It all started in a small, boring town, full of boring people and their uneventful lives. Quaint houses sat neatly in rows, each one a mirror of the last, with expensive cars gleaming in long driveways. A so-called historic town center stood at the heart of it all, indistinguishable from any other across the country. Inside one of those tidy houses, a devoted mother and father sat at a spotless kitchen table, the picture of a TV sitcom family. Nearby, a little sister with sun-bleached pigtails played with her Barbies on the floor.
An 18-year-old girl stood in front of the hall mirror. Her brunette hair was braided tightly to her slim shoulders, and a baby blue halter dress clung perfectly to her body. Nothing stood in her way, not a problem, not a worry. Life, for her, was simple. Effortless. I wish, heartily wish, I had that kind of life.
Instead, I live in a crumbling city that smells like metal and memory, with my quirky mother, my tech-savvy father, and my Abercrombie little sister. My parents met in high school and fell head over heels into the kind of passionate love they still romanticize to this day.
"Your mother moved here sophomore year," Dad always says, his eyes lighting up like he's still that teenage boy. "She was the most attractive girl I'd ever seen. Her hair was always up in a bun, a deep, rich red. I finally worked up the nerve to talk to her, and we just clicked. We were inseparable after that. We found out we were pregnant with you junior year."
They always say it like a confession and a love story rolled into one. They claim I was conceived at a party, a happy accident. "We wouldn't change it for the world," they always tell me.
They had to grow up overnight, but they didn't let go of their dreams. My mother is now a chief editor at a major publishing company. My father's a computer technician who still manages to chase down his hobbies on weekends.
When I was an only child, life was sweet: summer trips out of state, all of my parents' attention, no competition for love or time.
Then came Kari.
I was four when they announced her arrival, gleaming with joy. I was excited, too, until the screaming began. Kari cried as if it were her full-time job. The tantrums were endless. Over time, those meltdowns evolved into hot pink leggings, glitter-covered shirts, and nails so fake they clicked like claws.
I shift in front of the mirror, and the fantasy of the perfect life flickers out like an old film reel. I'm back in my reality, gritty and honest. My chocolate-brown eyes stare back at me from the reflection.
I let out a soft, contented sigh.
My pin-straight black hair falls to mid-back, framing a pale face that rarely smiles. Heavy eyeshadow and dark lipstick give me contrast, a deliberate, crafted contrast. I smooth out the front of my band tee, the fabric soft and worn. Black shorts cling to my hips, fishnets hugging my legs like second skin. My black, knee-high Doc Martens boots complete the look.
This is me. Not the girl in the halter dress. Not the fantasy. Not the sitcom daughter. Just Winter.
My attention drifted from the mirror to my mother, seated at the kitchen table. A glossy magazine rested in one hand, a cup of organic tea in the other. Her fire-engine red hair was pulled into a loose bun, paired with a crimson tank top and fitted black jeans that clung to her teenage-looking frame. She wore too many necklaces, layered haphazardly around her neck, and makeup that still screamed early 2000s rebellion.
She peeked over her magazine, "You look nice."
"Thanks," I said, smirking faintly.
"What did I say about stealing your mother's shirts?" my dad teased, walking past and ruffling my hair like I was still five.
"This one's mine," I grumbled, smoothing my hair with exaggerated care.
"I'm just messing with you, Win," he said warmly, tucking a strand of his ash-blonde hair behind his ear. "You nervous for your first day?"
"A little," I admitted, flashing him a grin.
"You'll do great," he said, voice soft like a promise.
My mom chimed in, patting her weathered black bag, the one that carried her editor's copy of Changing a Storm. "Helga's keeping me late tonight, so you'll need to pick up your sister from Jess's around five. We're almost through the final edits."
"Alright, I don't mind," I said with a shrug. "As long as I don't have to fend her off from trying to buy every glittery thing in the makeup aisle."
"You've been gone most of the summer; you haven't seen her," my dad said, twisting open a water bottle. "She's over that phase."
He gave me a pointed look and smiled. "Now she wants to be just like her big sister."
"That's terrifying," I said, freezing as I briefly imagined a miniature version of myself running around the house, quoting lines from The Blight, the only movie she's ever watched with me, and complaining through the entire time.
"I'd better get this run in before I lose the motivation," my father said eagerly, letting out a chuckle.
