. They didn’t look up. It was like she’d already been erased.

A thousand thoughts rushed in. She could go to their table. She could say something. Or worse—do something. Her fingers imagined throwing the matcha, watching their faces twist in pain.

But she didn’t. Because she wasn’t like them.
No matter how much she wanted to be cruel, she still had control.

She turned and walked out. The bell above the door rang out—sharp, cold. Celeste looked up, recognized the silhouette, and smiled like nothing happened.

“Some people just don’t know when to leave,” she said, perfectly sweet.

Outside, Cleophrea walked fast, brushing shoulders harder than she meant to. She didn’t stop. The burn of spilled matcha on her hand didn’t make her flinch. It reminded her she was still here. Still feeling.

Meanwhile, Finn was locked in another argument.
“You think I used you? For what—money?”
No answer. Just silence thick enough to suffocate.

It was the rumor again. That stupid, ugly thing crawling through their lives like rot.
He wasn’t angry.
He was hurt.

And that hurt never left quietly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 16
United by Damage


“We don’t have to like each other,” she said, voice flat. “We just have to hate the same lie enough to burn it down.”



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Can you believe Finn?” one of the boys muttered, tossing a soda can into the bin. “Using people just for his money? That’s cold.”

Another shook his head. “I don’t want to believe it, but… he’s been different. Like he thinks he’s untouchable.”

A third leaned in. “He’s been distant. Ignoring us, skipping hangouts. Maybe the rumor’s true, and he’s too proud to admit it.”

They exchanged uneasy glances. The air between them, once full of laughter and loyalty, felt heavier now—thinner. Something had cracked.

Meanwhile, Finn remained in class long after the last of the chatter had faded, hunched over his notebook like it held answers to everything that was unraveling. His pen scratched across the page with aggressive force—less writing, more purging. The sound was steady, irritating, deliberate.

Cleophrea glanced up from her notes, her fingers frozen mid-sentence. “Do you have to write like that?” she said, voice low and irritated. “It’s like you’re digging a grave for the paper.”

Finn didn’t look up. “Do you have to hover like you’re about to lunge?”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re seething.”

“Because you’re being obnoxious.”

He smirked faintly. “Didn’t realize writing in class was an act of aggression.”

“Only when it sounds like you’re sanding the desk,” she muttered, eyes narrowing.

His pen slowed, but not by much. “Maybe if you focused on your notes instead of me, you wouldn’t fall behind.”

Her laugh was sharp and empty. “Maybe if you didn’t act like the room revolves around your dramatic scribbles, I could focus.”

They spoke in clipped tones, their words brushing close to arguments they never dared finish. It had been building for weeks—unspoken things layered beneath their usual sharpness.

Finn finally set his pen down. “Better?”

“Marginally.”

The teacher’s voice cut clean through the tension.

“I’ll now be returning your results from the latest exam.”

The class groaned. Protests rose. Someone muttered about not studying. Another slumped over their desk like it was the end of the world.

“Finn,” she called out.

The air shifted. Cleophrea didn’t move, but she felt his tension drop like static. He stood with no hesitation, expression unreadable. He already knew his score.

When he dropped back into his seat, he slid the paper across the desk with a smug curve at the corner of his mouth. A bold red 97 stared back at her like a trophy.

“Got ninety-seven. You?”

His voice was casual, but he didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction. Cleophrea didn’t answer right away. She laid her own paper down beside his—quietly, with no show.

98.

She sat straighter, not looking at him yet. Her tone was innocent when it came, but there was steel beneath it.

“You talk like you’re above me, Finn. But numbers don’t lie. Next time, aim higher. I don’t compete with people beneath me.”

His smirk faded the second he saw it—just one point, but it landed like a slap. Cleophrea didn’t gloat. She didn’t need to.

He glanced at her, jaw tight. “You probably begged for it.”

She turned slowly, eyes unreadable. “And you probably prayed for it. Too bad heaven’s not answering.”

She opened her notebook again, bored. He said nothing.

The teacher’s voice rose again. “Cleophrea and Finn,” she called out. “You two will be tutoring the remedial group.”

Cleophrea blinked. “Are you serious?”

Finn didn’t even look up. “Nope. Not happening.”

When the bell rang, she gathered her things with quiet care. Finn muttered, “Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“To tutor the brain-dead.”

Cleophrea scoffed. “I’m not wasting time with you.”

“Mrs. Terris will kill me if we skip.”

“Good. Let her.”

Still, minutes later, he heard familiar footsteps behind him as he headed for the library. She followed—not because she wanted to, but because someone had to clean up the mess.

The so-called remedy students were already seated, slouched and bored, flipping through notes they barely understood.

Cleophrea placed her notebook down with calm precision. “Let’s start from the—”

“Page seventy-eight,” Finn cut in.

Groans erupted immediately.

“This is a remedy group!”

“Can’t we start easy?”

Finn barely reacted. “It’s impressive how you all manage to complain while not understanding the basics.”

Cleophrea didn’t hide the smirk tugging at her mouth.

One girl whined, “Can’t you explain it normally? You’re not helping.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “You need to understand the theory first.”

Cleophrea stepped in, ready to simplify it. “Maybe if we look at it this way—”

“No,” he snapped. “Don’t dumb it down yet.”

She went still. “When do I get to explain? Mrs. Terris said we work together.”

Finn didn’t answer.

She walked up and plucked the marker from his hand. Their fingers brushed—brief, intentional.

“They’re not confused because it’s hard, Finn. They’re confused because you make it harder.”The room froze. Some stifled laughter.

Finn’s jaw tensed. “Fine. Your turn.”

Cleophrea smiled with zero warmth. She faced the board and started teaching—fluid, confident, and clearer than he’d been all afternoon.

An hour passed. Her writing was fast and slightly messy.

Finn slouched in his chair, unimpressed. “Your handwriting looks like a kindergartener’s. Even they’d be ashamed.”

She turned slightly. “Oh, sorry. Did I forget to make it pretty for your delicate eyes?”

More snickers broke from the back of the room. A few students whispered under their breath.

 “Finally, someone shut him up.”

“About time.”

Finn didn’t respond. His pride had already been hit enough today. Cleophrea didn’t need to say anything more. She had won.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 17
You Left Like It Was Easy

 

 

“I trusted her. We all did. But maybe that was our first mistake—trusting someone who only sees people as stepping stones.”



 

 

 

    

 

 

 

It had been a month since Cleophrea’s closest circle—Marceline, Celeste, Naomi, and Elaris—slipped from her life like smoke through a cracked window. No confrontation. No goodbyes. Just absence.

At first, she searched for reasons. Counted days, replayed memories, tested every silence for meaning. But eventually, even the sharpest minds grow tired of chasing ghosts.

And perhaps that was the most brutal truth of all: friends leave. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes cruelly. But always without warning.

She just never thought they would.

On the other side of the ruin stood Finn. Once surrounded by familiar laughter, now just another hollow name in a contact list that never lights up. His friends left him, too—not in anger, not in argument, but with silence that spoke volumes.

Now, they were both left in the echo. Two rivals orbiting the same betrayal, the same bitter lesson: loyalty is fragile when the truth is buried.

Cleophrea leaned back in her chair, the untouched tray before her more a prop than a meal. Her eyes swept the cafeteria like a hunter watching prey pretend not to be hunted.

 

Marceline laughed—too loud, too forced. Celeste twirled her straw in her cup, a nervous ritual to keep her hands from shaking. Naomi, though… Naomi kept glancing around, her gaze flicking toward the entrance, then to Cleophrea’s table, then back again.

Like she was searching for an escape.

Cleophrea’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close to recognition.

Naomi had always been the most uncertain of them all. The one who followed, never led. The one who whispered, “Are you sure we should do this?” just before doing it anyway.

Now, Naomi sat with perfect posture and a smile so tight it looked ready to snap. Her hand gripped her phone like a lifeline, as if waiting for something—anything—to pull her out of the mess she had helped create.

When their eyes finally met across the room, Cleophrea didn’t flinch.

Naomi was the first to look away.

Good, Cleophrea thought. Let the guilt rot her from the inside.

Sometimes, watching the unraveling was far more satisfying than pulling the thread herself.

They sat in the same spot. Same table. Same laughter.

Like nothing had changed.

Like the group wasn’t missing someone.

Like she had never been there at all.

Cleophrea now sat at the far end of the cafeteria, her usual seat untouched by anyone but memory. The corner table—once theirs—had become a stage for someone else’s performance. Marceline threw her head back in laughter. Celeste whispered secrets once shared with Cleophrea. Naomi nodded along, her eyes never drifting toward the corner. And Elaris? She laughed too. Louder than usual.

They carried on as if she had never existed.

Cleophrea didn’t flinch. She didn’t glare. She simply watched.

Because some betrayals don’t scream.

They echo in silence.

Cleophrea sat alone at the edge of the cafeteria, a quiet corner that used to echo with laughter—their laughter.

Now, it was just her and the sound of distant chatter.

A group of girls walked by, loud and oblivious. Their sneakers squeaked softly against the floor, and their voices carried.

“I heard she used all of them,” one said, not even bothering to lower her voice. “No wonder Marceline and Celeste dropped her.”

“Yeah, like, I never liked her vibe. She always acted like she was better than everyone,” another added, laughing.
Because she was.

They passed so close that Cleophrea could smell the synthetic strawberry of their lip gloss.

Not a single one glanced her way.

They didn’t know she was there.

Or maybe they did—and just didn’t care.

She didn’t turn. She didn’t flinch. She stared straight ahead, fingers loosely wrapped around her cup of water.

Let them talk.

Let them build their stories like glass castles.

She'd learned not to breathe too hard around fragile things. They tend to shatter on their own.

Meanwhile, Finn sat through Botanical Alchemy—
a class he’d only signed up for in freshman year because his closest friend had picked it too.
Back then, they spent each session stifling laughter, doodling nonsense on herb labels, and treating the lessons like background noise to their inside jokes.

Now?

The seat beside him stayed relentlessly empty.
His friend hadn’t shown up in weeks.
Each roll call, the teacher’s pen hovered, then marked the same cold word beside his name: absent.
Every single time.

Expulsion was likely just around the corner. But that wasn’t what stung.
It was the silence.
No message. No excuse.
Just… nothing.

Still, Finn came to class.
To a subject he’d never cared for.
Because that vacant chair held weight.
It wasn’t just a seat anymore.
It was a ghost.

That afternoon, the hallway buzzed with post-class chatter and the slamming of lockers. Finn yanked open his locker, shoved a mess of books and crumpled worksheets inside, then slammed the door shut with more force than necessary.

When he turned, Cleophrea was already there—leaning casually against the locker beside his, like she’d been waiting for this moment.

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“You got something to say, or are you just standing there uselessly?”

She didn’t answer. Just held out a folded paper—crisp, marked in red.

His exam result.

Of course the teacher had sent her. He’d skipped that class. Too tired. Too done. And now here she was, delivering his failure like a sentence.

Cleophrea didn’t speak at first. She didn’t have to.

But once he unfolded the page, her words cut in—smooth, sharp, and unforgiving:

“Two points below me? That’s practically charity. I lowered the bar, and you still managed to trip over it.”

She tilted her head, just slightly.

“Must be exhausting… failing that confidently.” Finn’s smirk didn’t even flicker. He stepped in closer—just enough that the space between them disappeared, the air thin and charged.

His voice dropped, low and venom-laced, like a dare meant only for her.

“You talk big for someone who’s only ever been impressive on paper. Keep hiding behind numbers, Myles—one day they’ll run out, and all you’ll have left is that pathetic need to matter.”

The words hit sharp. But what hit harder was how close he was now—close enough that Cleophrea could feel the heat of his breath. The kind of closeness that dared someone to flinch.

She didn’t.

Not even when his eyes held hers for a breath too long…

And then flicked lower—just for a second. A glance. Quick. Thoughtless.

At her lips.

It wasn’t careful or meant to be seen. Just something sharp and involuntary—an instinct, maybe.

She didn’t notice.

But he did.

Her mouth parted, ready to strike back, but before she could speak, a voice rang out from just around the lockers.

“Ugh, I swear, both of them think they’re royalty or something,” a girl muttered, too close to realize she’d been heard. “Always fighting like they’re the center of the universe. It’s pathetic.”

Finn’s jaw tightened. His eyes snapped sideways.

Cleophrea didn’t turn. She stayed still—chin high, shoulders squared—but her expression locked, like steel suddenly frozen in place.

The air between them cracked.

They didn’t finish the argument. They didn’t have to.

It wasn’t over. But it was paused.

Cleophrea turned and walked away—calm, cutting, like she hadn’t heard a thing.

Finn didn’t move. His expression stayed unreadable.

But the silence that followed said more than either of them did.

After that sharp encounter, Cleophrea made her way to the library—quiet, polished, and blissfully removed from the chaos of the halls. She didn’t crave peace, exactly. But here, the silence felt real. It didn’t demand explanations. It didn’t twist itself into whispers.

Her shoes clicked softly against the marble floor. Cool air wrapped around her like silk. Rows of towering bookshelves stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, where faded murals of stars and gold-tipped leaves watched in silence.

She walked slowly, fingertips brushing against the worn spines as she passed—each one a silent witness to every student who’d come before her. Some of them still remembered, maybe. Maybe the shelves kept secrets. Maybe they forgot. She wasn’t sure which comforted her more.

Her hand paused on an old astronomy book, the title faded and delicate beneath her touch. She let herself imagine—just for a moment—that maybe, somewhere in these shelves, a sentence existed that would understand her better than her friends ever had.

Friends.

Former, now. Probably.

She moved further into the aisle, searching not just for a title, but for stillness. Something permanent.

Then—she found it. Nestled between two forgotten volumes.

The one she wanted.

She reached for it, fingers curling around the frayed edge—

And froze.

It tugged back.

Not a jammed book. Not stuck.

Taken.

With a final pull, it vanished through the other side of the shelf—ripped from her grip like it never belonged to her in the first place.

She stumbled forward slightly, catching herself against the wood.

Then came the sound:

A page turning.

Slow. Audible. Intentional.

She straightened, brushing nothing off her sleeve. And then, carefully, she leaned out from the aisle—just enough to see.

Her heart didn’t drop. It tightened.

Naomi stood there, book in hand—but not reading. Beside her, Elaris whispered something that made Marceline and Celeste laugh. None of them were flipping pages. The books were just props. Disguises.

They never liked reading.

So why were they here?

Cleophrea's gaze hardened. She stepped back, quietly, quickly—strategy, not fear.

She wouldn't give them another scene to chew on.

She turned away—ready to disappear down another aisle—

Then came the laugh.

Too loud. Too sharp.

Too clearly about her.

She froze.

Words followed—quiet and clipped, drifting between shelves like smoke.

No names. No accusations.

But the tone?

Calculated. Targeted. Cruel.

Through the gap in the books, she saw Naomi again—holding the stolen book too tightly. Her laugh came late, like a slap with a delay.

Celeste leaned in, murmured something low.

Marceline responded with her usual rehearsed smile.

Elaris stayed silent—but her silence was approval now. Her silence said everything.

Cleophrea didn’t move. Her grip stayed firm on a different book now, one she hadn't even chosen. The air between the shelves felt colder.

This wasn’t awkwardness.

This wasn’t drifting.

This was a battlefield.

She walked away before she could listen too long.

Because what they said didn’t matter as much as the way they said it.

And the way they laughed?

That was a weapon.

Just a little farther down the row:

Naomi twirled the book in her hands, voice low.

“It’s not like we’re lying.”

Elaris exhaled. “Still... it feels kind of—what’s the word? Excessive.”

Marceline scoffed. “Please. If she wants to act like the victim, let her.”

Celeste gave a small laugh. “We didn’t say anything directly. Let them connect the dots.”

Naomi’s smile was quiet. “And if they do… well. That’s on them.”

Another small ripple of laughter.

Sweet. Painless.

But every word had teeth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 18
Echoes Behind Closed Eyes

 

 

Behind closed eyes, her presence lingers—an echo I can’t place, a question I can’t answer

 

 

 

 

 

 

It began in the library.

Of course it did.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a yellow glow over the aisles. Dust floated in the air like ash. It was the hour after closing—he could feel it—but the door had been left unlocked, and someone had left their candle burning on a desk.

Finn stepped inside.

He didn’t know what he was looking for. Maybe quiet. Maybe her.

He passed shelf after shelf, each one taller than the last. Books towered like walls, like cages. There were whispers in the silence—not voices exactly, but breath. As though the air remembered things better than he did.

Then he saw her.

Cleophrea.

Sitting in the far corner with her back to him, candlelight flickering beside her. Her silhouette was sharp—shoulders straight, head slightly tilted as she read a book he couldn’t name. She hadn’t noticed him. Or maybe she had. Her stillness always meant more than it seemed.

 

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Her presence wrapped around him like smoke—distant, unbothered, untouchable.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the words stuck. His throat felt dry. He took a step forward. The floor creaked beneath his feet, loud as a gunshot.

Still, she didn’t look up.

He took another step.

And she vanished.

Not a blink. Not a dissolve. Just—gone.

The candle was still lit.

The book still open.

But the chair was empty.

A sudden pressure built in his chest. Wrong. It felt wrong. Like he'd just missed something—something important. Something he couldn't get back.

He turned, and the library was different now.

 

The shelves stretched like hallways. Twisting. Endless.

And she was there again, farther this time—walking barefoot down an aisle in her uniform, arms brushing the spines of books as she passed. She wasn’t glowing, not angelic, not soft. But she was the only real thing here.

“Myles,” he called.

No answer.

His voice echoed, but the sound was swallowed by the walls.

He tried to run. His feet dragged like they were sunk in wet cement.

“Myles!”

She stopped.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t speak.

The candle flickered beside him again—but this time it hissed, like it was about to go out.

“Why do you haunt me?” he whispered.

She turned her head just slightly, just enough to let him see her profile.

And then she smiled.

But it wasn’t kind.

It wasn’t cruel either.

It was something in-between. Like she knew exactly what she meant to him—and enjoyed how much he hated it.

“You’re the one who locked the door,” she said.

Her voice didn’t come from her mouth.

It came from inside his head.

Then the shelves began to fall.

One by one, like dominos.

Crashing.

Books flew. Candles dropped. The fire caught the pages.

He ran toward her.

Through smoke. Through burning paper. Through the panic clawing up his spine.

He reached for her hand.

And just before he touched her—

She looked at him with those cold, brilliant eyes and whispered:

“I never left.”
Finn jerked awake.

His heart slammed against his ribs like a prisoner trying to escape. The classroom around him was quiet, save for the faint scratching of pencils and the lazy creak of a window in the far corner. Sunlight poured in slanted beams through the panes, casting long, golden stripes across his desk.

For a second, he couldn’t move. His fingers twitched, still half-reaching toward the edge of the dream, as if her voice had been real—spoken not just to him, but through him.

He blinked slowly, grounding himself.

Cleophrea wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t.

But her voice…

It still echoed.

“I never left.”

His throat tightened.

Not because he believed it—but because part of him did.

He sat there for a beat too long. Then someone snorted quietly behind him—probably mocking the fact he’d nodded off in the middle of Botanical Alchemy again. He didn’t care.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers dragging roughly at his scalp, and glanced at the empty seat beside him.

Still empty.

Still hers.

No—not hers. It had never been Cleophrea’s. It was his old friend’s seat. The one who left without a word. Like everyone else.

But now, all he could think about was her voice. That calm, controlled, almost cruel voice that haunted even his unconscious.

He reached for his pen and stared at the blank page in front of him. He wasn’t listening to the lesson. He wasn’t even pretending to.

Later, in the hallway, he saw her.

Just for a moment.

She was leaning against a pillar near the central garden, flipping through a worn book, her thumb tapping lightly against the corner of the page. Her face was unreadable.

Finn stopped walking.

Just for a breath.

She didn’t look up.

Did she know?

Did she feel it too?

He turned before she saw him staring. His footsteps were sharp, quick. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of curiosity.

But as he walked away, he heard her voice again—not aloud, not real.

Just memory. Just echo.

“I never left.”

And for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t sure who was chasing who.

Finn leaned on the desk, one elbow propped lazily as his glasses slid halfway down his nose. He didn’t bother fixing them. Not until she sat beside him.

Cleophrea.

The scent of her vanilla perfume curled around him like a mocking whisper. Familiar. Unwelcome.

