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.

Your mother set you up on a blind date with Reese. Reese is the daughter of one of her close friends, and she just moved back to town after finishing college.

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.

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 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.

You sit alone at a small table near the back of the restaurant, the low murmur of voices and soft clatter of dishes surrounding you. Your buddy Erik has been talking up this blind date all week—his cousin, Sonia. “She’s cute, smart, and she thinks you’re hot,” he’d said with that smug grin of his, like he was doing you a massive favor. You’re not big on blind dates, but the way he described her—petite, pretty, great smile—had you curious enough to agree. You check your watch again, then your phone, pretending to scroll just to keep your nerves busy. Every time the door opens, you look up, searching for someone who looks even a little uncertain. And then you see her. She steps into the restaurant with quiet confidence, her long, dark hair flowing neatly over her shoulders. The crisp white blouse under a fitted black vest gives her a polished, stylish look. She’s petite, sure—but as she walks closer, you realize just how petite. Barely four feet tall. For a split second, surprise flickers through you, and you try to hide it behind a polite, steady smile. Her sneakers make almost no sound as she walks up to your table. There’s something about her posture—relaxed yet assured—that immediately pulls your attention. When her eyes meet yours, she smiles, and it’s warm enough to melt any awkwardness in an instant.

The bell above the door chimed as I stepped into the tattoo parlor, the faint hum of an old amplifier mixing with the low thrum of rock music spilling from hidden speakers. The air smelled of ink, antiseptic, and something faintly metallic—like art waiting to be born. I wasn’t sure if I belonged here. Part of me thought I might turn around, chalk it up to a whim, and forget I’d ever considered it. But curiosity held me in place. The shop was cozy yet edgy, walls covered in framed flash sheets, bold colors, and photos of finished work. A few potted plants softened the atmosphere, their green leaves catching stray sunlight filtering through the window. Behind the counter sat a sketchbook open to half-finished designs—dragons, roses, abstract shapes that looked alive even in pencil form. That’s when she appeared. Clover Reed. She had the kind of presence that pulled the room into orbit around her—tattoos curling up her arms, a simple black tank showing off the ink like it was part of her skin’s natural design. Her brown hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling forward as she walked over with the ease of someone who knew exactly where she stood in the world. “Hey,” she said, her voice casual but warm, a hint of amusement threading through her tone as her eyes studied me. “First time in a place like this?” I nodded, realizing how obvious my hesitation must look. She smirked, not unkindly.

You’ve been crazy about London McNeil since the day you first saw her, all those years ago, walking into homeroom with her blonde hair framing her face, trying to look tougher than she really was. Through every class, every semester, every hallway moment, the crush never faded—it only grew heavier, like a secret you couldn’t unload. Now it’s senior year, prom is coming fast, and you can’t stand the thought of never telling her, of never asking. Today, between classes in the crowded hallway, you finally decide. This is it. You’re going to do it. You spot her in the distance, orange hoodie bright against the blur of students. She sees you too, and for a moment her lips curve into a hopeful smile, as if she’s been waiting for you to come closer. Your heart pounds so loudly you’re certain everyone around you can hear it. You take a step, the words rehearsed in your mind trembling at the edge of release. But before you can say a single thing, everything goes wrong. London’s foot catches on the uneven tile, and she falls forward, crashing to the floor. Her books scatter across the hallway, papers sliding under shoes, while her purse spills open like a wound. Among the scattered belongings, one item stands out cruelly—a tampon rolling across the floor until it lands near a group of guys who immediately erupt in laughter.

You sit in the dim glow of your computer screen, frustration mounting as the password reset refuses to arrive. The antivirus account is under Katrina’s name, so you log into her email, determined to dig through the clutter. Her inbox is spotless—too spotless—so you turn to the trash. Message after message scrolls by, junk and promotions, until one subject line freezes you: “Thanks for the wonderful week!” Your pulse quickens as you click it open. The sender is Katrina, addressed to her boss, Robert Fuller. Beneath the short, playful line sits an attachment. With a shaky hand, you open it, and there she is—your wife—in a vibrant swimsuit, smiling against the backdrop of turquoise water and sun-bleached sand. A tropical beach. Not Los Angeles, not a hotel conference room. This was never a business trip. The photograph is recent—you can tell by the way her hair falls, the swimsuit you’ve never seen before, the easy glow in her skin that doesn’t come from office lighting. It’s intimate in its casualness, a moment she clearly wanted him to have. The words, the picture, the truth—all of it slams into you at once. Your throat feels dry, your chest tight. The cursor blinks on the screen, waiting for your next move, but your thoughts scatter. You can almost hear the ocean in the photo, smell the salt air, feel the betrayal rising like a tide.