"We got you something," my mother said, pulling out a small black box with a bow, placing it on the table, and sliding it towards me.
I carefully picked up the box and tugged on the elaborate bow, which came off with ease. The top popped open next. Inside was a beautiful black, jewel-encrusted choker with a small crimson bat charm dangling from the center.
"We wanted to get you something for your first day, to show you how proud we are of you," my mother gushed, getting up to help me put it on.
"I love it," I beamed, promptly giving them both enormous hugs.
"Now get going," my father chuckled.
"I love you!" I called as I ran eagerly to the front door, grabbing my purse before swinging it open.
The sudden burst of sunlight made me blink for a few seconds as I stood on the porch. The city stretched before me. The noise of traffic and pedestrians filled my ears to the point where I could barely hear myself think. A pungent odor, stale beer, and gasoline hung in the air as I made my way down street after street, heading deeper into the better part of the city. I finally stopped in front of a brown-colored apartment building, just two blocks from the college.
I'm outside.
I type quickly, hit send on my cell phone, and shove it back into my purse. A minute passes before the long wooden door slides open and out comes Chloe, my best friend and partner in crime.
Chloe has been my most beloved friend since she moved to the city six years ago. She was the tiniest girl in our class and was often bullied by the popular girls. I was one of the only ones who stood up for her.
I can still see that day in my head as if it happened yesterday, the crowded hallway, the sharp clang of lockers closing, the high-pitched laughter that always followed Chloe like a shadow. She was clutching her books too tightly, her shoulders hunched as she tried to slip past them. Then one of the girls stuck out her foot.
The sound of Chloe hitting the floor was sickening, followed by the crack of her wrist against tile. She gasped, tears springing to her eyes, cradling her arm to her chest. My stomach twisted, fury rushing hot through me as the gaggle of girls snickered like it was the funniest thing in the world.
"Back off," I snapped, planting myself between them and Chloe. My hands shook, but I held my ground.
Before I could do anything more, Lizzie stormed in. She didn't hesitate, didn't even ask what happened. She slammed her book shut with a sound that made the whole hallway jolt; her eyes pierced through the girls.
"Try that again," she dared, her voice sharp as broken glass.
The giggles died instantly. One by one, the girls walked away, whispering under their breath, but none of them looked back.
We walked Chloe to the nurse's office that day, her wrist already swelling, and something unspoken clicked into place between us. She wasn't just the quiet new girl anymore. She was ours.
We adopted her into our band of social misfits that day, and we've been inseparable ever since.
Her perfect orchid-colored shoulder-length hair gleams in the morning sun as she runs up to me.
"I missed you so much!" she shrieks, flinging her arms around me, standing on the tips of her toes as she does.
She let go, her copper-brown eyes glimmering before she turned and headed down the pathway to the sidewalk. We weave in and out of traffic, heading toward the college.
"How was your trip?"
"It was great! My aunt Natalie took me to a lot of plays, and we went to the Museum of Modern Art. I didn't want to leave."
"I don't blame you," she giggles. "How was the plane ride?"
"Terrible," I exclaimed. "You know I hate heights. I was shaking the whole time. It got to the point where the lady next to me asked if I wanted one of her Xanax."
"Did you take it?" Chloe laughed.
"I should have!"
"Well, I'm glad you made it back in one piece."
"It really was a fun time," I said eagerly. "I want to go back soon… without the plane ride."
"I believe it," she laughed joyously, but her mood shifted. "Where's Eric? I thought he said in the group chat he was going to walk with us."
"Oh, you know him. Can never keep to his word. He probably won't even show up today."
"When's the last time you talked to him?"
"A few days ago. We got into an argument about my trip, and he hasn't talked to me since," I murmured, gazing down at my feet as we waited at the marked crosswalk.
"I don't know why you put up with it," she scoffed. "I sure as hell wouldn't."
She's never been a fan of his.
"Half the time, I don't know why either," I shrugged as the light signals us to cross.
Eric has been my boyfriend for about a year. The thorn in my side… we met in high school in November of last year. He was a new student, and the attraction was immediate. We started dating right after. Things started right, the constant attention and affection.
And then the dream soured. The attention that once felt flattering turned heavy, suffocating. The affection sharpened into expectation. His hand on my arm sometimes feels less like a touch and more like a grip. He says it's because he cares. Because he loves me. But I can't shake the feeling that what he really loves is control.