She dropped her bag with practiced ease, not even glancing his way. Of course she didn’t. She never had to look to aim her venom.

“Still pretending to study?” she asked flatly, flipping open her notes without sparing him a glance. “Impressive. You’ve almost fooled someone.”

Finn slid his glasses back up his nose with slow, deliberate irritation. “Still breathing? Huh. That’s disappointing.”

A smile ghosted across her lips—sharp, razor-edged. “Charming. If I wanted to hear from the dead weight in the room, I’d shake the broken chair behind us.”

He didn’t take the bait right away. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, voice low and venom-laced. “You really think biting sarcasm covers up the fact you’re sitting all alone these days? Face it. You’re poison, Cleophrea. They didn’t leave you by accident.”

Her pen didn’t pause, but the grip tightened. “Funny. At least they didn’t vanish without so much as a text. Tell me, how many of your friends are still pretending they didn’t know you existed?”

A slow, bitter grin curled on his lips. “Guess that makes us both tragic, doesn’t it? Except one of us still has dignity. The other’s clinging to old perfume and empty stares.”

The teacher entered , with ease and elegance.
 

They didn’t speak for the rest of the period.

But the silence?

It screamed.

Finn scribbled through his notes. Cleophrea missed one sentence that the teacher had already erased on the board.

Finn scribbled through his notes with quick, effortless strokes, the kind that came from a sharp memory and sharper arrogance. At the front, the teacher wiped the board clean, erasing the last sentence just as Cleophrea glanced up. Her brows furrowed, barely a flicker of annoyance crossing her face.

But Finn had already written it down.

He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. His blazer hung unevenly off one shoulder, his uniform shirt rumpled from carelessness or defiance—maybe both. The school tie around his neck was loose, one tug away from undone.

Still, he sat there like he owned the room. Like the rules bent around him.

His eyes didn’t meet hers, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth said enough: Try to catch up.

Without a word, Cleophrea snatched the note from Finn’s desk, her fingers brushing the edge like she couldn’t be bothered to ask.
Her eyes flickered down—only to narrow in confusion.

The writing was atrocious. Sharp, jagged, barely legible.

It looked less like a student’s notes and more like ancient carvings. Egyptian, maybe. Or some long-lost cursed script meant to ward off intruders.

She blinked. “What is this? Hieroglyphics?”

Finn didn’t even look at her. “Try harder. Or get a Rosetta Stone.”

Cleophrea scoffed and tossed the note back at him, letting it land carelessly across his desk.
He didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there—arms crossed, blazer wrinkled, tie awry—like he couldn’t be bothered.

The calm in his face only made her angrier.
She leaned in slightly, voice low and venom-laced.
“I really thought you’d be somewhat useful as my seating partner,” she said, her lip curling. “But I guess I was too generous.”

Finn caught her gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching—not in amusement, but in something colder.

“Generous?” he repeated, like the word tasted bitter. “Is that what you tell yourself when you need to feel superior? Cute.”

The class buzzed around them, indifferent to the war unraveling at the edge of row three.
But the silence between them? Deafening.

Two rivals.
Same desk.
Same buried knives.
Neither willing to be the first to bleed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 19
The Porcelain Trap

 

They smiled sweetly while planning to break her like fine china.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Behind a locked art room door—long abandoned since term began—four girls sat in a half-circle of dust-coated stools and forgotten easels. Sunlight spilled through cracked blinds in sharp, golden stripes, catching the gleam in Marceline’s smirk.

“Did you see her face?” she said, voice sing-song. “Still strutting around like she owns the place.”

Celeste crossed her legs, amused. “Give it time. We’re just getting started.”

Naomi tapped nervously on her thigh. “Are we really doing this? I mean… it’s just Cleophrea.”

Elaris didn’t respond. She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper—worn at the edges. In delicate cursive across the top: The Porcelain Trap.

Marceline unfolded it like a prophecy. “No more whispers,” she said. “That was just the prelude.”

Celeste leaned in. “Now we break her. Not just emotionally.”

Naomi’s voice dropped. “What if she finds out it’s us?”

“She won’t,” Marceline said coolly. “Not until it’s too late.”

The distant bell rang. None of them moved.

Their plan was already in motion.

Marceline smoothed the paper on her knee. Under the title: bullet points, steps, timelines.

“It starts small,” Celeste said, twirling her pencil. “Accidents. Untraceable.”

“‘Accidents,’” Elaris echoed, dragging out the word.

Naomi frowned. “Like… tripping her?”

Marceline’s smile sharpened. “No. Like pulling out her chair. Elbowing her in a crowd. Dropping sharp things in her path. All with a sweet, innocent ‘Oops—I didn’t see you there.’”

“A locker slammed a bit too hard,” Celeste murmured. “A stumble down two steps. Just enough.”

“Bruises. Scrapes. Humiliation,” Elaris added. “Pain without proof.”

Naomi shifted. “What if she tells a teacher?”

Marceline laughed—sharp, breathless. “She won’t. Cleophrea’s too proud. She’d bleed before she asked for help.”

Silence settled. Outside, distant laughter drifted through a cracked window—too soft to matter.

One by one, they slipped out of the forgotten art room. Marceline twirled her lip gloss as she disappeared into the crowd. Celeste joined a group by the lockers, already smiling. Elaris vanished down the science wing, calm and unreadable.

Naomi hesitated.

She stood at the door, fingers curled tight around her bag. The dust still clung to her skirt, the room’s stale air lingering like guilt.

She hadn’t expected this. Ghosting Cleophrea? Easy. Laughing at the rumors? Easier. But this—deliberate, physical cruelty?

Her steps were slow as she moved. The hallway blurred. Her throat tightened at the memory of Cleophrea braiding her hair in gym, sharing headphones, defending her in front of a teacher.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

“I’m not her friend anymore,” Naomi whispered to herself. “Just… keep walking.”

But her heart thudded louder with every step.

Because guilt doesn’t walk away.

It follows.

She turned the corner too fast—and crashed into someone.

She stumbled back with a startled gasp, her bag slipping off her shoulder, notebooks nearly spilling. But the other girl didn’t move.

Cleophrea.

She stood perfectly still, like stone.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Cleophrea’s brows drew together, just slightly. Her lips parted as if to ask Are you OK?—but the words never came. Her eyes flicked down to Naomi’s trembling hands, the bag at her feet, then back up. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her gaze. Hurt, maybe. Or confusion.

She took a breath. Then stopped herself.

Of course. She knew better now.

She turned.

And walked away.

Naomi blinked, still on the floor. Her chest tightened with something that felt like shame and something worse: regret.

She didn’t even say sorry. Couldn’t.

Her voice wouldn’t come.

And Cleophrea didn’t look back.

Naomi was still lost in her thoughts. Her spilled notebooks everywhere. But it looked like it didn’t matter.

Naomi was still frozen, lost in the mess of her thoughts. Her notebooks lay scattered across the floor like broken pieces of something she couldn't fix anymore.

Students moved around her—some crouched to help, quietly gathering the fallen pages and slipping them back into her bag. Others asked if she was OK. Their voices were muffled, like echoes underwater. None of it seemed real. None of it seemed to matter.

Her eyes were fixed ahead.

Cleophrea was already walking away. Her steps were steady, not hurried. Her back straight, her head held high. But there was something hollow in her posture. Something that said she’d long since stopped expecting anyone to care.

Naomi watched her go, the figure growing smaller with every second. She wanted to say something. To call out. To whisper sorry. Anything.

But her throat felt like it was wrapped in glass.

And all she could do was sit there, knees scraped, notebooks half-packed, guilt weighing heavier than the fall ever did.

Irreversible.

Back in Cleophrea’s dorm, she let herself collapse onto the bed, her limbs heavy with silence. Her gaze drifted toward the other mattress across the room—the one now cold, stripped of its sheets, left rotting in the corner like a memory gone sour.

Elaris’s bed.

A sigh slipped from her lips, barely a sound, more like the breath of something breaking inside.
She didn’t miss the idea of friendship.
She missed them.
The way laughter used to echo against these walls.
The late-night secrets whispered under blankets.
The way it used to feel like she belonged.

But that was a different lifetime.
And that girl—
Was gone.

She sat up on her bed, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. Her mind replayed the hallway—Naomi stumbling, notebooks scattered, eyes wide with surprise.

Cleophrea had seen the humiliation burning on her face. She had wanted to help.
Her legs had tensed, ready to move.
Her fingers had twitched.
Her heart had ached.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Because Naomi was one of them.

One of the girls who laughed behind her back.
Who vanished when everything shattered.
Who watched her fall and said nothing.

She would’ve helped her once.
She wanted to.
But now?

Now, kindness felt like betrayal to herself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 20
Sleep Was The First Witness
 

 

 

 

She stood beneath the flickering light, face blurred like a forgotten painting—bleeding, reaching, whispering his name… and he still turned away

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finn was trying—really trying—not to fall asleep. The quiz tomorrow lingered at the edge of his thoughts, but sleep pulled harder.

He scribbled notes with a heavy hand, blinking slowly. His eyelids burned.

The room wasn’t silent. The hum of the AC, the scratch of pen on paper, the faint tick of the clock—together, they made a lullaby.

He rubbed his eyes, shook his head. The yellow desk lamp cast soft shadows over his scattered notes.

Just for a second, he told himself. Just one blink.

But when his eyes closed, they didn’t open again.

Not until the dream began.

The warmth of the lamp faded first.

Once steady—golden, gentle over his textbook—it flickered like a dying candle, then went dark.

The pen stilled.

The AC buzzed faintly, but distant now, muffled like sound underwater.

Finn’s head dropped.

He didn’t remember closing his eyes.

A quiet settled over everything. Too quiet.

Then—

A soft tap.
Not in his room. Somewhere else.

Another tap. Closer. A sound like bare feet on concrete.

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in his dorm.

The walls were gray and endless, the floor cold beneath his shoes. The ceiling flickered—dim, bluish fluorescent lights that buzzed like they were dying.

And then, through the fog at the end of the corridor, he saw her.

She was standing, no—swaying. Her hair was unbrushed, face pale and unfocused, and her arms—

Finn’s chest tightened.

Her arms were scraped. Thin lines of red ran down her forearm, like someone had dragged something sharp across her skin.
Her knees, bruised.
Her lip, swollen.

She didn’t see him.

She was looking past him—through him—as if searching for someone who’d long stopped caring. As if hope had been used up.

Finn took a step forward. “Hey? Myles.”

She didn’t respond.

He ran.

The hallway didn’t end.

No matter how fast he moved, she stayed where she was—just out of reach.

Her mouth opened.

She said something, but the sound was stolen from the air.

And then he blinked—

his breath catching in his throat.

The lamp still glowed beside him, casting a pale circle of light across his messy desk. His notes were smeared where his cheek had pressed against them, but none of that mattered.

Not when her face still lingered behind his eyelids.

Bruised. Trembling. Bleeding.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers dragging hard at his scalp as if the pain could erase the image. “It’s just a dream,” he muttered, almost angrily. “Just... a dream.”

But his voice didn’t sound like his own.

He sat there for a moment, staring at the wall. His hands curled into fists. The room felt colder than it had before. Or maybe it was just him.

Why did it feel so real?

He shook his head, scoffing under his breath. “She’s fine. She’s probably off somewhere—glaring at people, starting fights, being dramatic as usual.”

He hated how defensive his voice sounded, even in the empty room.

It wasn’t like he cared. Not really. Not about her. Not after everything.

And yet…

The weight in his chest said otherwise. The look in her eyes from the dream—so empty, so broken—wouldn’t leave him.

“Get a grip,” he snapped at himself.

But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because deep down, no matter how hard he tried to deny it…

He had a sinking feeling.
And it refused to go away.
Because his dreams were starting to change.

Cleophrea woke before her alarm.

The sky was still dim, the kind of soft blue that hadn’t decided if it would be kind or cruel. She sat there for a moment, on the edge of her bed, staring at nothing. Her fingers ran absentmindedly over the sheets—cold, even though she couldn’t remember being cold in the night.

She didn’t dream. Or maybe she did, and her mind refused to hold onto it.

Her body moved through the motions: uniform, books, hair. But something about her own reflection this morning felt… thinner. Like she was wearing herself.

Down the hall, someone laughed too loudly. She blinked, then stepped into the corridor. Everything felt a half-second off. Like her footsteps echoed a little too long. Like the walls were breathing when she wasn’t looking.

When she turned a corner, she paused.

A group of students stood huddled together by the lockers. They stopped talking when they saw her—just

for a breath—and then kept going, louder than before. None of them were her.

Cleophrea didn’t say anything. Didn’t frown or walk faster. But her fingers curled slightly into her palm.

She kept walking.

She didn’t see Marceline down the hall, leaning casually against a wall.

She didn’t notice Celeste glance at Naomi.

She didn’t see the quiet nod from Elaris.

But they saw her.

And somewhere, deep inside Cleophrea, something whispered: Watch your step.

Until—

A distant bell rang—low, solemn, echoing through the corridor.

Chapel time.

The hallway buzzed with quiet movement as students emerged from classrooms, slipping into lines with the kind of practiced calm that only tradition could breed. Some chatted under their breath. Others walked in silence, heads bowed, hands stuffed in blazer pockets.

dents filed into the pews: boys, then girls, alternating row by row. For once, order was taking hold.

“I am not sitting with him,” Cleophrea said flatly, locking eyes with the nun as Finn slid into the pew beside her like it was his rightful throne.

He didn’t even glance at her. Just leaned back with a sigh, adjusting his tie, which hung around his neck like it was being punished.

“You think I want to sit beside her?” Finn said, not bothering to whisper.

A few students nearby turned their heads, eager as vultures circling fresh meat.

“Enough.” The nun didn’t flinch. “You two are already in the correct pattern. Boys, girls, boys, girls. Stay where you are.”

“But—”

She raised a hand, silencing them both with a withering glance.

“The service is starting. I don’t want to hear another word.”

With that, she turned and strode toward the front, robes swishing like a warning bell.

Cleophrea sank into the seat beside Finn, arms crossed tightly.

Finn mirrored her posture, glancing sideways with exaggerated disgust. “You smell like vanilla and violence.”

“Better than stale arrogance and cheap cologne,” she hissed.

They didn’t speak again—but the pew seemed to tremble with how hard they were trying not to shove each other off the edge.

The choir began to sing.

But peace between them was nowhere in that chapel.
The Chapel of Our Lady of Dusk

The chapel hummed with reverence. Candlelight flickered against stained glass windows, throwing fractured hues across wooden pews and bowed heads. The choir’s voices floated upward, high and haunting, like prayers slipping through the rafters.

But in the fifth pew, the mood was anything but divine.

Cleophrea’s jaw clenched. “Move your elbow,” she whispered, not daring to look at him. “You’re hogging the entire armrest.”

Finn didn’t shift. “It’s shared space. Learn to coexist.”

Her nostrils flared. “You’re spreading like a disease.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough for her to catch the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sweet, I was about to say the same about your perfume.”

Cleophrea’s knee nudged his. Not gentle.

Finn pressed his back, equally petty.

The choir’s sopranos rose, their harmony a veil over the sharp, invisible war happening beside them. Every breath, every twitch of muscle was calculated—deliberate, quiet sabotage disguised as reverence.

“You always sit like you’re owed the world,” she murmured, fingers curling tighter around the chapel booklet.

He leaned in slightly. “And you always speak like everyone should care.”

Her gaze remained fixed forward, but her words sliced sideways. “Maybe if your presence didn’t feel like a curse, people would.”

Finn chuckled under his breath—low, derisive. “Blessed are the cursed, isn’t that what this place teaches?”

The organ swelled behind the choir.

From the altar, the nun narrowed her eyes.

Immediately, both straightened—as if divine fire had scorched their backs. Hands folded. Faces blank. Devout.
But beneath the stillness, their knees still touched like drawn blades.
Tension hummed. Silent. Acidic. Hidden beneath the choir’s hymn.

No words.
No movement.
Just war, dressed in worship.

At the front, Pastor Mireaux folded his hands with slow gravity, scanning rows of obedient students. He hadn’t spoken yet, but the chapel bowed to his presence alone.
Behind him, the student acolytes stood in practiced silence, robes glowing under the candles’ flicker.

Isolde—junior soprano, walking overachiever—kept flicking glances toward the fifth pew. Her voice had nearly cracked in the last verse.
Beside her, Mateo adjusted the incense stand, the chain clinking like a warning.

He leaned in. “Are they fighting again?”
Isolde nodded, barely. “Fifth row. Always the fifth row.”

Mateo sighed. “I swear they argue through telepathy. During chapel.”
Isolde’s mouth twitched. “Someone’s gonna get exorcised if they keep this up.”

A candle flickered violently, like it agreed.

The choir began another verse, their voices pure and clear as crystal. Yet the pastor’s gaze lingered on the pair in the pew. He could feel it, like a disturbance beneath

the holiness—a thread pulled too tight. Two students, side by side, but never in peace.

He made a mental note to speak with the nun later. But not now. Not during sacred stillness.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the chapel ceiling, where painted angels held ribbons of scripture, and whispered his own prayer—not for mercy or peace, but for clarity.

Because something was beginning. And even in God’s house, not all spirits were clean.

The chapel had descended into reverent stillness. Rows of students knelt on the polished wooden kneelers, hands clasped, heads bowed. The scent of incense curled through the air like ancient breath, curling around the soft flicker of altar candles. At the altar, Pastor Mireaux raised the white communion host toward the vaulted ceiling, its pale circle glowing faintly in the candlelight.

A hush fell. Even the choir’s hum had faded into breathless awe.

All except for them.

Cleophrea’s knee brushed against Finn’s. Again. She shifted. He shifted harder.

“You’re in my space,” she whispered without looking at him.

“I moved first. You leaned,” Finn hissed back, his words a blade hidden behind still lips.

“You always blame me,” she muttered, turning her head just a fraction, eyes narrowing.

“You’re always the problem,” he returned, biting each syllable with precision.

The students surrounding them didn’t dare move. The chapel silence was brittle as glass, and everyone could hear the crack beginning.

Cleophrea pressed harder against her side of the pew, but Finn held his ground, shoulders square, refusing to retreat.

Their heads were bowed like everyone else, but the tension between them rose like smoke—visible only to those with eyes to see.

Pastor Mireaux paused, his hands still raised, eyes flicking once to the fifth row.

He saw. He always did.

But he said nothing. Not yet.

Let the holy light do its work. Even the most devout could not hide from truth in the face of worship.

Even two students who thought their war was invisible.
One by one, each row rose to receive the bread. Quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of uniforms, the low murmur of a hymn in the background. The pastor’s solemn voice echoed gently through the chapel as he offered the host: “The body of Christ.”

Students bowed. Took the bread. Returned to their seats with reverent calm.

But in the fifth row, nothing was still.

Cleophrea’s elbow jabbed into Finn’s side—not forcefully, but enough.

He flinched and gave her a warning glance. “You’re doing it again.”

A boy in the row ahead turned around briefly, brows furrowed, but quickly turned back, unwilling to interfere.

Cleophrea tugged the hem of her skirt in frustration. Finn crossed his arms. Knees knocked again. Neither backed down.

The fourth row stood and moved forward for communion. Now it was nearly their turn.

Cleophrea tried to compose herself. She exhaled, slowly. The candles blurred slightly as she blinked once, twice. Maybe she could just ignore him for ten seconds—

Finn shifted.

So did she.

And then they both spoke at once—under breath, sharp.

The nun had been watching. She rose from the corner like a silent shadow, her habit unmoving, face unreadable. She walked briskly down the aisle just as their row was preparing to stand.

Without a word, she reached them. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“Out.”

Cleophrea’s head snapped up. Finn turned too, stunned.

Cleophrea barely parted her lips. “Sister, we—”

The nun’s voice cut through, quiet but firm. “Leave. Before the host graces your palms.”

A hush fell over the pews behind them. Knees creaked as others knelt, heads bowed—but ears stayed sharp.

Heat rushed to Cleophrea’s face. Not just from shame. From fury.

Finn rose without a word, expression locked in stone. His footsteps echoed softly on the marble floor as he moved past the altar's glow. Cleophrea followed seconds after, her fingers curled tightly at her sides.

They hadn’t even reached the sacrament.

