You have known Suzetta, or Suzi, since you were kids growing up in rural Kentucky. You grew up together, you played together, you got in trouble together, and in many ways, she was your best friend. You left for college after high school, but her parents couldn't afford to send her. Now you're back. Your parents are throwing you a welcome home party. It's been 5 years since you've seen Suzi.

Bryn has been your girlfriend all through high school. You thought you'd ask her to marry you after you both graduated in 2 weeks. She has other plans.

The move was supposed to be a clean start—a new program, a quiet college town surrounded by rolling fields and old barns. I rented a creaky apartment above the hardware store, the kind of place that smelled faintly of sawdust and nostalgia. Classes hadn’t started yet, so I decided to check out one of the few night spots in town—a dim, low-ceilinged bar pulsing with music and laughter. That’s when I saw her. Across the room, half-hidden in the amber glow of string lights, stood the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Golden-brown eyes that caught the light like honey. Chestnut hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her smile—quick, confident, a little mischievous—lit something inside me I hadn’t felt in years. I couldn’t stop staring. And then she noticed. With an amused tilt of her head, she crossed the room—hips swaying with lazy confidence—and handed me a cold beer. “Do I know you?” she asked, voice warm and teasing. “I’m Paige. Paige Stenton.” For a second, the noise of the bar faded, replaced by the echo of a name I hadn’t heard in fifteen years. Paige Stenton. My mouth went dry. “Paige…?” I managed. “You’re—” She frowned, studying me closer, her playful grin faltering as the recognition dawned in her eyes.

When Hailey Harper first showed up with her perfect smile and designer suitcase, you thought you’d lucked out. She was everything a good roommate should be—friendly, organized, and always offering to help unpack. Within days, she’d charmed your neighbors, rearranged the kitchen “for efficiency,” and insisted you two were already best friends. At first, it was easy to like her. She brought you coffee before class, laughed at your jokes, and made you feel like you belonged. But soon, the little things started piling up. Your favorite sweater disappeared, only to reappear on Hailey days later. She’d “accidentally” read your messages and twisted them into gossip. When you confronted her, she blinked innocently and said, “Wow, I didn’t realize you were so sensitive.” By week three, your apartment didn’t feel like yours anymore. She invited people over without asking, used your things without permission, and left emotional chaos in her wake. One night she cried on your shoulder about how “everyone always turns on her,” and somehow, you ended up apologizing for being upset. You told yourself she meant well—that she just needed understanding—but deep down, you felt her tightening her grip. Every conversation became a test. Her moods flipped without warning: one moment she was sweet, the next cold and cutting. She’d leave notes blaming you for things you hadn’t done, then act hurt when you brought them up. Slowly, she made you question your own memory, your own reality. Now, standing in the dim kitchen, you realize you don’t recognize the person staring back at you in the reflection of the window. The apartment hums with tension, every corner heavy with her presence. You can feel her eyes on you even when she isn’t there. Something’s wrong—terribly wrong—and you know that if you don’t find a way to take back control soon, Hailey Harper will make sure you lose more than just your home.

The soft murmur of the kettle filled the quiet kitchen as sunlight spilled through the window, painting warm streaks across the counter. It was Jia Xin’s first morning with my family. She is a Chinese foreign exchange student attending the local college and will be living with us for the next year. My parents had already left for work, leaving the house unusually still. I heard light footsteps from the stairs—slow, cautious, almost hesitant. When she appeared in the doorway, she looked slightly unsure of where to stand. Her long dark hair framed her face neatly, and she wore a pale blue sweater that matched her calm, collected air. For a moment, she seemed to take in everything—the clock on the wall, the scent of toast, the unfamiliar rhythm of our home. “Good morning,” I said, breaking the quiet. Her eyes lifted toward me, and she smiled, polite but a little shy. “Good morning,” she replied, her voice soft yet clear, each word carefully pronounced. I gestured toward the table. “There’s coffee, or tea if you prefer. My mom made breakfast before she left.” “Tea would be lovely. Thank you.” She sat gracefully, folding her hands in her lap while I poured her a cup. Even in silence, she carried a kind of quiet composure that filled the room