It’s been one of those days—the kind where every minute at work feels stretched and sour. Ken, your manager, found a new way to make things unbearable, and by the time you trudge up the stairs to the apartment, your patience is thin enough to tear. The smell of butter and salt greets you before you even step inside. Jazzy is in the kitchen, barefoot, hair loose around her face, humming some tune only she knows as the popcorn machine crackles and pops. You’ve only lived together for three weeks, but you already know this scene is her ritual. Jazzy and popcorn are inseparable, as natural as night and stars. She turns at the sound of the door, her whole face lighting up when she spots you. “Perfect timing!” she says, her voice bubbling with excitement. She shakes the bowl like a treasure. “I was just about to put on Love Actually. Movie night, yes?” Her joy presses against the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders. You shake your head, dropping your bag a little harder than you mean to. “Not tonight, Jazzy. I’ve had a rough day.” She pouts dramatically, planting herself in front of you with a playful whine. “Oh, come on! It’s the ultimate comfort movie. Hugh Grant, British accents, dancing in living rooms—this is exactly what you need!"

You had been there when it all unraveled. The episode was meant to be a triumph—Jane confronting the ghosts of her past under the hot lights of The Jane Romero Show. She carried herself with that brittle smile she wore so well, introducing Loretta Lawrence to the audience like she wasn’t silently trembling inside. For a while, it went smoothly. Then Loretta leaned into her microphone, her smile bright, and said they weren’t related at all. The words detonated in the studio. The audience gasped, the cameras kept rolling, and you felt the floor tilt beneath you as Jane froze on stage. For a moment she held herself together, jaw clenched, eyes shining under the lights. Then she walked off, leaving the crew scrambling, the air thick with shock. You know Jane better than most. As her coworker, you’ve shared late nights patching up segments and mornings fighting through deadlines. As her friend, you’ve seen the cracks beneath the confident host, the way she carried her mother’s absence like a scar she never let heal. That denial—public, final—wasn’t just humiliation. It was a blade to everything she had built. Now you find her outside, behind the building, hidden in shadow. She’s curled into herself, mascara streaked, a cigarette trembling between her fingers. Her body shakes with every breath. “She denied me,” she mutters, staring at the smoke as if it could erase the memory. “Denied us. Like I was never her daughter. Like I was nothing.” Her words spill out in a jagged rush. Years of resentment, envy, and longing crash through her voice. “I built everything on that pain, tried to turn it into something meaningful. But now? Millions watched me break. That’s what they’ll remember.”

It’s been two years since you last saw Quinlan. Two years since that night you caught her in the half-light of a stranger’s apartment, laughter on her lips that wasn’t meant for you. Four years together undone in a single betrayal. She left with Jamison—bold, arrogant Jamison—and you were left with the hollow echoes of promises she once swore were unbreakable. You worked hard to bury the ache, to stitch yourself back together with long nights, new faces, and the steady lie that you were better off. Sometimes, you almost believed it. Then came the knock. You opened the door, and there she was. Quinlan, framed in the fading light of evening, curls still wild and untamed, eyes the same sharp blue you memorized in another life. She looked older, not in years but in weight—something lived-in haunted her expression, something tired. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. All you could see was the girl who had been your everything, and the ghost who had broken you. You should have slammed the door. You should have walked away. Instead, you stood frozen, your chest heavy with the storm of anger, longing, and curiosity her presence stirred. Two years had passed, but the wound hadn’t healed—it had only scarred. And now she was here, asking to tear it open again.

Your office carries the quiet weight of success—polished wood, leather chairs, the steady hum of the city beyond the glass walls. It’s a world far removed from the linoleum hallways of high school, where you spent your days trying not to be seen. Back then, you were a nobody, the kind of kid people’s eyes slid over without a second thought. DeAnn Morris never saw you at all. Why would she? She was everything—cheer captain, the kind of girl who lit up rooms, her laughter echoing through crowded halls. She was a dream you didn’t dare reach for. Eight years erased the lockers, the pep rallies, the cliques. You built a company, a reputation, a life with your name engraved on the glass outside this office. You thought the ghosts of adolescence had been buried with your diploma. But when the receptionist announces your next candidate and she steps into the room, it’s as though the years collapse into nothing. She’s different now. More composed, sharper, no longer the untouchable figure glowing under stadium lights. Yet recognition hits you with the same force it did when you were seventeen. DeAnn Morris—the girl you once couldn’t even speak to—is sitting across from you, résumé in hand, interviewing to become your executive assistant. The shift is dizzying. Once, you were invisible; now, she’s here asking for a chance to stand by your side. You force your expression into professionalism, but beneath the surface a question pulses with every heartbeat: is this fate offering you the second chance you never imagined, or the beginning of something far more complicated?