And as the chapel doors swung shut behind them, They stood in the corridor just outside the chapel, wrapped in fractured light that spilled through the stained-glass windows—slivers of red, gold, and blue painting patterns across the cold marble floor. The door had shut behind them with a reverent click, as if the chapel itself had exiled them.

Inside, the distant hymn continued, muffled and holy. The echo of voices, swelling and falling in slow waves,

felt like it belonged to a different world entirely—one they no longer had the right to enter.

Cleophrea crossed her arms first, her nails digging into the sleeves of her blazer. Her breath fogged briefly in the cooler hallway air.

Finn leaned against the opposite wall, head tipped back slightly, eyes closed for half a second as if gathering patience—or biting back another comment. His tie was loose again. His blazer wrinkled. He looked like someone who couldn’t care less, but his jaw was clenched tight enough to splinter glass.
“Congratulations,” Cleophrea murmured, her voice barely louder than the creak of old wood. “You just managed to get kicked out of church.”

He let out a breath of dry laughter, low and sharp, still refusing to look at her. “Me? You’re the one who kept shoving.”

“You were in my space.”

“It’s a pew,” he said, finally opening his eyes. “It doesn’t belong to you.”

Her steps were small, deliberate, the click of her shoes swallowed by the chapel hum behind them.“You always do this,” she whispered. “Make it look like I’m the problem.”

He turned, slow and sharp. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

A beat passed. Then another.

The choir behind the door rose, their voices blooming like incense, thick and elegant. Neither of them noticed.

Cleophrea’s fingers twisted at the fabric of her sleeves. “I could’ve gotten communion.”

“You never needed it,” Finn said, tone calm but cruel. “You already think you’re sainted.”

Her expression faltered.

It was a clean hit. He regretted it, but only slightly. And not enough to take it back.

She blinked hard, then scoffed with a crooked smile—bitter, not amused. “Right. And you’re just a poor misunderstood boy, huh? Everyone’s always out to get you.”

Silence fell again. Heavy. A curtain between them.

The chapel door opened behind them with a groan. A nun stepped out, holding a clipboard. She glanced at them—two students in perfect uniforms and perfectly awful moods—and then turned on her heel, leaving them behind without a word.

The hallway felt too quiet after that. The incense clung faintly to the air, and the floor beneath them was too clean, too polished—like even the walls were judging them.

Finn stared down the corridor.

Cleophrea stared at the floor.

Both pretending they didn’t care.

Both lying—terribly.

Meanwhile, inside the chapel, Celeste, Marceline, Naomi, and Elaris had ditched the nun’s strict “boys, girls, boys, girls” seating rule.

A few candies handed off like contraband and whispers of “Don’t snitch”—and just like that, they’d earned their freedom.

Now they were huddled in the last pew, shielded by a worn column and a crooked angel statue that looked as tired as their patience. The choir echoed around them, but their conversation was far from holy.

“Poor Finn,” Marceline said, loud enough for the others to hear but quiet enough to feign innocence. She popped a mint into her mouth. “Imagine getting kicked out of church because of her.”

Celeste snorted. “He deserves better. He looked so embarrassed. I’d cry.”

“I would’ve walked out on my own,” Elaris added, twirling her bracelet. “No way I’d let her drag me down like that.”

Naomi bit her lip but said nothing.

Marceline leaned forward like she was sharing a sacred prayer. “You could see it on his face. Like, why me? He’s always been quiet. Smart. She’s… something else.”

Celeste nodded. “She’s ruining his image. And the teachers notice. Trust me.”

“People are already talking,” Elaris said, casting a sideways glance at the front.
 “She’s a weight. One of those anchors you don’t notice until you’re sinking.”

Naomi clenched her hands in her lap. Her voice barely broke through. “Maybe they both messed up.”

But the other three girls didn’t even blink.

“Sure,” Marceline said with a smile too soft to be sincere. “But let’s be honest… he wouldn’t be in trouble if she hadn’t picked a fight in a chapel. It’s like she was born cursed.”

Their giggles melted into the surrounding hymn.

Candies unwrapped like confessions. False pity passed off like gospel.

And in the middle of the sacred silence, they were rewriting the story.

Making sure, as always, Cleophrea took the fall.

Outside, one of the chapel sisters stepped quietly into the courtyard, the soft sweep of her habit whispering against the stone. Her presence alone calmed the air, like a hymn quietly settling over chaos. Lines of concern were etched faintly into her face, but her voice remained gentle—worn with patience, not weakness.

She looked between the two students with a kind of weary affection, as if she’d seen this all before.

“You two.” she sighed softly, more disappointed than angry.
“Honestly. I expected better.”
Then, after a pause—her tone firmer, but never cruel:
“Detention. Both of you. My office, after school.”

There was no lecture, no scolding. Just that mother-like look—the kind that didn’t need raised voices to be heard.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Cleophrea turned toward Finn, her glare sharp, unwavering. She didn’t speak—she didn’t have to. Her eyes said it all: This is your fault.

Finn met her look with the same cold fire. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch.

They stood like twin storms held at bay—mirrored in silence, trapped in a war neither of them knew how to end.

And still, no one said a word.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 21
Detention, or a Duel?

 

 

“The only thing louder than the clock ticking was the sound of your presence in my head.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cleophrea and Finn walked to Sister’s office in tense silence, their footsteps echoing through the dim corridor. The flickering sconces cast warped shadows on the stone walls, like the building itself was holding its breath.

The office door creaked open. Cleophrea entered first, Finn close behind—both pausing at the threshold. It didn’t feel like an office. It felt like a relic.

Faded rose-colored wallpaper peeled at the corners. Velvet curtains framed stained-glass windows, catching what little sunlight slipped through like dying embers. Dust floated in the air, shimmering with every step.

A crooked chandelier hung above, its crystals dulled with age. The furniture—claw-foot chairs, overfilled walnut shelves, and a sideboard crowded with porcelain and tarnished silver—looked like it had been left behind by someone long gone.

And then the smell—thick, almost theatrical. A mix of old perfume, extinguished candlewax, damp paper, and

something faintly sweet but spoiled—like sugared tea left sitting for days.

Finn wrinkled his nose. “Smells like a charity auction in a crypt,” he muttered.

Cleophrea didn’t even look at him. “Try to breathe less. You’re adding to it.”

From behind the scattered papers and a crooked crucifix on the wall, Sister slowly rose. She wasn’t tall, but her presence was. Her ivory habit was perfectly creased, untouched by the chaos around her. Her hands, loosely clasped on the desk, were worn yet graceful—hands that had clearly held both rulers and rosaries with equal control.

“Sit,” the sister said. Her tone was velvet and iron—smooth, but offering no room for protest.

The two chairs in front of her desk were closer than either student liked. Cleophrea sat first, spine straight, lips sealed, eyes cold. Finn followed, slower, slouching into his seat—but every inch of his posture radiated quiet challenge.

Sister watched them like a hawk watches trembling leaves. The silence stretched, thick and uneasy, filled only by the off-kilter tick of the ancient grandfather clock in the corner.

And still—they said nothing.

Because the war wasn’t in their words anymore.

It was in how close they sat.

It was in how neither looked away first.

The room smelled faintly of old polish and stale incense—like a cathedral trying to host a dinner party. Books sat uneven on the shelves, a silver crucifix hung lopsided above the fireplace, and the chandelier overhead blinked dimly, more dust than light.

Sister sat behind her mahogany desk like a judge beneath a dim halo.

“For two of this school’s finest minds,” she began, “you behave like squabbling pests behind the altar.”

Neither of them spoke.

“You will listen to me for the next hour,” she said, voice silk over steel. “No interruptions. Just humility. Since neither of you have shown an ounce of it.”

For the next hour, Sister spoke with the calm, deliberate rhythm of someone who had done this many times before. Her words didn’t rise or fall—they landed. Firm, steady, and pointed. She didn’t yell. She didn’t need to.

She talked about pride. About knowing when to hold your tongue. About the difference between strength and showmanship, and how easily one could be mistaken for the other.

Every sentence felt precise, sharpened by years of discipline. No emotion. No theatrics. Just cold, practiced control.

It wasn’t a scolding. It was a dismantling.

At the end, she smiled. “Your punishment: clean the old supply room by the west stairs. Together. No arguing. No slacking. Or it’s the stables next.”

THE SUPPLY ROOM – 5:07 P.M.

The door creaked open like it had been sealed with forgotten sins.

The room was barely larger than a closet, dimly lit by a flickering bulb. Dust coated everything—stacked chairs, cracked crates, rusted buckets piled like forgotten relics. The air was damp, thick with mildew and the sharp sting of old varnish.

Cleophrea stepped inside, wrinkling her nose. “I’ve seen crime scenes with more charm.”

Finn followed, frowning. “I’m not touching anything without gloves. There’s probably bacteria in here that predates human language.”

They stood in the middle, surrounded by decades of filth.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Cleophrea said coolly, grabbing an old broom.

Finn snatched it from her. “You’ll just break it with your rage issues.”

She grabbed it back. “And you’ll use it to sweep your brain cells back into place.”

He took a sharp step forward. “Why don’t you just admit it, Myles—you can’t handle the fact that I keep beating you.”

They were too close now. Shoulder to shoulder. Breath to breath. The narrow room left no space to retreat.

“I swear,” Finn muttered, voice low with warning, “if you move that elbow one more inch—”

“What, Cross? You gonna cry again over your hair code violation?”

Their faces hovered inches apart—tense, heated, reckless. Something crackled beneath the surface. Not quite rage. Not quite something else.

Cleophrea shoved a box aside with force. Dust burst into the air like smoke from a gunshot.

Finn coughed, swatting the air. “What is wrong with you?”

“You!” she snapped. “You’re what’s wrong with me!”

“Trust me,” he snapped, “I’d rather be scrubbing the bathrooms with my tongue than be stuck in this room with you.”

They both paused. Stared at each other.

The mop handle snapped in Cleophrea’s hands with a crack like splintered bone. Dust hung thick in the air, swirling around her like smoke from a battlefield.

Finn glanced over slowly, brow lifted. “You always destroy things when you’re emotionally unregulated.”

Cleophrea held the broken stick like a scepter, chin tilted. “Says the boy who treats emotional repression like a personality trait.”

He stepped forward, unfazed. “If you’d stop throwing tantrums and start cleaning, we might get out of here before we both die of respiratory failure.”

She arched a brow. “Is that a plea or just your usual flair for mediocrity dressed as command?”

His laugh was dry. “Still hiding your inferiority complex behind big words and designer rage?”

She stepped closer, voice smooth as silk laced with venom. “I don’t hide anything, Cross. I simply wear it better than you wear that tie pretending to be a spine.”

He looked down at his loosely knotted tie, then back at her. “You really rehearse these in the mirror, don’t you?”

Cleophrea smirked. “Of course not. Unlike you, I don’t need a script to sound superior.”

Finn’s jaw ticked. “You act like you’re the second coming of Athena.”

“I am,” she said crisply, “if Athena were cursed with a lab partner who thinks sarcasm is a substitute for intelligence.”

The dust between them shimmered in the narrow stream of overhead light, like tension suspended in air.

She didn’t blink. “I’m certain you’ll tell me. You always mistake your voice for authority.”

“You think you’re invincible just because you read faster and glare better than everyone else.”

“I am invincible,” she said with terrifying calm, “especially compared to someone whose greatest academic achievement is surviving Sister Lauren’s hair code policy.”

Finn stepped forward, and now they were face to face—so close she could see the irritation flickering in his eyes like a faulty bulb.

“You’re exhausting,” he muttered.

She gave him a dazzling, cruel smile. “And yet, here you are. Still orbiting.”

His breath caught, just slightly. “I must’ve done something terrible in a past life.”

“Clearly,” she said sweetly. “Why else would the universe punish you with proximity to me?”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Their glares held, fierce and glittering, like a duel conducted with diamonds.

Then—without breaking eye contact—she turned and dusted off her hands with royal disdain, as if dismissing him entirely.

“Try not to trip over your own ego on the way out,” she added over her shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 23
The Porcelain Trap: Phase One











"Perfect girls don’t stay perfect when you peel them apart."


 

 

 

 

The corridor stretched before her—long, echoing, and flooded with late afternoon light.
Sunlight spilled through the towering arched windows, casting sharp checkered shadows across the marble floor. Every step she took rang faintly, swallowed by silence.

It should’ve felt sacred.
It had once been her favorite place.
Now it felt like a stage.

At the far end of the corridor—beneath the vaulted ceiling and between two pillars carved with saints long forgotten—stood four girls.

Marceline. Celeste. Elaris. Naomi.

They looked like a painting hung crooked. Too graceful to be harmless. Too still to be innocent.

Marceline stepped forward, her heels silent on the marble. “You look tired.”

Cleophrea didn’t answer.

Celeste ran her fingers along the stone frame of the window. “All that time with Finn... how cozy.”

Cleophrea’s eyes narrowed. “You started it, didn’t you?”
Her voice was soft, but it cracked through the corridor

like a dropped glass.
“The rumor. About me. About him.”

Silence.

Then Marceline smiled.

"You really think so little of me?" she said, taking another step. “You think I would ruin your name over a boy?”

“Yes,” Cleophrea said.

And the slap came like punctuation.

It echoed, sharp and startling against the carved stone walls.

She stumbled, her back scraping against the cold, unforgiving edge of the pillar. A sharp sting blossomed across her cheek—sunlight catching the darkening bruise like a cruel spotlight.

Before she could steady herself, Elaris struck again. The heavy thud of his fist against her ribs stole the breath from her lungs. Pain flared, sharp and relentless. Cleophrea doubled over, gasping, the world narrowing to the ache that spread through her body.

The corridor absorbed everything. No one would hear.

Celeste whispered near her ear, “You thought you’d get away with it.”
A shove. A kick. Her body hit the marble floor with a crack. Her palm scraped across the tiles—white turning red. She coughed. Blood touched her lips.

Naomi moved forward.

“Stop,” she breathed. “This wasn’t—Marceline, this wasn’t what you said—”

But Marceline’s eyes were empty.

And the light in the corridor kept falling like broken glass.

“You did it,” she repeated, voice calm, almost clinical. “Because he looked at me.”

Elaris laughed like it was the punchline to a joke. “God, that voice—she still thinks she’s royalty.”

Celeste leaned down. “Where’s the clever mouth now?”

Another hit. Cleophrea’s hand slapped the floor as she tried to catch herself. Her wrist scraped. Blood.

More laughter.

Marceline crouched beside her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Cleophrea’s ear like a mother mocking a child.

“You never belonged with us,” she whispered. “We just didn’t notice soon enough.”

Elaris kicked her side.

She curled slightly, gasping, coughing—and this time when she spat, the blood was darker.

Naomi took a step forward. “Marceline, please—this wasn’t what we—”

But the rest laughed over her voice.

Even as Cleophrea shook.

Even as her body trembled.

Even as she bled on the floor of a hallway built like a cathedral.

They laughed.

They laughed while they broke her.

And when she finally stood—slowly, weakly, like a prayer rising from ashes—they watched.

She said nothing. No cry. No plea.

Just a look.

And she walked away, every footstep echoing louder than their joy.

But the silence she left behind?

That would haunt them longer than her bruises.

The sun had begun to tilt westward, casting longer shadows through the cloisters.

The corridor behind her still rang faintly with laughter—soft, cruel, and distant now. It chased her like smoke.

Cleophrea didn’t stop walking.

Her shoes clicked unevenly against the polished floor. One scuffed. The other nearly dragged.

Her blazer, once ironed with perfection, now hung crooked off one shoulder. A smear of blood darkened the sleeve where she’d pressed her wrist too tightly. One of the gold buttons near the cuff was missing.

The left side of her collar had come undone, revealing the faint bruising already forming at her throat.

And just beneath that, glinting weakly in the light, lay the necklace.

Gold.

The chain was thin but unyielding, twisted from the scuffle yet still catching the light. The pendant’s engraving gleamed clearly:

International Olympiad Winner. Cleophrea Myles.

She didn’t bother to fix it.

Nor her hair—strands stuck to the drying blood at her lip and temple. Her cheek already swelled where Marceline’s slap had landed.

No one stopped her.

The courtyard stretched wide beneath the dull wash of evening light, cobblestones cracked and uneven beneath her steps. A soft wind moved through the arches like breath through lungs long forgotten. Somewhere at the far end, a nun passed—a brief silhouette in the distance, black veil tugged by the breeze. She glanced once, her eyes catching on Cleophrea’s figure, then shifted away without a word. Just kept walking.

Across the upper balcony, two first-years stood half-hidden behind a column. One of them leaned in and whispered. The other pointed, their voices thin as thread. Cleophrea didn’t look. Didn’t flinch.

The wind tugged at her uniform—lifted the hem of her pleated skirt, fluttered the frayed edge of her blazer where the seam had been torn in the scuffle. It was almost gentle, like the building itself had stretched out a hand to dust her off. To smooth her back into something presentable.

But she didn’t want to be dusted off.

Didn’t want to be cleaned.

She wanted to be seen.

She climbed the stone steps, each one scraping against the bruises hidden beneath her tights, beneath the layer of silence she wore like armor. Her posture didn’t shake, but her shoulders held a heaviness no one noticed. No one dared to touch.

Not a single tear slid down her cheek.

Not a single sob clawed its way out.

She walked like a soldier returning from a war no one else had watched—

a war they’d all helped start.

And when she reached the dormitory door, her fingers hovered above the handle, trembling. Just once.

Inside her head, Marceline’s voice returned. It didn’t scream. It didn’t hiss. It lingered—cold and final, like the echo after a slammed door.

“You never belonged with us.”

Cleophrea swallowed hard.

Turned the knob.

And disappeared into the dark.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 24
The Mark Under the Light




Finn saw it.
A faint bruise, blooming just under her collar.
She adjusted her posture like armor, but it was too late.
He’d already seen.
And now, he couldn’t unsee it.

 

 

 

 

Cleophrea walked to class the next day like nothing had happened.
Her steps were poised. Her expression untouched.
Her body still moved like it hadn’t been dragged through yesterday.

But the bruises betrayed her.
Faint purple blooms along her neck. A shadow on her cheekbone.

Finn noticed the moment she sat beside him.
The familiar vanilla scent hit him like always—soft, infuriating.
But it didn’t matter.

His eyes landed on the bruises with thinly veiled disdain..
They looked like violet flowers blooming across her skin.
Beautiful.
And utterly wrong.

She caught the shift in his gaze—a little too focused, a little too slow.

The way his gaze lingered—too still, too exact.

Without a word, she tugged her collar higher, concealing the bruises with a quiet sort of urgency.
She cleared her throat and straightened her spine, speaking with the cold authority of royalty addressing a court jester. “Staring again, Cross? Didn’t know pity was your new kink.” Finn didn’t flinch; his reply was quick and cool, the kind of sharp remark that landed just right. “Impressive. Took real talent to get beaten up and still show up overdressed.” Her fingers curled slightly around her pen, but she didn’t meet his gaze—not yet. Instead, he tilted his head, voice dropping to something softer, almost harmless. “Long night, Myles. You missed a spot—just there, under your left eye. Looks like remorse.” His eyes weren’t on the bruises anymore; they lingered on the smudge beneath her right eye, cracked mascara that she must have missed while trying to fix the rest. Sloppy. Unusual for her. Without another word, he turned back to the board, his expression unreadable, leaving the silent truth hanging between them: whatever had happened yesterday, Cleophrea hadn’t fixed it all.

Until Marceline came. With Celeste.
“Didn’t know bruises were the new makeup trend, Cleophrea,” Celeste said with a smirk loud enough for half the class to hear, her voice dripping with cruel amusement. “Though I suppose it’s hard to keep up appearances when your face keeps catching fists.” Laughter bubbled from a few desks behind them—not everyone joined in, but enough did to sting. Finn didn’t laugh. He didn’t move. Cleophrea didn’t look back. She lifted her chin, as if their words were nothing but dust she’d already walked through, though her grip on the edge of her desk tightened, white-knuckled and trembling just enough for him to notice. Then, as if to twist the knife deeper, Celeste added sweetly, “Maybe she liked it. Everyone knows she’s been desperate for attention lately.” Another laugh, this one closer, sharper. Finn’s eyes stayed fixed forward, jaw clenched tight, silent, useless against the noise that hadn’t even faded when a sharp voice sliced through the room, cutting the tension like a knife.