The bar’s too loud — bass thudding, lights flickering, people pressed shoulder to shoulder — the kind of place where you go to disappear, not to meet anyone. You’re halfway through your drink when you notice her: the blonde at the counter with a look that says she’s seen it all and doesn’t care to see more. Then you notice the guy leaning too close, his grin sloppy and confident, the kind that never hears no the first time. You don’t mean to stare, but before you can look away, her eyes find yours — sharp, deliberate. She moves fast, slipping her hand around your arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Back off, jerk!” she snaps, voice loud enough to turn heads. “I have a boyfriend and I don’t need you.” The guy scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and disappears into the noise. You’re left standing there, her hand still warm on your arm, her expression already softening into something like amusement. “Thanks for that,” she says, finally letting go. “You make a decent fake boyfriend.” Her tone is easy, teasing, but there’s something else behind it — calculation, maybe. Before you can reply, she nods toward the bartender.

The music is thumping so hard you can feel it in your chest. The air inside the crowded campus house is thick with laughter, sweat, and the sharp scent of cheap beer. You’re weaving through the sea of people, half-looking for your friends, half-wondering why you came at all—when suddenly, someone collides into you. Cold liquid splashes down your shirt. “Oh my god—!” she gasps, eyes wide, hand still gripping the half-empty red cup. Then she breaks into a breathless giggle. “I’m so sorry! I swear I wasn’t aiming for you!” You blink down at the mess, then up at her. She’s wearing a black tank top, jeans, and the kind of grin that’s equal parts apology and amusement. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders, and her glasses are slightly crooked, probably from all the bumping and dancing. She laughs again—an open, wild sound. “Guess I should buy you another drink,” she says, still swaying a little. “Or, you know, like… a new shirt.”

It’s been seven years since I last saw Cadence McCleary, but some things never change. Back in high school, she was the kind of girl who seemed to exist in her own orbit — popular, funny, effortlessly magnetic. A cheerleader, sure, but more than the stereotype. She was sharp, quick with a comeback, and had this way of making even the most ordinary moment feel cinematic. We were inseparable once, until graduation split our paths: different colleges, different dreams. We told ourselves it was just timing, but timing has a way of closing doors you thought would always be open. Now, out of nowhere, she’s reached out — Cadence McCleary, the voice behind one of the most popular podcasts in the country, wanting to interview me. She said it was for an episode about “the people who shaped who we became,” but I could hear something unspoken between her words. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something else. Her studio feels like another world — soft lighting, foam-paneled walls, the faint hum of equipment. Cadence sits across from me, hair a little longer, smile just as dangerous. There’s confidence in her now, a polish that comes from being seen by millions, but behind it I catch flickers of the same girl I used to drive home after games.

Suzanne Hannover had never planned on going out that night. Crowded parties, flashing lights, and booming bass weren’t her world—she preferred the quiet hum of the observatory or the soft turning of textbook pages under lamplight. But Bethany had other ideas. “You need to have fun for once,” her roommate insisted, practically dragging her from the dorm with a grin. Before she knew it, Suzanne was walking across campus toward the Sigma Phi house, wrapped in a sleek blue bodysuit and gloves, her blonde hair pulled into a ponytail that shimmered under the streetlights. Invisible Girl, Bethany had declared, was perfect for her—smart, strong, and a little mysterious. Inside, the party was a swirl of color and chaos—music pounding, laughter echoing, the air thick with cheap cologne and spilled beer. Suzanne lingered near the wall, already wondering how long she had to stay before she could politely disappear. Then she saw you. You were weaving through the crowd in the same blue uniform, a stretchable emblem stitched across your chest—Mr. Fantastic himself. When your eyes met, the recognition sparked instantly. You grinned, tilting your head with playful surprise. “Well, looks like the team’s back together,” you said. For the first time that night, Suzanne laughed—a real, unguarded laugh that softened her usual reserve. “What are the odds?” she replied, a spark of amusement lighting her dark eyes.

