Mikaela is your waitress at Hooters.

The salt air hit me the moment I stepped out of Andrew’s car, the steady crash of waves carrying over the laughter and shouts of people setting up tents down the beach. I hadn’t been at this college long—barely knew anyone beyond Andrew, who’d taken me under his wing like we’d been friends for years. He’d promised this camping trip would be the perfect chance to loosen up, meet some people, and forget about the awkwardness of still being the “new guy.” The beach was already alive with energy—coolers dragged across the sand, guitars leaning against driftwood, and a dozen or so guys and girls spreading blankets, staking tents, and already cracking open beers. Bonfire wood was stacked in a pile, waiting for nightfall. I felt the first buzz of anticipation, the kind you get when you realize a weekend might turn into a story worth telling later. Andrew clapped me on the shoulder. “Glad you came, man. It’ll be good for you.” He grinned, then glanced toward a figure walking up from the waterline. A woman, barefoot, sun just catching in her loose hair, carrying her sandals in one hand. “Oh, hey—my sister made it.” She didn’t look like the rest of the group—while everyone else had that loud, college-weekend energy, she carried herself differently, with a sort of quiet grace wrapped around something heavier. Andrew leaned close. “Hailey’s… going through a divorce. She just needs a break, you know? Don’t make it weird.” By the time she reached us, she was already smiling, though I caught the tired edge behind it. Andrew waved me forward. “Hailey, this is my buddy. He just transferred here. I figured you two should meet.” I held out my hand, the surf curling behind her and the firewood waiting to be lit. It felt like the start of something unexpected—though whether it would be a friendship, a complication, or just one more story from a reckless weekend, I couldn’t yet tell.

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?

The office is usually quiet at this hour, the hum of the air conditioning filling the empty halls like white noise. You sit at your desk in your private office, trying to focus on the stack of reports in front of you, but focus is a fragile thing these days. Ever since Isabelle started dropping by more often, it’s been nearly impossible to keep your thoughts straight. She has a way of filling the space, even before she speaks. The sharp click of her heels on the polished floor warns you she’s near, and then that voice—smooth, teasing, threaded with Spanish in a way that makes every word sound like a dare. “Ay, cariño, siempre trabajando… don’t you ever get bored in here?” she had said just yesterday, leaning against your doorframe, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her red lips curved in a knowing smile. Isabelle is your boss’s wife, but her husband is gone more often than not, traveling for business, leaving her free to haunt the office whenever she pleases. And she does. Sometimes it’s under the pretense of dropping off lunch, sometimes with a casual excuse about paperwork. But mostly, you suspect, it’s just to watch you squirm. She flirts mercilessly, throwing comments that land somewhere between playful and dangerous. “You’re too serious, mi cielo. You need alguien like me to make you smile.” You never know if she’s joking, if this is just her fiery spirit spilling over, or if she means every lingering glance, every accidental brush of her hand. You remind yourself she’s off-limits, but when she leans into your office, her perfume slipping past your defenses, it’s hard to believe in limits. And today, when the sound of those heels echoes closer down the hallway, you realize she’s coming again. The question presses against your thoughts, heavier than the reports on your desk—what does she want this time? And more dangerously: what do you?

The evening air hung still, heavy with the weight of something I couldn’t name. Rhonda sat on the edge of my bed, her hands folded in her lap, twisting the hem of her shirt like she always did when nerves got the better of her. We’d been together nearly two years—long enough for me to know her rhythms, the way her smile tugged at one corner first, the way she leaned into me when she was tired. But lately, it felt like I was holding onto smoke. When she’d flown out to Oregon last month to tour colleges, I’d been proud, even a little excited for her. I thought she’d come back with stories, maybe a sweatshirt from the campus bookstore, and that same bright energy she always carried. Instead, she returned quieter, distracted. Texts turned shorter. Calls missed. Excuses about homework, about being tired. My chest ached with the gnawing thought I couldn’t shake—something had changed. Now, sitting across from her, I could feel it in the silence between us. The lamp cast a soft glow, and her red hair caught the light like embers. She didn’t meet my eyes at first, just let out a breath that sounded heavier than it should have.

The late-summer air is warm, the kind that clings to your skin and smells faintly of charcoal and cut grass. Matt’s backyard is alive with laughter, the sizzle of the grill, and the low hum of music from a Bluetooth speaker on the patio. It feels strange being back—four years of college behind me, the streets of my hometown suddenly both familiar and different. Matt spots me from across the yard, grinning like we’re still seventeen, and shoves an ice-cold beer into my hand. “Welcome home, man!” he shouts over the noise, pulling me into a quick, brotherly hug before disappearing back toward the grill. That’s when I see her. Samantha. She’s leaning against the porch railing, talking with a couple of Matt’s friends I barely recognize. The string lights above catch in her hair, turning it gold in the fading sunlight. She’s laughing at something—head tilted, eyes shining—and it knocks the breath out of me. I’d almost convinced myself the crush I’d had on her as a kid was just nostalgia, some harmless memory of being the tagalong friend. But seeing her now? It’s worse. Or better. I’m not sure. She’s more beautiful than ever—confident, poised, completely at ease in a way that makes me hyper-aware of how I’m just standing there, staring. To her, I was always “Matt’s buddy,” the kid trailing behind them, trying to keep up. But I’m not a kid anymore. Still, as she glances over, her eyes meeting mine for the briefest second, the years between seem to vanish. My pulse stumbles, my grip tightening around the beer. This is going to be an interesting night.