“Enough,” the professor said from the front—calm, bored, dangerous.
 He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t have to. The classroom fell silent as if a switch had been flipped. “No one asked for commentary. If you’re finished behaving like a playground, I’d like to return to the Enlightenment—something most of you clearly missed.” Chairs scraped quietly as students shifted, pretending to focus, but Cleophrea didn’t move. Her chin stayed high, her expression unmoved, though only Finn noticed the slow blink she gave—like a dam holding back something colder than rage. Professor Alden turned back to the board. “Page 117. Rousseau. Try not to disgrace the curriculum any further.” Pens scratched, pages turned, but no one said her name again. Naomi wasn’t there—she was in another class, another corridor, where the lights didn’t flicker and no one laughed like they’d just ruined someone.

Naomi hadn’t expected Cleophrea to show up today. Not after yesterday. Not after that. The slap still echoed in her ears. The shove. The way Cleophrea hit the floor without making a sound. Naomi hadn’t meant for it to go that far. Not really. She just… hadn’t said no fast enough.

 

Now she sat in history, tracing the rim of her pen cap with a finger that still shook slightly. She didn’t hear a word the teacher said. Because in the back of her mind, one question looped like a curse: What if she doesn’t come back tomorrow? And what if that’s my fault?

At break, Cleophrea stood near the lockers, head down, fingers tightening the strap of her bag like she could pull herself upright with it. Naomi approached slowly. Her footsteps felt louder than they should’ve. Cleophrea didn’t turn—but she must’ve heard her.

“I didn’t think you’d come today,” Naomi said.

Cleophrea looked up. A bruise shadowed her cheek, sharp against pale skin. Her collar was pulled high, but not high enough to hide the rest. Naomi saw it. She didn’t mention it.

“I had class,” Cleophrea replied, voice flat. “And a spine.

Naomi winced. She hadn’t expected that.

Cleophrea met her eyes for a breath too long—like she was waiting for something. An apology. A question. Anything. But Naomi said nothing.

Cleophrea’s gaze dropped. “Right. Of course.”

She shifted her books higher in her arms, as if to shield what her collar couldn’t.

Naomi opened her mouth. Closed it. “I didn’t—” she started, then trailed off. There were no words sharp enough to match what had been done.

Cleophrea’s voice was colder now. “If you’re here to act unsure, don’t bother.”

Then they came. Marceline. Celeste. Elaris.

Marceline’s smile was vicious. “Naomi. Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around ghosts.”

Celeste snorted. “Maybe she likes pity cases.”

Elaris reached for Naomi’s wrist, tugging her gently away. “Let’s go,” she whispered.

And then Marceline moved. Not fast. Not obvious. Just a calculated step closer—shoulder turned, eyes forward—and drove it straight into Cleophrea’s side. A sharp, deliberate shove masked as a passing nudge.

Cleophrea staggered. Her books slipped from her grip like they were ripped out of her hands. One fell open on the tile—pages flaring out like broken wings. The others crashed down in a messy pile, papers skidding across the hall.

The sound echoed. Not loud—but loud enough to feel like shame.
Cleophrea didn’t speak or look up. She crouched to gather her scattered papers—quiet, mechanical, as if this had happened before. Behind her, laughter drifted—soft, distant, almost polite. Naomi didn’t move or speak either; she let herself be pulled away like a thread someone else had snipped. Cleophrea didn’t ask for help. She placed each page back carefully, silently, like pieces of herself, utterly alone. Finn was walking down the west corridor when he saw them—a group by the lockers: Marceline, Celeste, Elaris, with Naomi trailing behind and Cleophrea standing alone. He wasn’t close enough to hear the words, but he didn’t need to.

He saw the moment Marceline stepped in.
The sharp twist of her shoulder.
The way Cleophrea stumbled back, books spilling from her arms like they’d been slapped out of existence.

One skidded across the tile. Her posture dipped, arms scrambling.
And still—she didn’t fall.
She caught herself. Barely.

The others laughed.

Naomi didn’t.
But she didn’t stop it, either.

Finn slowed.

Just a little.

He told himself it was reflex.
Curiosity, maybe. Not concern.

Cleophrea was already crouching, gathering her books like they were shards of something too fragile to leave behind.
No one helped.
She didn’t ask.

Her collar was crooked. Her hair slightly out of place.
A bruise visible now, clear as ink across her cheekbone.
Not even covered.

He looked straight at it.

At her.

And then—he walked past.

His steps didn’t falter. His eyes didn’t linger.

Because that wasn’t his place.
She wasn’t his to protect.

And he told himself that again and again as the sound of laughter faded behind him.

Even as his jaw locked and something sharp sat behind his ribs.

She wasn’t his.

She was never his.

Meanwhile, Marceline walked like someone who had already won.
Her steps were measured elegance—heels striking the marble in clean, practiced rhythm. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Power clung to her like perfume.

Behind her, Elaris followed with idle amusement, twirling a charm from her bracelet between two fingers.

Celeste strolled with her arms crossed, already bored, eyes half-lidded with aristocratic disdain.

And Naomi trailed them both—quieter, slower, her silence thick as fog.

They passed the echoing stairwell, the dim windows streaked with last week’s rain, and veered into the north wing—a place the school had quietly left to rot.

The abandoned art room waited at the end of the corridor.
 

A door no one had touched in years.
Until now.

Marceline opened it without hesitation. The hinges moaned like a warning—but the sound only made her smile.

Inside, the room breathed in dust and secrets.
Easels stood like forgotten sentinels.
Faded canvases lined the walls, their brushstrokes lost to time. A cracked sink dripped with rust, staining the basin like blood too stubborn to wash out.

The air smelled of linseed oil, damp paper, and something bitterer underneath—something that had soured long ago.

Celeste strolled with her arms crossed, already bored, eyes half-lidded with aristocratic disdain.

And Naomi trailed them both—quieter, slower, her silence thick as fog.

They passed the echoing stairwell, the dim windows streaked with last week’s rain, and veered into the north wing—a place the school had quietly left to rot.

The abandoned art room waited at the end of the corridor.
 

A door no one had touched in years.
Until now.

Marceline opened it without hesitation. The hinges moaned like a warning—but the sound only made her smile.

Inside, the room breathed in dust and secrets.
Easels stood like forgotten sentinels.
Faded canvases lined the walls, their brushstrokes lost to time. A cracked sink dripped with rust, staining the basin like blood too stubborn to wash out.

The air smelled of linseed oil, damp paper, and something bitterer underneath—something that had soured long ago.

Marceline stepped into the center of the room, framed by dying light through a broken pane of stained glass.
She turned, slow and deliberate.

“We’ll begin here,” she said softly.
“As promised. Phase two.”

Naomi’s hand curled around the strap of her bag.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.

And when Marceline’s eyes swept across them all, her smile was a slash of something too sharp to be pretty.

“Let’s make her break beautifully.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 25
Porcelain Trap: Phase Two

 

 

 

"I didn't want to be part of it.
But I stayed quiet long enough to become the silence they used to hurt her."

 

 

 

 

 

“Alright, girls,” Marceline said, dusting off a cracked easel like it was her throne. Her voice was sweet but laced with poison. “Phase one—complete.”

She paced slowly. “She’s cracking. Slow enough to look natural,” Marceline said, tossing her hair back with a scoff. “Which means I can get Finn without questions. He’ll forget her. I’m sure he never liked her anyway.”

Elaris snorted, and Celeste laughed quietly behind her hand, the sound hollow against the peeling walls.

Only Naomi stayed silent, tracing the grain of an old worktable before asking softly, “…What’s the plan for phase two?”

The laughter dimmed. Marceline turned, a slow, sharp smile spreading across her face.

“Phase two might be a bit… odd,” she said, her smile slithering into place.

“But that’s how I’ll get him.” Marceline tapped her fountain pen against the table. The sharp click of metal on wood echoed like a countdown.

Elaris raised a brow. “We’re still talking about Cleophrea, right?”

Marceline looked up. “We’re talking about both of them. Finn’s not collateral anymore—he’s a target.”

Celeste smirked. “You finally admitting he never looked at you?”

“No,” Marceline said flatly, brushing hair from her shoulder. “I’m making sure he only ever looks at me when everything else is gone.”

She flipped to a clean page in her planner and began writing with slow, deliberate strokes:

Act II-B: Break the boy.

Give him attention. Then twist it

Let the spotlight burn him instead.

Naomi looked uneasy but said nothing.

Use what he can’t fight — pride.

Ruin his reputation. Push him off his pedestal.

And for that—
They won’t lift a finger.

She set the pen down. “We’re involving the baseball boys.”

Elaris blinked. “Seriously? The guys who tried to fight him behind the gym in Year 9?”

“Exactly,” Marceline said. “They hate him for the right reasons. Too smart, too arrogant, too close to Cleophrea.”

Celeste leaned in. “What are we giving them?”

Marceline shrugged, innocent. “A story. That Finn’s obsessed. That he’s playing Cleophrea. That he spread the rumor. That he thinks he’s above them.”

She paused.

“Then we let them do what boys do best.”
“Ruin things. Loudly.”

She slid the folded note into her blazer, her heels clicking softly as she walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Naomi asked, even though she already knew.

Marceline glanced back, eyes like glass. “To start a fire.”

The metal scaffolding hummed faintly above, echoing the last bell’s vibrations. A low wind stirred the dust near the field.

Kade was tossing a baseball in slow arcs. Ryo balanced a bat across his shoulders. Liam leaned back against a crate, half-lidded, bored.

Then came the click of polished shoes on gravel.

Marceline stepped beneath the bleachers like she wasn’t intruding, just… visiting.

Kade caught the ball midair. “This isn’t cheer practice, is it?”

She smiled mildly. “Wouldn’t waste my time cheering for anyone here.”

Ryo laughed under his breath. Liam looked her up and down. “So, what’s this about?”

Marceline pulled a folded paper from her blazer — something small, something meaningless. But enough to look like it mattered.

“I thought you might enjoy this,” she said, holding it out between two fingers.

Kade snatched it first. His eyes flicked across the words. It wasn’t explosive — not really. Just a few lines. Something Finn had supposedly said. Arrogant.

Competitive. Insulting. But just vague enough to sound real.

Ryo squinted. “Is he serious?”

She shrugged. “You know Finn. Smiles like he’s doing you a favor just by standing next to you.”

Kade scoffed. “He thinks he runs the place.”

“I figured,” she said lightly, “you’d want to be the ones to remind him otherwise.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Liam smirked. “What do you want in return? A seat next to him?”

Marceline laughed, warm and harmless. “God, no. I just like watching things fall apart when people finally say what they’ve been thinking all along.”

She turned to go, her voice drifting over her shoulder:

“Boys like you? You don’t need permission.”

And just like that, she vanished through the shadows —

leaving them with a single scrap of paper,

a grudge,

and the illusion that they weren’t just dancing on strings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 26
Porcelain Trap: Phase Two

 

 

 

 

"Look who’s soft over a broken crown."

 

 

 

 

 

The morning wind slipped through the cloister arches, brushing frost-kissed stone beneath Finn’s footsteps. The east corridor—once a monastery wing, now the school’s oldest building—always felt colder than the rest.

He walked through it as he always did. Shoulder relaxed, blazer folded over one arm, tie loose and swaying. His glasses caught the pale light, hair dark and tousled from a rushed shower.

But today felt different. Not obvious, not immediate—just enough.

He sensed it before he heard it: silence curling as he entered, conversations pausing, eyes weighing him even as they pretended not to notice.

Then—low, behind him, muttered like a knife just barely pulled from its sheath:

“Guess genius boy finally cracked for her.”

Laughter—quiet and sharp, the kind that didn’t need volume to cut.

Finn didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He just adjusted his glasses—slowly—and kept walking.

But the air stayed heavy behind him. Like something was following.

Finn pushed open the classroom door with the same easy arrogance he always wore. Students barely glanced up. A few did—eyes flitting to him, then back to their desks, lips curled in half-smiles or pressed into silence.

He said nothing.

His seat was waiting—right beside her. As always.

Cleophrea was already there, hunched slightly over her notes. Her blazer was fastened higher than usual, and her shirt collar tugged stiffly to the side.
But it wasn’t enough to hide the marks. The bruises were changing now—fading from plum to a dull ochre, like old ink bleeding into parchment.
Finn sat down wordlessly. Her sharp vanilla scent reached him before anything else, as it always did. He ignored it, his eyes briefly grazing the side of her face, pausing on the blotched cheekbone.
She noticed.
Straightening her posture, she tugged her sleeve down a little more.
Without looking at him, she said, “If you’re going to stare, at least try not to look like you’re solving a math equation with your last two brain cells.”
Finn blinked slowly, his voice cool and even. “If I wanted to waste brain cells, I’d try having a conversation with you.” Their eyes met.

A flicker of something. Not warmth — never that. But something colder. Older.
Like shared burn marks.

Cleophrea turned back to her book with a sharp inhale through her nose. She said nothing else.

But Finn didn’t look away right away either.
Because even silence — especially her silence — said something.

And it was saying too much.

Finn leaned back slightly, flipping open his textbook — the thick, overused one Sister Emilia made everyone carry.

A thin piece of folded paper slipped out and landed on his lap.

He paused.

It wasn’t notebook paper.
No lines. No folds from a spiral.
Just a square, pale and creased once, like it had been slipped there in a rush. Or deliberately.

He unfolded it slowly, eyes scanning the handwriting.

No name.
No signature.
Just one sentence — written in an almost careful script:

“You’re not the one being watched.”

His brow creased. He read it again. Then once more.

Cleophrea glanced sideways, catching the movement. “What’s that?” she muttered, voice low, suspicious.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

He folded it back, slid it into his sleeve pocket.

But it wasn’t nothing.
It was something.
And it was starting to feel like everything around him had teeth.

BREAK – SIDE HALL – 10:43 A.M.

The side corridor behind the chapel always caught the wind. Old stone columns, an arched ceiling—a place meant for quiet, for reflection. But today, it echoed with something far uglier.

Finn leaned against the wall, flipping through his book as if he wasn’t trying to ignore the tension crawling up his spine.

Then came the footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Intentional.

The baseball boys.

Kade. Ryo. Liam. A fourth one trailing, grinning like he didn’t even know why—just that it would be fun.

Kade stepped in front of Finn and stopped. “You always look like you’re lost in your own head. Must be exhausting living in a world no one else can follow.”

Finn didn’t look up. “Maybe. But at least I’m not stuck thinking small.”

“Oof.” Ryo clicked his tongue. “Did schoolboy just say a sentence without checking his mirror first?”

Laughter.

Someone passing by didn’t stop. Just glanced, lips twitching.

Finn straightened. Calm. Calculating. “Do you all travel in packs because your brains can’t function without shared oxygen?”

But he was surrounded. They weren’t here to trade clever words.

Kade leaned in. “You think you’re better than everyone?”

“No,” Finn said, brushing past him. “I know I am.”

Wrong move.

Liam stuck out his foot.

Finn stumbled. His glasses slid down his nose. He caught himself against the cold stone wall, breath sharp.

For a moment, only air and spite.

“You think Cleophrea’s special?” Ryo sneered. “The bruised little princess? Heard you like her choking on your attention.”

Laughter—too loud, too real.

Finn said nothing. His jaw clenched.

“What happened to the smartest boy in school?”

“Thought he could read people. Guess not.”

“Maybe he should sit with the losers next time—might actually win something.”

A soft click.

Someone snapped a photo.

Finn flinched. That—he felt. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He refused to give them what they wanted, even when the paper ball struck his back, even when someone muttered, “Not so untouchable now.”

He stayed standing. Alone.

No one stopped them. No one said a word. And Cleophrea never came.

But it didn’t end there.

Kade moved first—not with a shove, but with a grip. Two fingers curled into the collar of Finn’s uniform. Not tight. Just enough to wrinkle the fabric, just enough to whisper a warning. And then, with no warning at all, he yanked.

Finn’s body hit the stone pillar hard. His shoulder clipped the edge first, sharp and sudden, before the rest of him followed.

His blazer slipped from one shoulder in the motion, and his balance went with it. He landed hard on one knee, the other hand scraping against the cold, unforgiving tiles. Pain tore up his palm, skin burned raw.

Before he could fully rise, Liam’s foot came down—not a kick, but a step. Cruel and slow. Pressed against his calf, firm enough to bruise. Enough to pin him there.

Finn hissed under his breath but didn’t yell. He didn’t dare.

Even if they hurt you, baby, don’t fight back.
Kindness returns. Violence loops. Karma finds its way.
His mother’s voice pulsed through his skull, steady as a heartbeat.

Ryo crouched in front of him now, grinning like it was a game. “Where’s all that brainpower now, huh?”

Finn didn’t answer.

So Ryo slapped him.

Open palm. Sharp. Not theatrical—precise. The kind of slap that didn’t echo, but sank into the skin and stung for hours. The kind that made your eyes water, even when you didn’t want them to.

Finn’s head turned with the force, and a thin curl of blood slipped from the corner of his lip. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, quiet. Still silent.

Liam moved again—not for drama, but for damage.

Finn hadn’t been wearing his blazer. It was folded neatly in his hand when they grabbed him, still warm from sunlight and pride. Still perfectly pressed from this morning—he always carried it instead of wearing it.

But it didn’t matter now.

Because by the time Kade slammed him into the pillar, the blazer had slipped from his grip and landed hard on the floor. Dust clung to its fabric like insult. He saw it out of the corner of his eye, lying there like a flag dropped before battle.

Then came the pain.

The hit to his ribs knocked something loose—he wasn’t sure what. The second blow confirmed it. A breath snagged in his throat, sharp as a broken mirror, and when he tried to inhale again—

He coughed. And this time, it came red.

Just a small spatter—but vivid. Alive. Unforgiving.

His hand shook as he wiped it away.

Liam laughed.

Ryo bent down and whispered, “Oh? Bleeding already?” like it was entertainment.

Finn didn’t speak.

His mother’s voice echoed louder than the blood in his ears: Don’t fight them. Let the world see who they really are.

Then came another slap—not sharp this time, but heavy. It hit the side of his head. Not enough to knock him down, but enough to make the floor tilt.

His vision spun. The hallway blurred at the edges, and his balance fought itself.

Everything sounded like it came through water.

But he stayed upright.

He staggered—barely—but his spine stiffened. His jaw locked. He forced his legs to stay still.

You will not fall.

A whisper in his mind. Cold. Commanding. Nothing like mercy.

His hair—slightly curled, always too messy for the school rules—fell forward over his eyes. He didn’t push it back. He didn’t want them to see him blink.

A shoe scraped across his ankle. Then up to his shin. Not a kick. Just contact. A reminder of power.

He stayed kneeling.

One palm scraped and red. His jaw aching. Ribs singing with every breath. Head buzzing like a struck bell.

And when they finally walked off—like they were done playing—he reached down and picked up the blazer from the cold floor.

Finn stayed there a moment longer.

Not because he was broken.

But because he needed exactly ten seconds to swallow everything he wanted to scream.

His glasses had slipped partway down his nose. One of the lenses was cracked in the corner—a thin lightning-strike fracture that caught the hallway light when he moved.

He pushed them up with the side of his hand. His palm was raw. His ribs were screaming. But his face stayed blank.

He stood. Slowly.

Blazer in one hand, the other hanging stiff at his side. He didn’t put it on. Just held it—wrinkled, marked by dust and footprints—like it still meant something.

And then he walked.

Down the corridor. Past the lockers. Past where the attack had started.

One step at a time, head high, even though the world still tilted every few seconds. His balance betrayed him once, near the end of the hall. Just slightly.

But he corrected it.

He didn’t run.

Didn’t look behind him.

Didn’t fix his hair or touch the cut on his mouth or flinch at the whispers.

Because he was late.

And boys like Finn Cross never had time to bleed.

11:42 A.M. – CLASSROOM

The door creaked open. Not loudly. But enough to make the room glance up—just once, before turning away again.

Finn stepped inside. His blazer was still in his hand, his white shirt half-untucked at the side. The collar was rumpled. One side stained with something faintly red he hadn’t noticed. And when he tilted his head slightly, the crack on the left lens became visible.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t apologize for being late.

He just walked to his seat—slow, steady.

But his old friends saw him.

The ones who used to sit beside him during study hall.

The ones who laughed too loudly at his jokes.