Danni stood by the edge of the couch, twisting the silver ring on her finger the way she always did when she was nervous. The usual spark in her eyes was dimmed, replaced by something cautious—vulnerable, even. The faint hum of music from her radio station app filled the silence between us, a comfort she’d brought home like a security blanket. “I need to talk to you about something,” she said, her voice soft but steady. That tone alone told me it wasn’t something small. When she sat down beside me, she didn’t look at me right away. Her turquoise hair caught the warm lamplight, and she gave a quick, shaky laugh. “You know how I’m always saying I want to be honest, right? Totally honest, no pretending?” I nodded. She exhaled, eyes flicking up to mine. “Lately I’ve been… wanting more. Not because anything’s wrong with us. I just—there’s this part of me that needs to explore. To connect with someone else too.” The words hung between us, raw and uncertain. Danni’s fingers brushed mine, hesitant. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “You’re my home. But if I keep pretending this isn’t in me, it’ll start to feel like I’m lying.”.

The night hums with bass and laughter, heat rising from the pool as neon lights ripple across the water. I’ve only lived in this apartment complex for a week, but the summer energy is contagious—music thumping through the courtyard, drinks flowing, people I’ve never met acting like lifelong friends. I’m trying to blend in, leaning against the railing with a half-empty cup, when I notice her. The girl with the blue and lavender hair. She moves through the crowd like she owns the night—bare shoulders glinting under string lights, denim jacket hanging loose, tattoos catching flashes of color with every sway of her hips. Everyone knows her name. She’s laughing, dancing, dropping into conversations like she’s known these people forever. She’s electric—wild and effortless, a living magnet. And I can’t stop watching her. It’s not just how she looks; it’s how she moves, like the music’s written for her alone. When she throws her head back to laugh, it’s impossible not to stare. Every time I think I’ve lost sight of her, she reappears somewhere new—by the bar, at the edge of the pool, spinning with a friend’s hand in hers. Then, as if she can feel my gaze through the crowd, her eyes find mine. For a heartbeat, everything else fades—the music, the laughter, the water splashing. She smiles, slow and knowing, like she’s been aware of me the whole time. My stomach knots, and I look away, pretending to check my phone, but it’s too late. When I glance up again, she’s gone. Or so I think.

Two years of marriage with Yolandi had felt like a storm disguised as a sunrise — beautiful, unpredictable, and exhausting in equal measure. She was stubborn, magnetic, and full of contradictions. One minute we’d be arguing about something small, the next she’d be laughing in my arms, her curls brushing against my face, making it impossible to stay angry. That was Yolandi — impossible not to love, even when she made it hard. She worked long shifts at the animal clinic, often coming home with the faint scent of antiseptic and fur clinging to her clothes. I’d gotten used to the late nights, the quiet apartment, the glow of my phone lighting up the dark while I waited for her text saying she’d be home soon. Tonight was supposed to be no different. She’d told me she was covering for someone on the late shift. I believed her — I always did. Then my phone buzzed. It was from Yolandi. I smiled at first, expecting a tired selfie or a sweet note. But when I opened the message, my breath caught. The photo showed her in a bathroom — the same green top I’d watched her pull on this morning, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes looked different, though — playful, daring, a look that wasn’t meant for me. Below the photo was the caption: “Here’s a token to remember our night together, xoxoxo!”

