Rory's Point of View
The days that followed felt blurred, like I was watching life through a window I couldn't open. The birthday decorations had long been taken down, and the cake was nothing but a sliver of stale frosting in the fridge. But the feeling—that gnawing awareness inside me—hadn't faded. If anything, it had grown.
School offered a kind of dull rhythm. I liked rhythms. They made sense. Alarm, shower, toast, bus, first period. People moved around me, laughing and living like nothing in the world had changed. And maybe it hadn't for them.
But for me? Everything felt like it had cracked.
It wasn't just the dreams or the shadows anymore. It was in my skin. The way light seemed to shift when I moved too fast. The way birds watched me too long from the trees. And the way Caleb had started showing up in places he never used to.
Not close. Not obvious. But present.
Like he was studying me.
Or maybe I was imagining it.
In English class, he sat two rows behind me now. I hadn't noticed when he'd changed seats, only that one day I'd turned slightly and there he was. Elbow on desk. Eyes unreadable.
I told myself not to care.
I told myself he probably didn't even know my name.
But then came Thursday.
I was walking down the hallway with my books pressed against my chest, trying to ignore the way the flickering overhead light buzzed whenever I stepped beneath it. And then I heard footsteps behind me, quick but light.
"Hey."
It was casual. Dismissable, even.
Except no one ever said hey to me.
I turned. Caleb was there, one hand in his hoodie pocket, his bag slung lazily over his shoulder. He didn't look surprised to see me. If anything, he looked… calm. Certain.
"You dropped this," he said.
He held out a folded paper. I blinked. I hadn't dropped anything. But I took it anyway.
"Thanks," I said, voice small.
He gave me a small nod. "You okay?"
I stared at him. Not in a weird way, I hoped. Just… surprised.
"Yeah," I lied.
"You sure? You looked kind of pale earlier."
I shrugged. "Probably didn't eat enough."
He gave a quiet hum, then smiled—a real one, soft and lopsided. It made me forget my own name for a second.
"Well, take care, Rory."
He walked off.
And I just stood there.
He knew my name.
When I finally opened the paper, it was blank.
Just an empty white square.
But my fingers tingled as I touched it.
That weekend, as I sat in my room with music low and homework half-done, a message pinged on my phone. Unknown number.
Hey Rory, meet me at westwood street.8:00pm-Jasmine
No last name. No emoji. I didn't know a Jasmine.
But I stared at it for a long time.
Something told me this wasn't random.
And I already had a feeling who might be there.