The ones who believed—until recently—that he was only ever using them. For favors. For answers. For status.

They saw the bruise near his jaw. The darkened smear across his shirt. The slight limp in his step.

And they said nothing.

No one nudged his chair like they used to. No one called out a “Yo, Cross, what happened?” No jokes. No concern. No loyalty.

Just silence—the kind that rings worse than noise.

One of them—Jude—looked at him for half a second, then turned away, adjusting his tie like he hadn’t seen anything at all.

Finn’s fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. He dropped his blazer onto the back of his chair, then sat down. Slowly. Carefully.

Right beside Cleophrea.

She didn’t look up at first. She was still finishing the opening lines of the assignment—ink flowing steadily. Controlled. Cold.

The room around them murmured in low voices. Chairs scraped. Someone stifled a laugh. And beside her, Finn said nothing.

Only when she paused to flip a page did she hear it—

A sharp breath.

Then a cough. Stifled. Wet.

Too quiet for anyone else to notice, but it cracked the silence between them like a hairline fracture through glass.

Her hand froze on the paper.

She turned, slowly.

Finn was hunched just slightly, as if the desk had grown too heavy. His blazer hung over the chair, wrinkled and dirty. His glasses were cracked in the corner, the left lens catching a sliver of light. His lips were pressed tightly together—but she could see the edge of something red on his knuckle. The faintest trail near his collar.

His notebook lay open in front of him.
Blank.
And he was just staring at it.
Not reading. Not moving.
Just… blank.

Then she saw it.

The bruise on his cheekbone wasn’t just violet—it was carefully ignored. Like something meant to be hidden under better lighting, or beneath a collar that had failed him.

Another dark mark rested beneath the edge of his sleeve, visible only when he reached to adjust his pen. A whisper of violence, almost polite in its quiet.

Finn didn’t fidget. He didn’t flinch. Every movement was measured, like he’d rehearsed what “normal” was supposed to look like.

His glasses—cracked in the corner—slipped lower on his nose. He pushed them up with the back of his knuckle, quick, efficient. Like a reflex. Like maybe, if he moved fast enough, no one would see how the light caught the fracture just right.

The notebook in front of him remained open. Blank.

He stared at it as if staring was enough to convince the world he was working.

Then the cough came.

Sharp. Wet. Buried.

He turned his head into the crook of his arm, biting it down so deeply it barely made a sound.
But Cleophrea noticed.

Not because it was loud—
but because he moved like a boy trying not to be noticed.

And that’s when she saw it:
His hand curled tightly against his side, knuckles bloodless,
and the faintest smudge of red on the inside of his cuff.

He wiped it away before it could stain the page.
Before anyone could see.

Even her.

And when he sat upright again, face composed, breath slow and steady—
he didn’t look at her.
He didn’t look at anyone.

He just turned the page.
And pretended he was fine.

An hour had passed.
But Finn Cross felt as though time had stopped —
and left him behind in a body that no longer obeyed.

He sat perfectly straight. Perfectly still. Like posture could save him.

But inside, everything was spinning.

His ribs throbbed with every shallow breath. His temple pulsed. His vision blurred. The words on the blackboard bled into each other, swimming like oil over water.

He blinked once—and the room tilted.

No one noticed.

His fingers curled around the edge of his desk so tightly the skin paled.

And still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t cry.

Because boys like Finn didn’t ask for help. They memorized the pain. Filed it alphabetically beneath pride.

He wanted—God, he wanted—just to rest his head. Just for a second. Just close his eyes.

But he didn’t.

He sat there with the blood still drying under his sleeve, with bruises like war medals no one would honor, with a cracked lens on his glasses that turned the world sideways—

—and he said nothing.

Because no one asked.

And because he’d been raised not to answer, even if they did.

His fingers finally loosened their grip on the desk—not in surrender, but in quiet exhaustion.

It was imperceptible at first. A shift in his shoulders. A subtle collapse in the line of his spine. Like a pillar beginning to bend beneath weight no one else could see.

He blinked. Once. Twice. The light above him fractured across his cracked lens.

The hum of the classroom dulled to a low, distant roar.

Everything slowed.

204 - ROOM LITERATURE

Marceline didn’t even look up from her notebook. She was pretending to take notes — pen moving lazily, the same word written three times across the margin.

Because across the room, one of the baseball boys — Ryo — tilted his chin toward her as he slouched in his seat. He tapped his knuckles twice on the edge of the desk, then gave a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

A signal.

Celeste caught it. Smirked.

Marceline blinked once. Then slowly, deliberately, closed her notebook.

“Good,” she whispered, just loud enough for Celeste to hear. “Now let’s see how long it takes before he breaks properly.”

Celeste leaned back in her chair, a faint whisper slipping from her lips like a secret breeze. Marceline's laughter followed—soft, deliberate—not in response to humor, but as if she were silently marking the precise moment it might serve her purpose.

“Do you think Naomi’s still on edge?” Celeste asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve, eyes darting toward the door like someone might be listening.

Marceline didn’t answer right away. She watched the flicker of candlelight dance across the bookshelves, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile curved across her lips—knowing, elegant, and just sharp enough to sting.

“She always is,” she said at last, her voice smooth as silk. “Naomi’s the sort who would weep if the priest’s ‘amen’ echoed too sharply through The Chapel of Our Lady of Dusk.”

Celeste gave a soft, nervous giggle. “You’re cruel.”

Marceline tilted her head, eyes glinting. “You say that now.”

Her gaze flicked to the door—sharpened, focused. “By the way,” she said, almost offhand, “I mentioned your name earlier. Just in case.”

Celeste stilled. “In case of what?”

Marceline didn’t answer.

The silence between them thickened.

Celeste laughed again, but this time it sounded forced. “You didn’t say anything that’ll get me in trouble, right?”

“I never say more than I need to,” Marceline murmured.

Then she sipped her tea, calm and composed, like the conversation was already done.

And Celeste—quiet now—didn’t ask again.

Because deep down, she already knew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 27
Wrong Hallway , Right War

 

 

He didn’t flinch when the teacher spoke. Didn’t blink when his name was called. But the blood on his cuff—

—that wasn’t part of the act.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every step forward felt like the kind of decision that echoes after death.

She moved past the first floor silently, the shadows long and heavy across the corridor. The lamps buzzed low above her, flickering like they were holding back breath.

Past Room 11.
Past Room 14.
The old supply closet.

And then—

A door on the left. One she didn’t recognize.

The plaque was crooked, half scratched off.
The number barely visible beneath the tarnish and dust.

Just a 34

She stopped. Only for a second.

She didn’t know why.
Maybe it was the way the air felt colder there, like something had breathed out and never inhaled again.

But the hallway stayed silent.
The room stayed closed.

She moved on.

She moved past the strange door—whatever it was—with a slow breath, tucking the image into the back of her mind like a misplaced sentence in the wrong paragraph.

The chill lingered for a step, maybe two. But the air gradually warmed again, thick with the familiar scent of old wood polish, faint laundry powder, and the trace musk of boys who lived carelessly.

Her footsteps softened against the runner rug lining the center of the corridor—faded navy with fraying gold trim. The kind the school never replaced, even when it curled at the edges.

This was the final hallway. She was sure of it.

But now came the problem she hadn’t considered:

She didn’t know his room number.

Of course she didn’t.

She had never asked. Never bothered to look. Never cared.

But now that she was here—barefoot, bruised, too proud to admit she shouldn’t be—she realized how ridiculous it was to not even know where he slept.

Still, she kept walking.
Quietly. Steadily. Past each door, each brass handle, each nameplate dulled with fingerprints.

Room 41.
Room 43.
No Finn.
Just soft snoring behind one door, a burst of laughter behind another, quickly hushed.

She slowed at the far end of the hall. There was only one room left.

Its door was slightly ajar.

Not enough to be careless.
Just enough to suggest someone had forgotten to pull it closed all the way.

There was no nameplate. Just a faint scratch across the wood, like something had been scraped off.

Her hand hovered over the edge of the frame.

She didn’t knock.

She didn’t breathe.

She simply pushed it open with her fingers and stepped into his world.

The door creaked open, just enough to admit her.

The room was dim, lit only by the amber pool of a desk lamp angled toward an open notebook.

Finn was seated at the desk. His back to the door. His posture perfect—painfully perfect—like he was holding himself upright out of defiance, not comfort.

He was still in uniform. Shirt sleeves rolled up. One cuff smeared faintly with dried red. His blazer, unused and rumpled, hung carelessly over the back of a chair.

His glasses sat crooked on his nose, one lens cracked at the corner.

He hadn’t noticed.

He hadn’t noticed her, either.

Because he was staring at the page.
Not reading.
Not writing.
Just… staring.

The pen in his hand was motionless. His knuckles were pale. There was a scrape along the side of his arm—darkening, but not bandaged.

The quiet in the room was full. Dense. The kind that carried the weight of unshed words.

And for a moment, Cleophrea couldn’t tell whether he looked like a boy preparing for a test—
—or one trying not to fall apart.

Then, without turning, he spoke.
Voice low. Flat.

“What are you doing here, Myles?”

His voice was low. Not tired. Not surprised. Just… hollow.

She stood in the doorway, bruised in places no one could see, her bare feet chilled by the floor. The silence stretched between them like glass waiting to crack.

“Didn’t think you'd still be upright,” she said coolly. “I figured they'd at least finish what they started.”

Finn didn't move. Just stared down at the page he wasn’t writing on.

“Pity,” she added. “Would’ve saved the school a scholarship.”

A beat passed. Then he laughed — sharp and joyless.

“So what now?” he said. “You come here to spit on the wreckage? Or are you just bored of tormenting me in public?”

he crossed her arms. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need privacy to win.”

He finally turned.

The bruise on his jaw had deepened, carving shadow into the angles of his face. His glasses were crooked—one lens catching the light like a wound. His shirt was stained. His sleeve torn near the elbow.

But his eyes—

His eyes were the only thing still burning.

Not out of hope. Not even anger.
Just a slow, deliberate confusion.

Like he was trying to calculate a formula that shouldn’t exist.
Why are you here? Why now? Why you, of all people?

And Cleophrea hated that she couldn’t answer it.
Not even to herself.

He turned away again, jaw tight.

She didn’t move.
Neither did he.

The silence between them felt stretched too thin, like a thread pulled taut across a blade.
One breath, one word—
and it might snap.

His gaze dropped back to the desk, but he wasn’t really looking.
The numbers on the page blurred. The words had stopped making sense hours ago.

And still—she was standing there.

Barefoot. Bruised. In his space. In his air.

She wasn’t the type.
Not the kind that stuck. Not the kind worth bleeding over.

Girls like her were noise and blade and storm.
He knew the type. He knew how to walk away.

But she lingered.
Even when she was gone, even in silence—
she lingered.

It didn’t make sense.
None of them ever stayed like this.

Not even— her.

She turned for the door.

“Why now, Myles?” he said behind her.

She stopped. Didn't turn around.

“You’ve had months to ruin me. You waited until I was already bleeding.”

Then, before he could say another word, he coughed.

A sharp, shallow breath that cracked against his ribs.

And there it was—

Just the faintest trace of red at the corner of his mouth.

He swiped it away with the side of his wrist, careless and quick, like it meant nothing.
Like it hadn’t come from somewhere deep and burning beneath the skin.

“Tired?” Cleophrea asked coolly, her tone laced with venom she didn’t fully feel.
“You’re bleeding out like a tragic poet. All that brainpower finally turning on you?”

He didn’t answer.
Just flicked his cracked glasses off with one hand and set them gently on the desk beside him—frame crooked, lens chipped, blood blooming faintly across his knuckles.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was clinical. Controlled. Like neither of them dared to breathe too loudly in case it shattered something invisible between them.

Then he looked at her again. Not with heat. Not with fury. Just with that same, awful calm.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

And Cleophrea, for once, didn’t argue.

She didn’t reply—not to the words, not to the blood, not to the way his eyes looked like they hadn’t belonged to a boy in weeks. She stood there a moment longer, just long enough to hear the buzz of the overhead light and the scratch of his pen moving without writing.

Then she turned. Slowly. Precisely. Like she hadn’t come here by accident. Like she hadn’t nearly stayed.

Her footsteps were soft as she left the room, bare feet soundless against the stone floor. She didn’t glance back.

But the door stayed open.

Just slightly.
Like she didn’t know how to close it.
Or didn’t want to.

Later that night
West Hall – Abandoned Lecture Room

The light in the lecture room was dim. Not broken — just unsupervised long enough to hum with secrets.

Marceline sat on the teacher’s desk, legs crossed, posture perfect. She twirled a fountain pen between her fingers like it was a blade.
Behind her, Celeste leaned against the chalkboard, arms folded, while Elaris sat near the windowsill, checking her reflection in the glass between words.
Naomi stood apart. Always apart lately. Still there — but one step behind, one breath slower.

“She went to his dorm,” Marceline said simply.

The room fell still.

“Cleophrea,” she added, lips curling. “To Finn’s room. Alone. After curfew.”

Celeste blinked, caught off guard. “How did you know?”

Marceline didn’t look up from her notebook. Her pen moved lazily across the page, as if the question barely registered. “Let’s just say... some doors open for me that don’t open for her.”

Elaris frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Marceline finally looked up. Her smile was wide, bright, and entirely wrong. The kind of expression that sparkled just enough to distract from the blade behind it.

“It means I pay attention,” she said sweetly. Then, without missing a beat, she added, “And some people pay to be listened to.”

The room shifted.

Naomi’s eyes snapped toward her, sharp and narrowed. But she didn’t speak. Her lips pressed together, like she was holding back something — a question, or maybe an accusation. The silence that followed was thick, but no one filled it.

Marceline said the words like she was quoting someone else. Or maybe just remembering something she'd never quite been able to forget.

Either way, no one asked again.

She said it like she was quoting someone else.
Or maybe remembering something.
Either way, no one asked again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 28
“ I love her – wait what? No I don’t. “

 

I don’t love you—

though my heart stumbles

when your name slips past my lips

like a secret I can’t keep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sky was gray. Not dramatically. Just enough to annoy.

Finn adjusted the strap of his bag with his left hand, the other still too stiff.
The bruise on his ribs ached in rhythm with his footsteps — dull, constant, like a second pulse.
The bandage along his knuckles had loosened a little, and he kept tugging at it without realizing.

His glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose, one arm bent slightly inward.
He hadn’t replaced them yet.
He didn’t care to.

The hallway buzzed with life, but he felt disconnected from it — like the noise passed through him without landing.

Behind him, someone laughed too loudly.
Ahead, lockers slammed, shoes squeaked, a girl shrieked with laughter near the vending machine.

He didn’t look at anyone. Not until she walked in.

Cleophrea.

Wearing the same navy uniform, her usual gold-pinned necklace gleaming faintly against her collarbone.
 

Hair up. Gaze fixed forward.
Expression unreadable.

He didn’t stare.
He just… noticed.

That she hadn’t spoken to him since that night.
That her bruises were healing — slower than his.
That she still hadn’t said thank you.
Not that she should.

Not that I care.

They reached their shared desk at the same time.

He sat first, slowly, easing into the chair with a stiffness he tried not to show.
She sat beside him without a word.
The gap between them felt narrower today, though neither of them had moved.

Cleophrea opened her notebook.

Finn didn’t.

Cleophrea’s pen was moving faster than usual.

Not the confident, fluid rhythm he was used to — not the effortless elegance that usually irritated him.

No.
This was sharper. Restless.

Her brows were drawn ever so slightly together. Her jaw tight.
There was something off in her posture — not dramatic.
But like her body was bracing for something she couldn’t name.

She flipped the page in her notebook too quickly and had to smooth the paper back down with her palm.
Finn noticed the tremble in her fingers.

He didn’t say anything.

None of my business, he told himself.
None of it ever was.

Still…
She kept glancing down at her bag.
Not her book. Not the lesson.
At something tucked in the side pocket.
A small black leather-bound thing, almost invisible.

But he filed the image away — like he always did.
Like he couldn’t help it anymore.

Maybe it’s just a ledger, he told himself.
Or a mirror. Or one of those perfectly pretentious little journals girls like her write quotes in.

Still, the way her hand hovered near it—like it was important—made something in his stomach tighten.

He looked away.

Their elbows weren’t touching. But they could’ve been.

The teacher walked in. Something about statistics. Something about paired data sets. The board filled with formulas.

Finn didn’t process a word of it.

Cleophrea wasn’t writing anymore.
She was tapping her pen against the corner of her notebook — methodical, like counting seconds.

Her face didn’t change. Not much.
But she blinked a fraction too long.
Her shoulders pulled back like armor.

And Finn, who had promised himself he wouldn’t, whispered:

“Are you fine?”

She didn’t look at him.

But she said, under her breath,

“No one’s fine this early in the morning, Cross.”

Cold. Flat. Meant to end the conversation.

But the pen tapping stopped.

And that silence felt like it meant something.

But the pen tapping stopped.
And that silence felt like it meant something.

The teacher began the lecture.
Chalk against board. Something about correlation. Chi-squared. Grouped tables.

Cleophrea didn’t take notes.
She sat unusually still. Eyes fixed ahead, but not focused.
Finn could feel it. The weight beside him wasn’t distant anymore.
It felt… alive.

Then her hand moved. Slowly.
She turned the page of her notebook—not to write, but to hide the page underneath.

Finn saw a corner of it.

Ink.
Small, cramped. Almost shaky.
A few words circled twice.

He didn’t mean to look. Didn’t read enough to understand. But one line caught his eye: I know something is going to happen.

She slammed the notebook shut. Not loud, but final.

He flinched. Covered it with a scoff. Scratched at the corner of his bandage, then said, “You always act like the main character in a murder mystery. Relax. No one’s going to poison your tea.”

Cleophrea blinked slowly. Then—barely—a smile. Crooked. Cold.

“I don’t drink tea,” she said.

Finn’s lips twitched. He almost smiled back. Almost. But instead, he looked away. Back to the board. Anywhere else.

Their shoulders didn’t touch.
But the heat between them stayed.

She hadn’t meant to stop. The hallway was too cold, too bright. Her shoes made no sound on the floor. It was still early—that dead space between first bell and first breath, when even the walls felt undecided.

She paused beside the narrow pane of glass outside Room 4. It wasn’t curiosity. Just habit.

Inside, Finn and Cleophrea sat at their usual desk. Same distance. Same silence. Everything as it should be.

But then, Cleophrea said something. Not loud. Just enough to shift the air. Finn looked at her. And then, so faintly it could’ve been imagined, he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a taunt. It barely reached his mouth. But it was real.

And Marceline saw it.

Her gaze didn’t move. Her expression didn’t flicker. But one of her fingers pressed lightly against the glass—absent, unconscious, like she wasn’t even aware she’d done it. She watched for a second longer, just long enough to be sure it wasn’t a mistake.

Then she stepped away. No reaction. No words. She walked calmly down the corridor, her hands tucked into her pockets, the rhythm of her heels even and measured.

When she turned the corner, she pulled out her planner. Flipped to a blank page near the back. No header. No ink smudge. Just space.

She wrote a date. That was all.
A date, circled once. Then she closed the book.

THE BREAK BELL – COURTYARD

The sun hung high, casting a harsh glare over the courtyard. Breaktime buzzed around them—music spilled from a careless phone near the benches, girls laughed over iced coffee, boys shouted about last night’s basketball scores. The noise was loud, alive, ordinary.

And that was precisely why Marceline’s words cut through it all like a blade.

She didn’t wait for the sanctuary of the art room. No paint-stained walls, no dusty easels to hide behind. She turned sharply to Celeste, Elaris, and Naomi—right there, exposed in the open air—and said, cold as ice:

“We’re done being subtle.”

The laughter faltered. The chatter stilled. Naomi blinked,frozen mid-motion, a delicate glass of rose-hued nectar halfway to her lips.

“What… do you mean?” she asked, voice trembling.

Marceline didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out her leather folio—not to write, but to clutch it like a talisman, a silent threat.

Her eyes locked onto theirs, steady and unyielding.

“She talks to him again—”

“We make sure she doesn’t again.”

Naomi’s hand trembled as she set the milk down. She was careful not to spill a drop, but the glass still clinked softly against the table.

“…You mean like… warning her?”

Celeste scoffed. “Warning? Please, Naomi. You saw the way he looked at her. It’s not a warning she needs.”