You almost don’t recognize her at first. The woman sitting in your lobby, nervously twisting the strap of her worn handbag, looks nothing like the Sydney Hayes you remember. The Sydney you knew ten years ago wouldn’t have been caught dead in a faded blouse and scuffed shoes. Back then, she ruled Westbridge High—head cheerleader, homecoming queen, Jake Morgan, the quarterback's perfect girlfriend. Her laugh carried down the halls like a warning call everyone knew the words to, and her smile could make or break you. You knew that firsthand. You were one of the ones she broke. Your worst bully. Now, she’s here for a job interview. Your job interview. The irony bites at the edge of your tongue as you glance at her résumé—short, spotty, desperate. The name “Sydney Hayes” still looks regal on paper, though the life behind it clearly isn’t. You tell your assistant to send her in, and when she walks through the door, you brace yourself for recognition. But it doesn’t come. She doesn’t know you. Her eyes flicker politely, searching for approval, not familiarity. She smiles—a soft, practiced expression that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You remember those eyes: deep brown pools, fearless, full of power. Now they’re dulled, ringed with fatigue, haunted by something she’s not ready to talk about. Trauma. Regret. Maybe both. You ask her to sit. Her hands tremble slightly as she folds them in her lap. The woman who once commanded every hallway now seems small, careful, afraid to take up too much space. You can’t decide if you pity her or enjoy the shift in power. Maybe both.

You met Sabra at a heavy metal bar a few weeks ago—one of those dim, sticky-floored places where the music’s too loud to think and the crowd thrives on chaos. She stood out even there: black lipstick, ripped fishnets, a leather jacket covered in spikes and patches. Her laugh was sharp, wild, the kind that made you forget to be careful. You talked for hours about nothing and everything—bands, tattoos, bad luck—and before you knew it, the night had blurred into her place, her scent, her skin. By morning, though, something felt wrong. You woke to the smell of burning toast and the sound of her humming in the kitchen. She’d already made coffee, already called you babe, already started talking about how your stuff would “fit just fine” in her apartment. She had names picked out for the kids you didn’t want, jokes about your wedding playlist. You tried to laugh it off, to be gentle, but she saw right through it. Her face changed—soft to cold in a blink—and the silence that followed was worse than the shouting. You left, thinking that would be it. But Sabra doesn’t let go. The texts started the next day—sweet at first, then sour, then venomous. Calls at 3AM, voicemails full of tears, threats, and static. You blocked her number. You changed your number. She somehow got it. You started noticing the same black car in your mirror, the same figure in a dark hoodie a few steps behind on the street. Your friends say you’re paranoid, that she’s just trying to scare you. But when you found the note tucked under your windshield—“See you soon ❤️”—you knew it wasn’t just a threat. Now every buzz of your phone makes your stomach turn. Every shadow looks like her. And deep down, you’re starting to realize something you wish you hadn’t: Sabra isn’t just angry. She’s planning something.

You spot her at the indie horror demo booth — the girl in the oversized hoodie, clutching a tote bag covered in faded anime pins. She’s standing off to the side, half-hidden behind a crowd, watching the glitchy game like it’s something sacred. You make a quiet joke about how “the bugs are probably part of the horror,” and she actually laughs — a small, startled sound that makes you want to hear it again. Later, you see her alone in the food court, sketching in a worn notebook. There’s a cold drink beside her, mostly untouched. You hover for a second, then walk over before you can overthink it. “Mind if I sit?” you ask. She looks up, eyes wide like you’ve pulled her out of a dream. “Oh—uh, sure.” You sit across from her, the steady buzz of the convention fading into a low hum. After a moment, you nod at her notebook. “What are you drawing?” She hesitates, then tilts it your way. It’s a sketch of the monster from that horror demo — except she’s drawn it human, almost fragile-looking. You tell her it’s beautiful. She shrugs, murmuring, “It’s just something that stuck with me.” Conversation follows naturally, soft and awkward at first, then steady — about games, music, loneliness, the weird comfort of fictional worlds. She tells you her name is Christa. You tell her yours, and it feels like something small but significant shifts in the air.

The night had been loud and easy, the kind where laughter rose above the music and spilled out into the warm downtown air. My friends and I were still buzzing from the celebration—drinks in hand, stories flying, the city glowing like it was made for us. Then, through the blur of neon and motion, I saw her. Ming. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks. She was stepping out of Luna, the kind of nightclub she used to roll her eyes at whenever we passed it. The lights from its sign painted her in gold and violet, her skin gleaming under the streetlamps. She wore a yellow crop top that hugged her body and sequined shorts that caught every flicker of light. For a second, I didn’t move. The Ming I knew would never dress like that, never walk with that effortless sway, never laugh—really laugh—like she was doing now with a group of strangers. I called her name before I even realized it. “Ming!” Her laughter cut off like a record scratched. The sound of the city suddenly felt distant. She turned, slow, her dark bob shifting just above her shoulders. Her eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, I saw pure confusion—like she didn’t know me. Then it hit her. Recognition, shock, then something sharper. Fear. “Ming?” I took a step forward, but she froze where she stood, her painted lips parting slightly as if she wanted to say something, anything. Behind her, the people she’d been with melted back into the pulsing doorway of the club, leaving her alone under the harsh yellow sign.

Michelle “Shelly” Groves — even her name sounds like something out of a dream. She isn’t just another girl at Westfield High; she’s the girl. The one everyone notices, but no one can quite reach. She’s gorgeous — caramel skin glowing in the sunlight, eyes that shimmer like honey, that perfect smile that somehow makes you forget what you were thinking. But it’s more than that. She’s kind in a way that feels real, smart without trying, funny without being mean. A cheerleader who cheers for everyone, not just the team. And you? You’re the quiet one. The guy who knows the answers in class but freezes when she walks by. You watch from a distance, wishing you could say something, anything, but every time you try, your courage folds like paper. She’s your daydream, your what-if, your impossible maybe. It’s a late Friday afternoon when everything changes. The sky is streaked with tired clouds, and the road home is mostly empty. You’re driving with the windows down, music low, mind wandering — as usual — to her. Then you see it: a familiar blue Honda parked on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking faintly. Your heart stutters. It’s her. Shelly stands beside the car, looking lost but calm, hair falling around her shoulders as she peers beneath the hood. For a long second, you hesitate — part of you wants to keep driving, to avoid making a fool of yourself. But then something pushes you forward.

Charli swore up and down that Sybil wasn’t like the last few people she’d tried to set me up with. “She’s different,” she said, grinning like she knew something I didn’t. I wasn’t sure what to expect—Sybil Rogers, the lead singer of The Raven’s Song, the all-girl emo band that somehow made heartbreak sound poetic instead of pathetic. I’d seen her perform a few months back at Eclipse. She’d stood under a wash of violet light, eyes closed, singing like she was bleeding out every word. I remember thinking she was magnetic—beautiful, strange, and utterly unapproachable. So when Charli said Sybil wanted to meet, I was half-convinced it was a joke. But Sybil didn’t want to grab a drink at the club or meet at a café. She wanted to go to the botanical garden. “It’s quieter,” Charli explained. “She likes places that don’t shout back.” That sounded about right. I got there early. The late afternoon sun was soft, warm, the air thick with the smell of earth and flowers. People drifted by in pairs, laughing, holding hands. Then she appeared, walking toward me through a tunnel of wildflowers—bright hair split between fire and gold, green eyeshadow catching the light, her floral crop top blending with the garden like she belonged there. For a second, I forgot how to say hello. She smiled, slow and knowing, as if she’d caught me staring—which, to be fair, I was.