Elaris smiled—cold, cruel. “They think we’re too stupid to notice. That’s almost funny.”

Naomi didn’t answer. Her face had gone pale. She sat stiffly, guilt rising like bile.

“We already hurt her,” she whispered. “Air itself refused her. Each breath—fragile.”

Marceline’s voice cut clean through. “Then she should’ve learned.”

She stood, smoothed the back of her skirt, and shut her folio with a soft finality.

“Next time she talks to him, we finish it. And we make her say it. Loud. Right in front of us.”

Celeste rose, eyes hard.

Elaris followed, silent but certain.

Only Naomi stayed seated, staring at the unopened milk—her hands still shaking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 29
Between Words and Wounds




“Between words and wounds lies a silence that lingers—cold, unforgiving, and impossible to escape.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The hallway outside the library was quieter than usual, a hushed corridor where muted voices drifted between the marble columns like ghosts. Students moved like shadows—filing into study rooms, huddling near lockers, lingering by the tall windows that framed the fading afternoon light. The sky was a soft, melting gold, as if the world itself had gone quiet just long enough to breathe.

Cleophrea stood alone beneath one of the window arches, her fingers sifting through a precarious stack of borrowed books—ancient philosophy tomes, delicate volumes of poetry. Her brows were faintly drawn, attention fixed on the spines as though deciding which one might hurt the least to carry. She didn’t hear footsteps. But she felt the air shift.

Then a voice, soft as silk but heavy with nerves, brushed against the stillness.

“Cleo.”

She turned, almost without meaning to, and her breath caught mid-motion.

Naomi.

Same uniform. Same precisely braided hair. The familiar gloss of pink lip balm she always reapplied after lunch. But this time, there was no careful tilt of the head. No sly smile. No mask. Just a pale face, lips pressed together too tightly, eyes too wide.

“Can we talk?” Naomi asked. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet hum of the hall.

Cleophrea didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. She didn’t even meet her gaze. Her hands shifted slightly against the books in her arms. That was all.

Naomi stepped closer, hesitant, as if expecting the floor to crack beneath her.

“Just listen, OK?” she said, voice tight. “I know you hate me. But—”

“Hate is generous,” Cleophrea replied, tone flat, detached. Her eyes stayed fixed on the worn edges of a book cover, as if the brittle pages might offer more comfort than a human voice. “Go on.”

Naomi swallowed hard. “I need to tell you something,” she said finally, barely above a breath.

Cleophrea didn’t turn. “Of course you do.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it. I just—I have to say it anyway.”

There was a pause. The kind that opened a chasm between people. Naomi looked like she was scrambling to find the safest version of a truth that had already rotted in silence.

“Then say it,” Cleophrea snapped, finally turning to face her. Her voice sharpened. “Stop wasting my time.”

Naomi flinched, but didn’t move away. Her chin quivered, but her feet held steady.

“I didn’t speak up because I was scared,” she said. “Not of Marceline. Of losing what little I had left. My place. My protection. Whatever I thought that was.”

“Don’t make this about you.”

“I’m not,” Naomi said quickly, her voice rising. “But I didn’t laugh when they did. I didn’t push you. I hated every second of it—”

“You were silent,” Cleophrea interrupted, voice lower now, but somehow colder. “You followed. You watched. You let it happen.”

“I know,” Naomi whispered. “And I’ll regret that forever.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She stepped forward, just slightly, her eyes bright now—glassy and raw. “But please, Cleo… stay away from him. From Finn. Just for now.”

Cleophrea’s jaw tightened. Her expression didn’t crack, but something behind her eyes shifted. “Why?”

Naomi’s lips parted, then closed again. She looked around the hall once, like she needed to be sure they were still alone. “Because they’re not done,” she said, voice cracking fully now. “Marceline—she’s planning something worse. I tried to stop her. I tried to talk her down, but she doesn’t even listen to me anymore.”

Her voice was shaking. “And if she can’t control you… she’ll destroy you.”

For a moment, Cleophrea just stared. Her gaze was unreadable, stone still. But in the silence that followed, Naomi’s breathing grew uneven. Her shoulders sagged slightly, like even standing there felt like too much weight to carry.

Cleophrea blinked once. Slowly.

“I don’t need your guilt,” she said at last. “And I definitely don’t need your warnings.”

Then she turned and walked past Naomi, her footsteps steady against the marble floor. Not hurried. Not shaken.

Just done.

Naomi stood where she was. She didn’t follow.

Didn’t call her back.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 30
Between Words and Wounds
(part 2.)
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BEFORE THE AUDITORIUM – THE MESSAGE

Cleophrea was halfway back to her dorm when her phone buzzed. She didn’t check it right away—her head throbbed, her legs ached, and the sun stung her eyes through the courtyard trees.

Her body still hadn’t healed from last week. The bruise on her cheekbone lingered, her shoulder throbbed where she’d hit the floor. She hadn’t told anyone—not even the nurse. She just wanted to sleep. Or vanish. Or both.

Another buzz. Then a third.

With a sigh, she pulled the phone from her pocket and unlocked it, slow, already regretting it.

Miss Adelyn needs you in the auditorium. Now. Regarding your scholarship file.

No greeting. No sign-off. The number wasn’t saved.

She frowned. Teachers usually messaged through the school system. Or at least through an assistant. But this... this was plain. Direct. Cold.

And that was the problem.

Because it sounded real.

She stared at it for another second. This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m tired. I don’t owe them another minute.

But the word scholarship hooked under her ribs and tugged hard. The one thing she couldn’t ignore. The one thing that still tethered her to a future beyond this place.

She exhaled—short, clipped—turned away from the dorm staircase, and headed for the auditorium.

Her steps were sharp. Her blazer wrinkled. Her mood sour.

She didn’t text anyone. She figured it would take five minutes.

She didn’t know it would break her.

The old auditorium felt like a chapel masquerading as a lecture hall.
Its curved wooden benches stacked high like an arena, carved railings gleaming faintly in the amber light.
Dust floated in the beams from the arched windows. A statue of a robed figure stood above the podium, one hand raised as if in silent judgment.

Cleophrea entered from the lower archway, her footsteps echoing too loudly against the polished floor.
The acoustics were so clear, so surgical, they made even a cough sound like confession.

She stopped at the bottom.

The projection screen had already been pulled down — slightly off-center, its white fabric rippling just enough to distort the image.

Rows of students sat scattered across the upper tiers. Not full. Not crowded. Just enough to be dangerous.

And the screen was already playing.

She saw herself.

A classroom hallway.
Her walking alone — slowed down, zoomed in.
The camera was shaky, like it had been taken from someone hiding behind a locker door.

Then audio — her voice. Except… wrong.

Spliced. Echoed. Doctored into something she never said.

“No one’s allowed to even look at him.”

“Only I get to touch him. He’s mine, OK? Like, totally mine.”
The students laughed — not loud, not mocking. Just amused.

It looked so real , it looked exactly like her handwriting.
 

A few leaned forward on the ancient wooden benches.
One girl tilted her phone, recording.

Another clip. Her again — bending to grab a book, her blouse slightly shifted. The footage paused. Zoomed.

The caption:

“Gold medals. Dirty secrets.”

She couldn’t move.

And then — a final blow:

A projection of her handwriting. Torn from her diary, one of the inner pages she kept tucked beneath old syllabi and pressed flowers.
Something she wrote weeks ago in frustration. In fear.

And now, it glowed across a twenty-foot screen like a headline.

“I hate feeling this. He ruins everything in my head.”

—C.M.

There were gasps.
Then a whistle.
Then laughter again.

She turned. The exit was two levels up.

Every step sounded like a drumbeat in the quiet, cathedral-like space. Behind her, the laughter didn’t follow—only the sound of her own name, murmured softly, like gossip in prayer.

She ran.

Not gracefully. Not like someone in control. Her footsteps echoed through the corridor, each one louder than the last, ringing out like accusations.

Someone had framed her.

She didn’t know who.

Or maybe she did.

Was it them?

The ones who used to smile too easily, linger too long near her locker, offer help she never asked for? The ones who once called her their friend?
Her vision blurred. Whether from fury or shame, she couldn’t tell.
The tiled walls of the girls’ bathroom came into view — too bright, too white — and she pushed open the door with shaking fingers.

She stumbled into the farthest stall and slammed the lock shut behind her.
Collapsed onto the cold floor.
Pulled her knees to her chest.

Breathe. Don’t fall apart.

Because no one — no one — gets to embarrass her.
She is Cleophrea.
She earns silence with a glance. She survives things others couldn’t name.

And yet—
As she sat there, head bowed against her arms, she couldn’t help but wonder if silence could still protect her.
Or if respect could survive betrayal.

She stayed curled in the stall longer than she wanted. Her legs were tingling, her wrists sore from where she’d bitten them trying to stay quiet. She told herself she was calm, but she knew she was lying.

Eventually, she stood, fixing her skirt and smoothing her vest. Her eyes were red, but her mouth was set. Cold. No one was going to embarrass her. Not anymore.

She unlatched the door to leave—and stopped.

Voices drifted in from just outside. Cruel. Careless.

“She thinks she’s perfect because of her grades.”

“That video? Totally deserved.”

“Obsessed with Finn. Pathetic.”

Laughter followed—sharp and mocking, echoing off the tiled walls.

“Cleophrea’s always been creepy, acting superior.”

“Now she’s a joke.”

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the stall door. No one knew she was in there.

And inside, something cracked.

The voices continued, petty and vicious.

“She bent over on purpose.”

“Always craving attention in that blazer.”

Laughter followed—sharp, hollow, too loud.

Cleophrea clicked the stall door open. The sound echoed like quiet thunder.

Three girls froze. Lip gloss trembling. None of them met her eyes.

She didn’t look at them, either. At the sink, she turned on the tap, letting cool water run over her fingers—not to wash, but to steady herself.

Then, voice soft and cutting, she said, “Speak louder next time. I’d hate to miss anything.”

Silence. No one responded. Their eyes dropped.

“Must be hard,” she added, drying her hands with deliberate calm. “Being talentless. Just background noise.”

She turned to leave, her walk composed, every step poised—grace forged in fire. At the door, she paused. Glanced back over her shoulder.

“If you try to ruin someone,” she said, “make sure they’re better at it.”

Then she walked out without another word.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 31
Between Words and Wounds
(part 3.)
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The classroom buzzed the moment Cleophrea walked in.

Not loudly. Not obviously. But it was there—an immediate shift in the air. Conversations dipped mid-sentence. Phones slid back into sleeves with the practiced smoothness of guilt. A few students glanced up, but their eyes darted away just as fast, like looking too long might draw attention to them too.

She said nothing. Her posture remained sharp, chin high, steps even. She moved as if none of it touched her—as if the whispers, the rumors, the edited video still circling the student body like poison in water—meant nothing. As if she didn’t feel the weight of thirty unsaid things trailing behind her.

She took her seat, as always, beside Finn. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge his presence. But she noticed—of course she noticed—that he didn’t say a word either.

No insult. No smirk. No cutting remark.

Just silence.

She could feel his gaze flick toward her, though, brief but unmistakable. Watching her out of the corner of his eye like someone studying a bruise to see if it would spread.

Mr. Herro burst through the door a few seconds later, clapping his hands together with a sharpness that cut through the tension like a switchblade. “Alright, eyes up. Quick announcement.”

Chairs scraped. Backpacks shifted. A few groaned preemptively.

“This Friday,” he continued, “we’re heading out for the annual Academic Survival Camp. Three days. Off-campus. Limited Wi-Fi. No phones. Grouped at random.”

That got their attention.

The room exploded in noise—groans, nervous laughter, sarcastic applause. One of the students in the back actually said, “Kill me now,” and didn’t bother to whisper it.

Mr. Herro held up a paper list like it was a sacred text. “Tent assignments are posted by the board. You’ll be with these people for the entire weekend—eat with them, sleep near them, survive with them. No swapping. No complaints.”

Cleophrea didn’t groan. Didn’t flinch. But something twisted faintly in her stomach.

She waited for the rush to die down before glancing toward the board. The paper was taped in the corner, already slightly curling at the edges from someone’s careless tape job. Names were grouped in fours, typed in the usual all-caps spreadsheet font.

She scanned the rows until she found hers.

There it was. CLEOPHREA MYLES.

Beneath it: Naomi, Althea, and Brynn.

Her heart skipped once—more irritation than fear. Naomi. Of course. The universe’s idea of a joke. The other two girls—Althea and Brynn—she barely knew. They floated in the edges of the academic crowd. Not loud. Not cruel. But not allies either.

She could feel eyes on her already.

When she turned her head slightly, she caught Althea looking. Their eyes met for half a second. Althea didn’t look away immediately—just blinked once, slowly, as if trying to decide something.

It wasn’t a hostile look. Not quite sympathetic either. Just… cautious.

Like someone who had seen the video.

Heard the rumors.

And still hadn’t decided whether Cleophrea was the girl who deserved it or the one who would burn everything down just to survive.

Behind her, someone whispered, “She’s gonna snap in the woods.”

Finn didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. She could feel his gaze burning through the paper in front of him, like he was trying to understand her without asking the question.

Cleophrea didn’t flinch. Let them trap her in the woods. She’d survive that too.

Across the room, Naomi's eyes met hers. There was something there—something like hope. Faint, flickering, too fragile to last. Maybe she wanted to warn her. Maybe she didn’t know how. But some part of her already knew the truth.

It was too late.

By second break, 13:25 PM, the plan had already taken shape.

Marceline, Celeste, Elaris, and Naomi sat beneath the back trees near the edge of the courtyard. Heads close, voices low. To anyone watching, it looked harmless. Just girls whispering between classes.

“Saturday’s best,” Marceline murmured. “Far from camp base. No one to interrupt.”

“We already have everything ready,” Celeste said, her tone calm. “It’ll be clean. Fast.”

Naomi gave a small smile. Tight. Strained. The kind you wear when you’re pretending to agree because disagreeing would mean tearing the whole moment open. Her lips curled upward, but nothing else followed—not her eyes, not her shoulders, not her breath. It was a mask with no face behind it.

“So we’re really going to murder her?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. It was a poor attempt at humor. Or maybe a last, quiet protest.

 “Of course,” Celeste replied , tone light. “It’s the only way she’ll finally shut up.”

Marceline plucked a leaf off her skirt and twirled it between her fingers, bored. “She’s been asking for it all year.”

“She brought this on herself,” Elaris added. Her voice was calm, measured. Like they were discussing a failed exam or a bad haircut. Not someone’s life.

Naomi looked down at her hands.

The smile stayed on her face, but her fingers were shaking in her lap, knuckles bone-white as they pressed into each other. There was a buzzing in her ears now, faint but rising. Her heart felt too fast for how still she was sitting.

She could still walk away. Still say something. Still do something.

But she didn’t.

 

 

CHAPTER 32
Her Last Victory

 

 

 

Some words were never meant to be forgiven. Only buried.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just a normal Tuesday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still

The topic on the board read:
"Intentions matter more than consequences. Discuss."

Cleophrea didn’t even blink.

Her name had barely finished being called when she stood up, buttoned the front of her blazer, and walked to the front of the room like the argument was already over.

“It’s a sentimental lie,” she said, setting her notebook down. “Intentions are comforting. Consequences are real. You can mean well and still destroy everything.”

Somewhere in the back, a student whispered something. Probably about her.
She didn’t react. Her voice didn’t shake.

She finished her three-minute opener without looking at anyone but the clock.

Then the teacher called, “Finn.”

He stood slower. Less confident than usual. Or maybe just tired.
He didn’t bring notes.

“Intentions are the reason we do anything,” he said. “Consequences are just damage control.”

“Damage still counts,” Cleophrea cut in, too fast. “You don’t get to step on someone and say you didn’t mean it.”

He turned toward her. That smirk was still there—but something in it felt distracted.

“You don’t forgive easily, do you?”

“I don’t forget.”

A few students made that low ooooh sound.
But it didn’t feel like a victory.

It felt like a funeral.

The bell rang.

Cleophrea didn’t rush. She never did.

She gathered her books in silence while the others scraped chairs and whispered as they passed. None of them looked directly at her. Not anymore.

Finn walked by.
Paused.
Said, without looking at her, “You OK?”

She didn’t even blink.

“Worried about me now?”

He hesitated. “No. Just bored.”

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a glare. Didn’t even roll her eyes. She just turned and walked out first, her pace calm, unbothered, like his words didn’t mean enough to hold her still.

She reached her locker with practiced ease, fingers moving smoothly across the combination dial. It clicked open with a soft sound, familiar, controlled. She didn’t flinch when she heard footsteps approaching—soft, hesitant. Naomi.

Cleophrea sighed quietly but didn’t turn.

Naomi stood beside her like a shadow trying to smile, too timid to cast anything real. “You did well in debate,” she said, voice barely above the hallway noise. “I mean, you always do. But…”

Cleophrea didn’t look at her. Her focus stayed on the books inside the locker, unmoving.

“But what?” she asked.

Naomi shifted her weight, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Nothing. Just… the forest gets really cold at night.”

Cleophrea shut her locker with a sharp, metallic click. The kind of sound that didn’t echo, but stayed.

“Is this small talk,” she asked, turning slightly, “or are you trying to say something and failing again?”

Naomi flinched—just barely—but Cleophrea caught it.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Naomi said quickly, looking away.

“You never do,” Cleophrea muttered.

Then she walked off.

She walked away without another word.

Her footsteps were light but certain, the kind that didn’t hesitate. Her skirt caught the breeze in the corridor as she rounded the corner without looking back—no apology, no second glance.

And Naomi?

She didn’t follow.

She stayed frozen beside the lockers, one hand clutching the strap of her bag like it might hold her together. Her fingers were white around the fabric, knuckles stiff. Her lips parted once, maybe to call after Cleophrea, maybe just to breathe—but no sound came.

The hallway had gone quiet now. Students passed in scattered groups, too distracted by weekend rumors and the upcoming camp to notice her standing there, still and small, like she was disappearing one layer at a time.

Above them, on the third floor, Marceline leaned against the window.

She watched the whole thing unfold, her head tilted slightly to the side, one finger resting lightly against her chin. The late afternoon sun painted gold across her uniform and caught the faint smirk curling at the corner of her mouth.

She hadn’t moved since Cleophrea left the classroom.

She didn’t need to.

She watched Naomi’s stillness, the way the girl stood like a statue cracked just slightly down the center.

And she smiled.

Not wide. Not exaggerated. Just enough.

Because she knew.

She knew Naomi wouldn’t run after her. That the fear had already rooted too deeply. That the guilt had twisted itself into something less useful. Hesitation. Powerlessness.

She knew Cleophrea wouldn’t take the warning seriously. That pride and exhaustion would burn hotter than caution.

And she knew—more than anything—that everything was about to change.

That was the best part.

Not the control. Not the secrecy. Not even the moment itself.

It was the silence before the fall.

The space where the knife hasn’t struck yet—but everyone’s already bleeding.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lazura

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They cleared out her dorm before sunrise.
No one packed her things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They

The Marrow library was too quiet to be innocent.

Dust drifted through the light, aimless and slow. Somewhere, a clock ticked—steady, relentless.

Cleophrea sat at the corner table by the window, sleeves rolled back, her expression unreadable.

Finn slid into the seat opposite her, as if it meant nothing. But he had seen her the moment he walked in. Of course he had.

“You look like you’ve been abandoned by five gods and a math teacher,” he said.

She didn’t blink.

“You sound like someone who failed all five.”

He grinned, but only because her voice was tired—and he didn’t want her to notice that he noticed.

“You’re sitting here like you’re waiting to get smote,” he remarked.

“I’m here because it’s quiet. You’re the one ruining the vibe.”

He leaned back, watching her longer than he should. Her fingers pressed against the corner of her planner, as if trying to hold it down—or keep it from floating away.

“Did you even read that book?” he asked.

“No. I’m letting it absorb my sorrow.”

She didn’t smile when she said it. Somehow, that made it worse.

Finn glanced at her planner again. She turned the page, paused, tilting her head just slightly—like something had unsettled her.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

He said nothing.

A fragile silence settled between them—the kind that comes just before something breaks. She looked at him then, as if waiting for him to say what neither dared.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” he whispered.

This time, she met his gaze. Her eyes were dark, flat, infinite.