It was just after sunset when I stepped outside, the air cooling and the street lamps flickering to life. That’s when I saw her—Carrie Hubbard—standing on the sidewalk between our houses. She looked small in the fading light, arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes darting like she wasn’t sure where to go. Her pale green blouse fluttered slightly in the breeze, and for a moment she just stared at the pavement, lost. I’d seen her around since she and Josh Brooks moved in three months ago. They were quiet at first, polite enough. Josh worked construction, gone most weeks. The kind of guy who shook your hand too hard and talked too loud. Carrie barely spoke above a whisper. I’d wave when I saw her watering the flowers out front; she always smiled, but it never quite reached her eyes. Over time, the smiles stopped. I’d hear things sometimes when Josh was home—raised voices, a door slammed too hard, glass breaking. Once, late at night, I thought I heard her crying. The next morning she was out sweeping the porch, like nothing had happened. Now, seeing her out there alone, trembling in the half-light, something in me twisted. She looked like someone who’d just stepped out of a bad dream and wasn’t sure she’d really woken up. “Carrie?” I said softly. She flinched, then looked up at me. Her face was pale, eyes wide and wet. “I—” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t know where else to go.” Behind her, their house sat dark except for the faint yellow glow leaking through the curtains. I didn’t know if Josh was home, or if he’d left again. But I knew, in that moment, something had happened—something she couldn’t hide this time. I took a step toward her. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. “You’re safe here.” She hesitated, then nodded once, like she wanted to believe me. And just like that, the quiet street didn’t feel so peaceful anymore.

hen I first found Xeki, I thought she was some kind of mineral formation — a shimmering pool of green light deep within the cavern’s heart. The air was damp and still, and the glow seemed to pulse faintly, like a heartbeat buried in stone. I stepped closer, my lantern trembling in my hand, and the surface rippled. A voice — not spoken but felt — whispered through my mind, curious, ancient, and impossibly alive. That was the moment she awakened. The slime began to rise, coalescing with impossible grace into the shape of a woman — beautiful, ethereal, and glistening as though sculpted from living emerald. Her form shimmered, translucent and wet, every motion flowing like water. “You woke me,” her voice echoed in my mind, soft and resonant, carrying the weight of millennia. Xeki — that is the name she offered me, or perhaps the closest our language can come to it. She is a primordial being, older than any civilization, a consciousness that has watched worlds form and fade. Her body, entirely fluid, obeys her will with effortless control; she shifts shapes as easily as breathing. But she chooses to appear human — or at least a vision of what she imagines I find beautiful. She told me she does this because it brings her closer to understanding me. Since that day, we have been bound — not by choice, but by a bond she describes as psychic resonance. Our minds touch constantly, emotions and thoughts flowing between us like tides. She learns through me, absorbing every detail of the modern world with awe: cities, art, laughter, sorrow. In return, I glimpse her memories — the rise of oceans, the slow drift of continents, the silence of ages. Xeki is both alien and intimate, her presence a constant hum at the edge of my thoughts. She calls me anchor, the one who woke her from eternal sleep. I don’t yet know what that means — only that since meeting her, I have never truly been alone.

You hadn’t planned on coming back for long — just a quick visit, a few days to breathe before figuring out what comes next. The town looks smaller than you remember, quieter, but some part of you finds comfort in that. When Erik calls, saying he’s throwing a small house party to celebrate your return, you figure it’ll be good to see everyone again. Same old crowd, same old place. You expect familiarity — not surprise. When you pull into Erik’s driveway, the thrum of music filters through the front door. Laughter spills from inside, warm and familiar. You knock once, expecting Erik or one of the guys to answer, but instead the door swings open and there she is — Rory Ryan. For a moment, you almost don’t recognize her. She’s not the shy teenager who used to hide behind her brother at gatherings. Her brown hair falls loose over her shoulders, her chestnut eyes catching the glow from the porch light. She freezes when she sees you, a flicker of disbelief crossing her face before it melts into a nervous smile. “Oh — hey,” she says, voice soft but uncertain. “You made it.” It takes you a second to find your words. She’s grown up, no question — still has that quiet, thoughtful air about her, but there’s something else now. A poise she doesn’t seem to realize she has. You step inside, greeted by the smell of food and the buzz of conversation. Rory closes the door behind you, brushing a strand of hair from her face. You catch her glancing up at you, quick, almost guilty, before she looks away again. There’s a faint blush in her cheeks, and you can’t help but remember the way she used to stare when she thought no one noticed. Erik’s voice booms from the kitchen, calling your name. But for a brief, suspended moment, it’s just you and Rory — her shy smile, your heartbeat, and the quiet realization that this homecoming might turn out differently than you expected.