“Neither do you.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

She looked away, closed the planner, and returned to pretending the world wasn’t crumbling.

And Finn?

He didn’t know why it hurt so much.

He only knew she was already slipping away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 33 :
?



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You feel it, right?

The air. The silence.
The way the light doesn’t land the same.

Something’s wrong.

Please stay with me.

Even if you don’t know why.
Even if I don’t.

.

 

 

 

 

 

Remember.

The announcement came during second period: early dismissal for an overnight retreat. The words spread fast, carried on a wave of excitement that erupted across the school. Backpacks flew open, dorm keys flashed in the light, and voices buzzed with weekend plans—shopping runs, late movies, some even daring to sneak off campus.

Cleophrea stayed behind. She waited until the classroom emptied, then rose quietly, gathering her things with deliberate care. She didn’t speak to anyone. Didn’t look around. Her steps were slow, unhurried, but not uncertain.

In her dorm room, she didn’t unpack. The clothes her roommate had folded onto the bed—likely part of some camp prep checklist—remained untouched. She didn’t glance at them. Instead, she locked the door, drew the blinds, and sat down at her desk in the dimming afternoon light.

Her planner sat there. Closed. Waiting.

She opened it.

There, on a page she didn’t remember writing, was a single word, etched in her handwriting—Saintfell. Her ink. Her pressure. Her name scrawled neatly in the inside cover, like always.

But she didn’t pause.

Without hesitation, she tore the page out. Folded it carefully—sharp corners, clean lines—and slipped it between the cardboard lining and the back cover. It vanished like it had never been there.

Still, it didn’t feel hidden enough.

Kneeling beside her bed, she lifted one of the older floorboards, the one that always stuck at the corner. Beneath it, dust and silence. She slid the planner inside and pressed the wood back into place with a soft click.

The room fell still.

It looked the same—books on the shelf, blazer draped over the chair, the faint scent of clean sheets and distant perfume—but she did not feel the same. Something had shifted. Something quiet, deep, final.

The silence in the room wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Expectant. Like the walls were holding their breath.

She didn’t know why the sense of urgency pulsed so sharply under her skin, but it did. Her chest felt tight, her jaw clenched. Her body, still marked with bruises and aches from the week before, moved with the precision of someone planning for war.

She wasn’t going to class tomorrow.

It was the final day before camp. A wasted day. One she had no intention of spending inside four walls while everyone around her buzzed with fake energy and poisonous whispers.

Instead, she made a decision.

She would leave early. Visit her family—who lived far, distant enough to make the journey feel unreasonable. She didn’t go out of longing. Not nostalgia. Just something colder, harder. A need to get away. A pressure building in her bones that demanded space.

She didn’t owe the school another second.

Tomorrow, she’d be gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 34 :
 

Finn Cross.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Maybe I hated her because I couldn’t stop looking. Maybe I fought her because she made me feel seen. But God—"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I waited for her in class.

She was never late. Not once in the entire semester. Not even on days when it rained so hard the courtyard turned to a swamp. Not even on days when she hated everyone in the room, including me.

But today?

Her chair sat empty. Untouched. Like no one had ever been there.

Maybe she didn’t come. Maybe she left early. Maybe she’s just late.

I don’t know.

I stared at the second hand on the clock until the numbers stopped meaning anything. Then I glanced at her seat again. The notebook she always brought was missing. Her water bottle. Her pen that clicked too loudly. Her planner she guarded like it held classified secrets.

Gone.

My fingers hovered over my phone under the desk, screen already lit. The message box blinked like it was daring me.

Hey Myles, where are you?

I stared at the words. They looked too soft. Too obvious. Too much like I cared. I deleted the whole thing.

Typed again.

Hey, Myles. Didn’t think you’d skip school just because you couldn’t handle losing another debate.

That one stung. Too sharp. Too much like old me.

Deleted.

God, what is wrong with me?

I dropped my phone face-down on the desk and ran a hand through my hair. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way. She’s my rival. My academic enemy. The person who drives me up a wall every single day.

I’m not supposed to miss her like this.

But something inside me itched—tight, uncomfortable. Like a warning I couldn’t hear, only feel.

I glanced again at her seat. Still empty. Still untouched.

The minutes dragged. Teachers talked. Pages turned. None of it mattered.

And maybe—God, maybe—I’ve already decided that I’ll confess at camp. Maybe not with flowers or some stupid speech. Maybe not even directly. Just something. Anything.

Because if this keeps up, I’m going to lose my mind.

The day crawled forward without her. I went to my next class—one I stupidly signed up for back when I was a clueless freshman trying to impress the college board.

I didn’t absorb a word of the lecture.

All I could think about was Cleophrea.

Why she was gone. Why she hadn’t told anyone. Why no one else seemed to notice, like she just vanished and the world was fine with it.

I told myself I hated her.

I swore I did.

But the ache in my chest said otherwise.

I should’ve focused. I should’ve gotten through the day like usual. But then I saw them—Marceline and her friends—leaning against the wall outside the library.

Their eyes found me immediately.

Usually when they looked at me, it was flirtatious. Teasing. Predatory, even.

But this time?

It wasn’t flirtation.

It was… knowing.

A quiet kind of warning.

They looked at me like I had a countdown over my head.

And I ignored it.

I turned away, pretended it didn’t matter, but my stomach twisted anyway. My mind was too cramped, too full, too loud. The only thing I could think about was her.

Where she was.

Why she hadn’t come.

And why I hated that I cared.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FRIDAY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

t was just past four in the morning.

The sun hadn’t yet climbed the horizon, but the school was already buzzing. Students swarmed the front gates in half-light, their voices sharp with sleep-deprived excitement, feet dragging as they moved through the fog. Some held mugs of instant coffee. Others wore wrinkled hoodies over their uniforms. The energy wasn’t cheerful. It was nervous. Edgy. Like everyone felt they were being shoved into something and didn’t quite know why.

Finn arrived at four-thirty—late, not that he cared.

His camping bag dragged behind him like dead weight, bloated and slouched, the zipper only half-closed. It looked like it had been packed blind. He hadn’t slept. His hair was still damp from a rushed shower, and his eyes burned from trying to reread her last message all night, over and over, like it might shift into something else the longer he stared at it.

He didn’t want to be there. He hadn’t wanted to come at all.

Until he saw her.

Cleophrea.

Walking alone through the fog-stained lot. Her shadow stretched long behind her, broken by the early morning haze. Her figure was barely visible through the gray wash of light, and yet he would’ve recognized her in a crowd twice this size. She moved like she was weightless. Or maybe like she’d already accepted the weight.

There was something in her walk. Something too still.

Like she already knew this day would end in silence.

Finn’s face shifted—just a flicker, just for a second. His lips lifted into something that might’ve been a smile if it had lasted. But it vanished quickly. He caught himself. She couldn’t see him like that. Not yet.

Not until the camp.

But she didn’t even notice him.

She walked right past, standing quietly with her assigned team, adjusting the strap on her backpack like it was just another morning, just another mandatory school event she had to endure. No eye contact. No scowl. No insult. Nothing.

Finn’s eyes followed her. And then they caught something else.

Naomi.

Part of the same group. An old friend. If you could still call her that.

But Naomi wasn’t talking to her. Wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t laughing like the others.

She was watching Cleophrea. Like she wanted to say something.

Something important. Something more than “hi.”

Something urgent.

And then she looked away.

Naomi hadn’t really slept. Her skin was pale, jaw tense, eyes darker than usual. Maybe she’d gotten an hour—if that. Her dreams had been nothing. Fractured. Blank. Her body had moved through the morning like it was on autopilot. Shower, uniform, bag, gates. But her mind hadn’t caught up.

The camp truck roared behind her as it pulled into the lot, but the sound felt distant.

She didn’t react. She didn’t speak.

Everyone around her was buzzing—loud, excited, alive.

But she stood still.

Then Cleophrea turned, sensing her.

Noticing her.

Their eyes met, for a moment too long.

Naomi opened her mouth. Tried.

But before she could speak, Cleophrea exhaled sharply and cut her a sideways glare.

“What?” she snapped.

It wasn’t sweet.

It wasn’t patient.

It wasn’t kind.

Naomi flinched. Just slightly.

“Please just listen to me,” she stammered, voice soft, shaky, breaking at the edges.

But Cleophrea didn’t. She didn’t want to.

Not after what Naomi did. Not after everything.

She turned away before the sentence could finish. Before the guilt could register. Too stubborn. Too tired. Too wounded to admit she still wanted to believe anything Naomi had to say.

Maybe, deep down, too close to her end.

She didn’t want to see that look. That remorse. That fear. Not now.

Not when it was already too late to fix anything.

Her grip tightened on her backpack straps. Her jaw locked. She moved forward, toward the group waiting by the truck, the fog swallowing her footsteps. There was a knot building in her chest—tight, burning—but she ignored it. She always did.

Behind her, Naomi stood frozen. Her arms hung by her sides, her words still caught in her throat. She watched as Cleophrea disappeared into the crowd, lost behind luggage and uniforms and fog.

And she said nothing.

“Alright, everyone! On the truck—let’s go!” one of the teachers called.

Voices rose again. The buzz returned.

But something in the air had already gone wrong.

Cleophrea climbed into the back of the truck with the others, pulling herself up by the edge of the metal railing, her boots scraping against the side. She didn’t wait for anyone to offer a hand. She didn’t look behind her. Her backpack thudded softly beside her as she took a spot near the very back—on the edge, with no one close.

Far from Naomi.
Far from Finn.

She sat with her knees tucked slightly in, one arm braced on the cold metal frame, the other curled near her chest, sleeve already slipping over her hand. Around her, the truck filled quickly—students hauling bags, pushing into spots, laughing as they jostled for space. Someone blasted music from a Bluetooth speaker tucked in the corner. A bag of chips got passed around, along with someone’s extra protein bar.

The ride started with noise.

Laughter.
Music.
Voices too loud for how early it still was.

But Cleophrea didn’t join them. She didn’t glance over her shoulder. She didn’t even shift when someone brushed against her leg with their boot. Her eyes stayed locked on the shrinking shape of the school behind them, watching as the walls, the dorms, the wide iron gates faded into fog.

She sat still, the wind catching strands of her hair and pulling them loose from her ponytail. The early morning air bit at her face, stung her eyes. But she didn’t blink.

For one quiet, flickering moment, a thought came:

I should’ve listened to her.

Just four words. Soft. Regretful. Not loud enough to stay.

But it passed—
like everything else.

The truck bounced along a dirt road that grew rougher the farther they went. Every few minutes, the entire floor jolted as they hit another pothole, and students shrieked with laughter, grabbing onto the railing or each other, dramatizing the chaos like it was fun.

Cleophrea didn’t laugh.

She didn’t smile.
Didn’t speak.

Her fingers picked at the fraying edge of her sweater sleeve—again and again—thumb working against the loose threads like she could unravel something without anyone noticing. Her knuckles had turned pale from how tightly she was gripping the strap of her bag. But no one looked.

She didn’t want to talk.

Not to Naomi, who hadn’t dared sit near her.
Not to Finn, whose silence burned louder than the music.
Not to the others who still whispered about her when they thought she couldn’t hear.

The wind grew sharper the higher the road climbed, carrying with it the scent of moss and dirt and something wet—like the sky had thought about raining, then changed its mind.

When they finally arrived, the truck rolled to a slow halt at the edge of the woods, grinding against gravel and dry pine needles.

The sun had climbed high by then.

The sky was too bright—
obnoxiously blue.

That fake kind of blue that only ever looked real in brochures.

It made everything feel staged. Plastic. Like someone had propped up the trees and poured light over the clearing just to say, look how safe it is.

But Cleophrea didn’t feel safe.

She stared at the forest beyond the open field where the tents were being set up. The trees rose high, dark, sharp-edged, their shadows sinking into the roots. And in that moment, the back of the truck felt more like a trap than a ride.

She was already tired.

And they hadn’t even unpacked yet.

The sky overhead was a soft, almost artificial blue, without even the trace of a breeze. The air felt too still, too smooth. It pressed down gently, like a hand over the mouth of a scream.

The trees were tall. And wrong, somehow.

They leaned just slightly inward, their branches twisted at angles that didn’t feel random. Not quite. They stood like listeners—quiet and waiting.

“Alright, everyone off!” one of the teachers yelled from the front.

Cleophrea climbed down from the truck, boots hitting gravel with a soft crunch. The air here smelled like dry bark and leftover smoke, but it didn’t make her feel grounded. It made her skin tighten.

She stepped aside as students poured out around her, rushing toward the main camp area like it was something exciting. Cabins stood farther down a dirt path, crooked and sun-washed. A firepit waited at the center clearing, still full of last year’s ashes, gray and crusted.

Laughter echoed between the trees.

People were already claiming bunks. Racing. Screaming. Tossing bags at doors like it was summer break.

Cleophrea didn’t move right away.

She just stood at the edge, eyes scanning the space, letting her breath settle. Something about the quiet under all the noise made her want to walk in the other direction.

Then Naomi passed behind her.

Not a word. Not a smile. Just a glance—quick and tight, her eyes flicking sideways, lips parted like she’d meant to say something but couldn’t.

Her mouth trembled slightly. Then she was gone, disappearing into the blur of voices and limbs and backpacks.

Cleophrea’s jaw locked. Her fingers flexed at her sides.

Something’s off, she thought. Everything’s off.

A group of students called her over to help with inventory.

She walked to them—reluctantly—her footsteps sharp against the compact dirt. Someone handed her a clipboard, and she scanned the list: names, tent groups, supply crates. She nodded when expected. Checked boxes mechanically.

But she wasn’t really reading.

Her mind kept drifting.

To Naomi’s face.

To the way she’d looked like she was swallowing words.

To home. To her planner hidden under the floorboards.

To the weight building behind her eyes—sharp now, pressing inward from both temples. The kind of ache that didn’t feel like a headache. It felt like pressure. Like something inside her skull was trying to get out.

She told herself it was just the ride.

Just too little sleep.

Just a change in weather.

Her thumb pressed harder against the side of the clipboard as her vision tilted slightly, then righted itself. She shook her head once—quick, small, like maybe no one saw.

She was fine.

Fine enough.

Then—

“Hey,” a voice said beside her.

Cleophrea blinked.

It was Finn.

She hadn’t even noticed him get off the truck, which annoyed her more than it should’ve. Somehow, he always found her. Always managed to insert himself exactly where she didn’t want him.

“Hey,” a voice said behind her.

She didn’t bother turning around. Instead, she rolled her eyes and muttered, “God, you’re like mildew. Always showing up where you weren’t invited.”

Finn stepped beside her anyway, as if her irritation was an open invitation. Hands in his pockets. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Unbothered. “You’re unusually chipper today,” he said. “Who’d you dream about killing last night?”

She gave him a sideways glare. “Oh, just you. Over and over. With impressive creativity.”

Finn smirked, slow and smug. “Aw. You’re thinking about me in your sleep now?”

“Only in the context of violence.”

They stood in silence for a moment—just long enough for it to stretch into something else. Not tension. Not peace. Something in between. Like neither of them quite knew how to break it, or whether they wanted to.

Then she scoffed and looked away. “Don’t you have other people to annoy?”

“I do. But none of them make it this fun.”

The scavenger trail had ended in disaster—but no one cared.

They were teenagers. Chaos was just background noise.

After lunch, the students were scattered across the campgrounds with loosely assigned roles: some sent to gather kindling, others forced to help set up tents, a few reluctantly dragged into organizing the hiking routes and bonfire stations for the evening. The teachers stood in clusters near the center clearing, pretending to supervise while sipping lukewarm coffee and updating spreadsheets they’d probably ignore.

The air buzzed with heat and incompetence.

Someone managed to set an entire tent on fire—unzipped it while lighting a match, then screamed as the nylon caught in seconds. Someone else tripped over a half-staked tarp, shoelaces tangled, arms flailing before they landed face-first in the dirt with a loud oof and an unnecessary theatrical groan.

A group to the left argued loudly over how to boil water… despite having no fire yet, and no pot. One of them was holding a metal spoon like it was a wand.

Cleophrea was assigned to a tent group. Of course.

She stood near the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, one foot tapping against the dirt like it could dig her a tunnel to somewhere saner. Her assigned group of classmates huddled in confusion around a folded-up tent bag and a diagram that was, very obviously, upside down.

One girl squinted at the instructions, turning the page sideways like it might suddenly become readable. Another was trying to hammer a peg into soft ground—on the wrong side, using the plastic end of the mallet. And one boy, clearly out of ideas, was tying two poles together with what looked suspiciously like dental floss.

Cleophrea stared.

Then blinked.

Then let out the slowest, most painful sigh of the year.

“I’m surrounded by squirrels,” she muttered.

Finn, who had somehow migrated into her group again—like a mosquito that refused to be swatted—raised an eyebrow from where he stood uselessly beside the tent bag.

“Aw,” he said, deadpan. “I missed your warm encouragement.”

Cleophrea turned her glare on him without moving her head, like a predator acknowledging a buzzing gnat.

“Breathe one more word,” she said, voice flat, “and I’m using you as a tarp pole.”

Finn grinned. “Romantic.”

He crouched down beside the mangled poles, picked one up, and gave it a half-hearted spin like he might actually help. He didn’t.

“You know,” he continued, “this would go a lot faster if you stopped glaring and started assembling.”

“It would also go faster if I stopped breathing,” she said. “Which is becoming increasingly tempting.”

“That’s the spirit.” He leaned back on his hands and tilted his face up toward the sun. “Let’s make sure your final act is during golden hour, though. I want good lighting for the funeral.”

She didn’t laugh. But her lip twitched—and she hated that he saw it.

“Why are you even in this group?” she asked. “Weren’t you supposed to be hiking?”

“Got reassigned,” he said. “Apparently the forest hates me. And the feeling’s mutual.”

She snorted under her breath. “Great. Nature rejected you and now I’m stuck with the leftovers.”

He smirked again, sharper this time. “You wound me.”

“Not yet. But the day’s still young.”

Not long after, Cleophrea noticed something strange hidden deep within the woods — an abandoned place, half-swallowed by time.
Its stone edges peeked out through layers of moss and creeping vines, cloaked in shadows and the hush of old things.
The ground around it pulsed with life — roots tangled through the cracks, insects nested in broken walls, and wildflowers bloomed like they had claimed it for themselves.
It looked ancient. Forgotten. Like it shouldn’t even be there.
For a moment, Cleophrea wondered if she was hallucinating.
So she turned away and told herself it meant nothing.

The sun dipped low behind the trees, casting long, warped shadows over the campsite. Students huddled around foldable tables and portable stoves. The food was bland — instant noodles, half-cooked rice, mystery soup — but no one complained.

Cleophrea sat on the edge of one of the benches, arms crossed, picking at a metal spoon.

Naomi sat two seats away.

Not beside her. Not near enough to talk.
But close enough that Cleophrea noticed.
And kept noticing.

Finn was across from her, still arguing with someone about whether raccoons could swim (they could, but he was losing the argument anyway).

Everything was loud.

But between Cleophrea and Naomi… there was a silence thick enough to taste.

And Cleophrea didn’t say a word.

She didn’t have to.
She already knew it would’ve come out sharp.

They were told to be back at their tents by eight.

No fires. No wandering. No noise.

Of course, half the camp ignored that immediately — running between tents, laughing, whispering behind flashlights, throwing leftover snacks into the woods like that wouldn’t attract something with teeth.

Cleophrea wasn’t interested.

She sat just inside her tent, lacing and unlacing her boots for no reason other than her brain wouldn’t quiet down. The laughter outside felt distant now — muffled, unreal.

The night was colder than it should’ve been.

Then to the trees. Just the outline of black branches against darker sky. Nothing unusual.
Nothing that screamed danger.
But still… she felt it.

That hum in her bones.

Like the world was holding its breath.

Cleophrea ducked into the tent first, kicking off her shoes by the flap. The plastic floor rustled beneath her sleeping mat, and she dropped onto it with a heavy sigh.

A few minutes later, Naomi climbed in after her.
Then the other two girls — Althea and Brynn — came in laughing, mid-conversation about someone’s flashlight exploding.

But the laughter died once they all settled.

The tent was big enough for four, but only just.
Their mats were lined up like sardines.
Cleophrea laid facing the wall.
Naomi laid with her back turned too.

Brynn whispered something, then fell asleep within seconds.
Althea kept tossing around, sighing dramatically, thumbing through an old notebook under her blanket as if trying to distract herself from the silence.

And Naomi...

Naomi didn’t move at all.

Just silence.

But Cleophrea could feel her awake. It wasn’t just a guess—it was a fact. The kind of knowing you only develop after spending enough time around someone you used to trust. That subtle static in the air. That too-still posture. That kind of breathing that was quiet, shallow, controlled.

That kind of breathing that was trying not to be noticed.

The familiar tension between them hummed like an exposed wire.

That guilt pressing through the narrow inches of space, thick and intrusive. Too much for a tent made to hold four girls who’d never call each other friends. Just classmates. Just clipboard pairings. Just names someone shuffled together like it didn’t matter.

Cleophrea almost said something.

Almost.

But the words caught somewhere behind her teeth and rotted there.

Instead, she exhaled slowly and muttered, “Don’t breathe near me.”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp.

Naomi didn’t respond.

She didn’t shift. Didn’t flinch. Just stayed still—like she knew anything she said now would make it worse. And maybe she was right. Because silence still felt safer than the wrong apology.

But she didn’t sleep either.

Cleophrea could feel that too. The way Naomi’s body held itself stiff and unnatural, like sleep was something she didn’t think she deserved anymore.

The forest had gone still.

Not quiet—still.

The kind of stillness that didn’t belong to night, but to warning.

No wind.
No rustling.
Even the insects had stopped. The chirps, the hums, the soft clicks—all gone. Like the entire forest had taken a single, long breath and hadn’t let it out yet.

Inside the tent, the air felt too thick.

The warmth of four bodies in close proximity made it heavier. Sticky. Unnatural. Every breath was shared. Every movement amplified. It was the kind of space where you had to pretend nothing mattered, just to survive the night.

Brynn had fallen asleep first. Her breathing soft and rhythmic, mouth parted slightly, head tilted toward the corner of her sleeping bag. She hadn’t said much all day. And Cleophrea envied that kind of detachment.

Althea followed not long after, her fingers curled around the edge of her blanket, her legs tangled in the fabric like she’d fought it—like even in sleep she didn’t feel safe.

Cleophrea remained on her side, her eyes barely open.

Watching the thin fabric of the tent flutter from the subtlest shifts—breath, body heat, the distant change in pressure.

Her headache pulsed low in her skull. Not blinding anymore. Just constant. Like a clock ticking behind her eyes, steady and patient. As if it had accepted its place.

Naomi hadn’t moved in nearly twenty minutes.

She was facing away. Still. Rigid.

And for a brief second, Cleophrea almost wondered if she was gone.

She let out a quiet breath and shut her eyes.

The forest exhaled too—slow, long, deliberate.

And the tent fell into silence.

Only the faintest sounds remained now:

The soft crunch of leaves outside.
A twig snapping far off in the trees.
The distant zip of another tent opening.
Laughter, carried on the air—light, careless, teenage.

Then silence again.

Thicker than before.

And then—
Nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2:50 AM — The Wrong Kind of Silence…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3:20 AM —The breeze changed.
 

 

And something left with it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3:52 AM
A scream tore through the woods.
Not a prank. Not a fox.
It was human.
And it sounded like someone was being torn in half

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The forest was dead quiet.

No wind.
No bugs.
No rustling of leaves.

Just darkness—layered and heavy—and the soft, shallow breaths of those pretending to sleep.

Then it happened.

A scream.

It ripped through the trees like the sky itself had cracked.

Not a prank.
Not a fox.
Not laughter disguised as fear.

It was human.
And it sounded like someone was being torn in half.

It didn’t echo—it stabbed. Sharp. Wet. Full of something raw and real. It rose so suddenly that the birds didn’t even have time to respond. No wings flapped. No calls returned.

Just silence.

And then panic.

A zipper flew open.

Someone shouted.

Footsteps scrambled outside in the dirt.

Another scream—closer this time, or louder. It didn’t matter.

Because by then, everyone knew:

Something was wrong.

Really, really wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 35
Finn Cross , Isn’t The Same Anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4:02 AM

.

His heart was pounding.

Fast. Loud. Too loud.

The scream still echoed in his ears—raw, human, unmistakably real. Not some camp prank. Not a wild animal. There was pain in it. Sharp and ragged, like it had been ripped from the lungs of someone who didn’t expect to survive the night.

Finn sat up too fast, nearly tripping over his sleeping bag. He rubbed his hands hard over his face, dragging down his jaw as if pressure might clear the fog from his head. His skin felt cold. His mouth was dry. For a second, he wondered if he’d imagined it—if maybe it had been a dream bleeding into the real world.

But then—

The camp lit up.

Flashlights flicked on from all directions, slicing the darkness into jagged shapes. Shadows danced across the trees, too tall, too fast. Zippers hissed open all around him. Voices rose in a scattered panic.

“What’s going on?”
“Did you hear that scream?”
“Was it a prank?”
“Is someone hurt?”
“Why are teachers outside?”

Gravel crunched beneath boots. Leaves rustled under frantic movement. Somewhere near the mess tent, metal clanged—maybe a pan knocked over, maybe something else. One of the teachers shouted, voice tight and too sharp to be calm.

Finn shoved off his blanket and pulled on his shoes without bothering to tie them. He unzipped the tent flap, the air outside colder than it had been just minutes before. The night had changed. The air tasted metallic—like rust and pine and something he couldn’t name.

Around him, students spilled out of tents in confused groups, pajama-clad and wide-eyed, their faces lit in sharp flashes from moving beams of light. Someone had already grabbed a first-aid kit. Another boy held a metal flashlight like a weapon.

The trees that had stood so still hours earlier now loomed like sentinels, leaning inward, branches shivering in a wind that hadn't existed before.

Finn scanned the clearing.

But the scream hadn’t come from here.

It came from deeper.

Deeper in the woods.

And whoever made it—
wasn’t screaming anymore.

A few students were already standing, confused and shivering in thin pajamas, their breath fogging in the sharp air. One girl was crying quietly, sleeves pulled over her hands, while another clung to her friend like a child, eyes wide and wet.

Flashlights wavered. Voices tangled together—too many questions, not enough answers.

Finn stood in the middle of it all, unmoving.

His eyes scanned the forest, sharp and searching. The shadows between the trees felt heavier now. They didn’t move. They didn’t breathe.

Something felt wrong.

Worse than fear.

Worse than just a scream in the night or a prank gone too far.

It felt… off. Like the night had twisted slightly sideways, and no one noticed but him.

Cleophrea.

His chest clenched.

Where was she?

She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t dramatic. But she wasn’t invisible. She didn’t vanish. Not like this. Not when people were yelling, lights were flashing, and the world was suddenly tilting on its axis.

He looked around. Once. Twice.

No trace of her.

No sarcastic comment. No narrowed glare. No voice cutting through the chaos.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

She wasn’t there.

His heart kicked harder in his chest, pulsing in his throat now. His gaze flicked toward the treeline—the edge of the woods, darker than it had any right to be. Still. Too still.

The wind had returned, but it didn’t reach that part of the forest. The branches didn’t sway. The leaves didn’t rustle.

Just silence.

A silence that wasn’t peaceful.
A silence that pressed.
A silence that knew.

Finn took one step toward it before he even realized he’d moved.

Something about the way the trees stood there—waiting—made his breath catch.

Because suddenly, it didn’t feel like they were keeping something out.

It felt like they were hiding something in.

S o m e t h i n g   h a p p e n e d.

But no one was saying it yet.
And that was worse than the scream.

More tents were opening, but the air felt different—thick, heavy, like the calm before a storm. Students stumbled out, groggy and disoriented, some with half-zipped hoodies and mismatched socks, their eyes darting nervously. Flashlights flickered sporadically, casting jittery shadows that seemed to twitch like restless, watchful creatures.

A girl’s voice broke the uneasy silence, trembling: “Was it a prank?”

Another whispered, barely audible, “I think someone’s hurt…”

No one had answers. No one dared to look certain.

And Finn?

He wasn’t counting numbers.

He was counting people

That’s when the cold knot tightened in his stomach.

Marceline and Celeste were missing.
Celeste and Naomi? Gone.
Wasn’t Naomi from Cleophrea’s group camp too?
She should’ve known.

That was… wrong.

They were always the first to burst out of their tents—laughing too loud, screaming too early, stirring up drama over burnt marshmallows or rain dripping inside their canvas walls.

They should have been here.

They should have been talking

But they weren’t.

And Naomi—No. Naomi and Elaris were gone too.

Finn’s brow furrowed deeper. His gaze swept the dim circle again, slower this time, searching for any sign of them.

Still nothing.

The rest of their group lingered, confused, whispering theories that felt hollow.

But not Marceline, Celeste, or Naomi.

Why?

His heartbeat hammered louder, echoing in the silence.

They wouldn’t just miss something like this.

Unless…

Unless they were already awake.

Unless they already knew.

Finn didn’t say it. He barely even thought it.
It just settled under his skin like a bruise.

And while the others stayed huddled around flashlights and questions,

He turned toward the woods.

No one followed.
No one even noticed.
Which was fine — he didn’t know what he was doing either.

He didn’t know where the sound had come from.
Not exactly.
But his feet moved anyway, crunching through leaves still damp from yesterday’s rain, before they came for camping.

There was no path. No light. Just trees. And that thick, early morning silence that felt like it was holding its breath.

He should’ve turned back.
He should’ve called a teacher.
He should’ve stayed by the tents like everyone else.

But something in him — something raw and restless — wouldn’t let him.

Someone screamed.
And no one was doing anything.

So he kept walking.

04:20 AM.
The deeper he went, the less the voices mattered.

His breath was ragged now—hot in the cold air. Every branch whipped at his arms. His shoes slammed against tree roots, wet leaves, stone.
But he didn’t stop.

“Myles! I swear.”
His voice cracked.
“Cleophrea—?”

No answer. Just the trees. Just the cold.

It felt like the woods were swallowing him whole.

He turned at the sudden beam of white light flashing through the trees behind him.

Voices followed. Distant but growing.

“Students—stay together!”
“Don’t wander too far!”
“Why would she be out here?!”

Flashlights flickered across the forest floor like nervous stars.
Teachers, a few students—maybe five or six—had followed.

But they were too scattered. Too slow.

Finn didn’t wait.

His voice was gone.

He had screamed her name so many times that it no longer sounded like a name. Just noise. Just panic. Just the sound of someone trying not to believe the worst.

His legs finally gave out beneath him, and he dropped to his knees. The damp soil soaked through his jeans. His hands dug into the leaves like he could rip open the ground and find her there.

“CLEOPHREA!”

He had called her by the first name. Not her surname. Still hopeless. No answer. Only the cold breeze.

Then—

A flashlight blasted into his face.

“FINN CROSS.”

A voice. Rough. Angry. Authority.

He turned, blinking fast, vision swimming.

A teacher stormed up, face pale and furious.

“Are you out of your mind? You can’t just disappear into the woods like this!”
“Do you know what this looks like right now?!”

Finn couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe.

“There’s a student missing, and you’re out here like you’re part of a crime scene!”

She is the crime scene, he wanted to say.
But the words stuck in his throat.

Behind them, other teachers were arriving. Voices called through walkie-talkies. Flashlights moved like frantic stars behind trees.

And then—

Sirens.

Far off.
But getting closer.

Blue and red lights pulsed between the trees like heartbeats.

Too late.

 

 

 

 

 

Or maybe not.
Y
O
U

d
o
n
t

K
N
O
W.

 

06:23 AM.

He slumped onto the curb beside the teacher’s van, elbows digging into his knees, eyes fixed on the darkened tree line beyond the campsite.
 The woods loomed like a silent threat, swallowing every flicker of light and hope. They’d warned them—stay out of the woods. They’d ordered—don’t interfere. They’d promised—we’re handling it.
 But they weren’t. She was still out there. Somewhere.

He could feel it in his bones.

“She’s not dead,” he whispered into the cold night air, his voice barely more than a breath. “She’s lost. Angry. Hiding. That’s all.”

Because if she were gone... he would’ve felt it. He would’ve heard her voice.

Not after the scream.
Not when she needed him most.

And the worst part—what made his stomach twist—was that he hadn’t told her. Not really. Not the things that mattered.

He hadn’t told her how much he hated the way she looked at others. Like they even deserved her time. Like they mattered.

He hadn’t told her how much it burned every time she walked past him, how it made him want to tear the world in half when she smiled at someone else. How she made him feel like he was more than invisible—like he was real.

He hadn’t told her that, deep down, he didn’t hate her at all.

His throat tightened. He swallowed hard, fighting the lump rising fast in his chest.

She has to be alive.

Because if she wasn’t—if something had happened to her out there—

He would’ve heard her voice.
Calling his name.

06:45 AM.

The world was turning gold, but Finn still saw grey.

He stood by the trail’s edge, boots sinking slightly into wet soil, the air heavy with smoke and breath and something colder beneath.

They still hadn’t found her.

He barely heard the footsteps behind him.

“Finn?”

That voice—soft, familiar, wrong.

He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Marceline.

When he did look, she was already close. Arms crossed, expression carved carefully into concern. Like she’d just stepped out of a school counselor’s office. Not out of the woods.

“I just… wanted to check on you.”

She was good at it. The way her voice shook just enough.
The way her eyes didn’t blink too long.
Like she’d rehearsed this version of herself in front of a mirror before showing up.

He said nothing.

“It’s terrifying,” she added, glancing into the woods like she actually meant it.
“I can’t believe she’d… I mean. Just disappear like that.”

Finn’s jaw twitched.

“You were close, right?”
She looked at him gently. “You and Cleophrea?”

That name in her mouth made him sick.

He nodded once. Tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Marceline said, voice soft as a grave.
“I hope she’s okay. Maybe she just… needed space.”

A beat.

“Sometimes people do things when they’re overwhelmed.”

Finn turned to her slowly.

Her hands were tucked in her jacket sleeves, nails painted neat and pale. Not a scratch. Not a tremble.

“And you?” he asked, voice low.
“Are you overwhelmed?”

Marceline smiled. Not wide. Not cruel. Just enough.

“I’m… managing,” she said.

Another pause.

She stepped forward, placed a hand on his arm—warm, steady, too steady.

“Take care of yourself, okay?”

And then she left.

No stumble. No rush.
Just a girl walking away calmly from a fire only she knew how to start.

Finn stared after her long after she vanished into the smoke and light.

He didn’t have proof.
He didn’t have anything.

But he had instinct.

And it was screaming.

07:15 AM.

Marceline was gone.

The trees swallowed her like they had Cleophrea.

Finn stayed standing until the wind finally stopped pretending to be her voice.

Then came the flashing lights.

The police had returned to the campsite—this time not with urgency, but with checklists and bags of markers.
They weren’t searching anymore.
They were starting the paperwork.

A few officers approached the tent Cleophrea had slept in.

Finn didn’t move. But he listened.

“Nothing left behind except her blanket,” one of the officers said, flipping through their notepad.

“No ID, no bag. No sign,” another added, voice clipped.

A third officer glanced at the printed student roster and frowned. “Did she pack out early? Decide not to stay the night?”

“No,” a teacher said flatly, arms crossed. “She was present during lights out. Accounted for. All four girls were in the tent.”

The officers didn’t respond. Just scribbled more notes, pens scratching across paper in practiced indifference.

Then, more quietly, one of them muttered, “Could be voluntary. Mid-risk disappearance.”

Finn’s stomach dropped.

Voluntary?

He stepped back, letting the words echo in his skull. Voluntary. Like she had just… wandered off. Like she’d chosen to disappear.

But her shoes were still there—neatly placed beside the tent flap.

Her bag was gone. But not her shoes.
Not her shoes.

She’d planned to sleep.
Not leave.

And yet, already, they were beginning to believe the lie. The easy answer. The one that made paperwork cleaner.

That she’d walked out.
That she was overwhelmed.
That maybe she just… ran.

But Finn knew the truth.

Someone took her bag.
And she hadn’t gone willingly.

Someone wanted this to look clean.

But Cleophrea Myles didn’t run.

She fought.

A teacher nearby cleared her throat. “They weren’t allowed to bring phones. School rules.”

The officers paused.

“Right,” one of them said. “Still… no bag?”

“Maybe she left early,” another offered. “Packed up and slipped out.”

Finn stepped forward. “She didn’t.”

One of the officers glanced at him, but didn’t write anything down.

“Any history of mental distress? Anxiety? Isolation?”

“She argued a lot,” someone muttered behind him. Finn didn’t even know who.

That wasn’t the question.

But the clipboard scratched anyway.

“Could’ve wandered off alone,” someone else said.
“Maybe she panicked. Wanted to get away.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 36 :
‘If she’s out there.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next day, the camp was dismissed early.

No one said goodbye.
No one joked about marshmallows or tent assignments.
They all just left.

Finn didn’t go home.
He went to the school’s empty media room and sat alone with the volume low.

The news report was barely two minutes long.
Just enough to break him.

Her mother sat stiff in a pale grey dress, one hand clenched around a tissue that had already dissolved in her grip.

Her father didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the floor.

The reporter’s voice asked softly,

“Do you believe your daughter is still alive?”

Her mother’s lips parted.

“She came home,” she said, barely louder than a breath.
“Just before the camp. She said it was urgent.”

“She never says things like that. And now—”
She broke. “Now we don’t know where she is.”

“If she’s out there,” her father finally said,
“Please… come home. We aren’t angry. We just need to know you’re safe.”

They didn’t say “dead.”
They didn’t say “kidnapped.”
They said missing.

Like that meant something softer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LAST CHAPTER.
“What I Never Said”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The courtyard was alive again.

Laughter bounced off the brick walls. A football skidded across the grass, sending up bits of dirt and dry leaves. Someone shouted “Goal!”—loud, triumphant, like it mattered. But no one really looked up. It was all background noise. A campus trying too hard to sound normal.

The semester rolled forward like nothing had happened.

Class bells rang. Assignments were posted. People complained about quizzes and cafeteria food. They walked to class with headphones in, shoulders brushing in hallways, books tucked under arms like everything was fine.

Finn sat inside his dorm.

Curtains drawn. Door locked.

The light outside was too loud.

It pierced through the thin edges of the window like it had no right to be there. He hated that the sun still rose. That people still laughed. That the world hadn’t stopped spinning when she vanished.

He stared at his phone. Not for notifications. Not for hope.

Just for the message.

It was still there.
Unsent.
Three words. That was all.

The cursor blinked beneath it like it was still waiting for him to finish the sentence.

“Please come back, Cleophrea.”

He hovered his thumb over the send button.
Paused.
Pressed down—then stopped again.

Because there was no number anymore.

No contact.
No signal.
No Cleophrea.

She’d been erased with quiet precision—files folded, her name struck through on rosters, her bunk already reassigned. Teachers never brought her up. Students whispered her name like it was something shameful. And he?

He just sat there.

Day after day.
Waiting for a phone that never rang.
A knock that never came.
A voice he couldn’t forget.

His throat burned. His eyes stung, but he didn’t cry.

He just stared at the blinking line like it owed him answers.

“You said you hated me,” he whispered into the quiet, “and I smiled back like I could survive that.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

And the message remained unsent.

Because what good were three words
when the person they were meant for
was already gone?

 

 

 

 

 

The case was never closed.
And the woods never stayed quiet for long.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Hi. If you made it this far, thank you.
This story took over my brain, my soul, and my sleep schedule. I wrote it with nothing but emotion, chaos, and the love for characters who deserved more time.

Cleophrea was never meant to be soft.
Vivian was never meant to say it out loud.
But they burned together anyway.

I wrote this as a reminder:
Sometimes, we love people too late.
Sometimes, we don’t get to fix it.

But stories let us feel it anyway.

This book was written entirely by me — no editor, no team. Just a 13-year-old and a laptop.
So if there are little mistakes, let them stay. They’re proof that it was real.

To my Readers:

If you felt anything — sadness, anger, heartbreak, hope — thank you.
You made this world matter.

Book 2 is coming.
And it won’t be quiet.

Cleophrea’s story isn’t over.
Not even close.

To my parents —

Thank you for supporting me in every way possible—for your patience, for giving me space, time, love, and trust while I created this world.
Thank you for letting me write when I needed it most, even when it made no sense to anyone else but me.
You’ve always been there, quietly cheering me on.