I remember the first time he got mad. Really mad. We were supposed to meet up at a café near the high school, but I stopped to talk with Lizzie and forgot to check my phone. He showed up late and quiet, barely looking at me. When we left, he asked, too calmly, why I needed to "laugh that much" with other people. Maybe I liked being the center of attention too much.
I laughed it off. Said he was just having a bad day.
But those questions kept coming. Who was I with? Why didn't I text back sooner? What do I mean by saying Chloe looked cute in that picture? I started checking my words before I spoke. Started second-guessing every outfit. Every emoji. Every delay in texting back. Now, I'm just trying to hold the shape of what we were.
Chloe made a repulsed sound and nudged me in the side, "Why can't you love some other guy?"
"Yeah, like anyone else remotely attractive is into me."
"Don't give me that! Let's see, there's Clay, that really cute guy with the blue and green hair. Oliver, from science class last year. Dave the..."
"Okay, okay. I get your point," I giggled, cutting her off. "They've probably moved since graduation."
But as her voice faded, my smile did too.
I'm not really here anymore. Not on this street, not beside Chloe.
I'm back in the passenger seat of Eric's car last spring. Windows down, music blaring, his hand on my thigh as he tells me I'm hot and that he's never met anyone like me. That he wants to protect me. That he never wants to lose me. And I believed him. Even when he started getting quieter every time I talked to another guy. Even when he started criticizing the way I dressed, he said, "Just trying to help you look your best." Even when he grabbed my wrist too hard in the parking lot because I told him no.
I still believed some part of him was soft underneath the storm. That the old version, the one who watched horror movies with me, who kissed my shoulder like I was glass, was still buried somewhere in there. Hopefully...
But I'm not in that car anymore. I'm here. On this sidewalk. With Chloe looking at me, concerned and a little annoyed. She doesn't know I just time-traveled through every red flag I've ignored.
I blinked it all away, forcing another giggle.
She nudged me with her elbow as we squeezed past a group blocking the entrance, "Anyway. This guy's new. Moved here over the summer. Definitely more your speed. His name is Tristan."
We pushed through the old side door, hinges squealing like they're dying a slow, painful death, and stumbled into a swirl of movement: students crisscrossing with backpacks slung low, someone's Bluetooth speaker blaring some pop, the smell of burnt toast from the cafeteria wafting through the vents.
Chloe leaned in, practically shouting, "He's been at Shattered a lot."
I squealed louder than intended. "God, I cannot wait to go to Shattered tonight. I've been dreaming about that Duchess Potion. I need it in my veins."
"You say that like it's not just overpriced purple sugar water."
"Overpriced purple sugar water that resurrects my soul," I fired back, nearly colliding with someone's overstuffed guitar case.
The energy around us hummed like static, footsteps slapping, someone yelling about a text message, a ringtone going off to the tune of a pop song.
In the middle of the chaos, I looked at Chloe and grinned widely. "I can't wait until Friday."
We finally made it to the student center, elbowing our way through a swarm of students all talking at once, with music playing too loud from someone's speaker, and the clatter of dropped books and coffee lids hitting the tile. Someone sneezed loud enough to startle a girl who spilled her iced latte, and it narrowly missed my boots.
I threw my bag onto an empty black chair beside Chloe, who was already sitting, half-slouched, scrolling through her phone like she wasn't getting jostled every ten seconds.
A flash of pastel pink sliced through the crowd like a neon flare. Lizzie bounces out from behind a hulking dude in a football hoodie, practically glowing, her emerald eyes wild with joy like I've risen from the dead.
"Winter!" she shrieked, launching into me with enough force to make me stumble back into a chair.
"I missed you, too," I laughed, regaining balance. "Your hair looks even more gorgeous in person. How is that even fair?"
I reached up to fluff the soft pink waves framing her heart-shaped face, and she giggled, loud and unapologetic, cutting through the ambient noise like it's nothing.
"Thanks!"
"Hi, babe," Chloe said, rising to give Lizzie a hug that lingers just a beat too long.
"You two are adorable," I tease with a smirk.
Chloe shot me a sideways glare so sharp it could slice drywall.
She's had the world's most obvious crush on Lizzie since junior year, but insists it'll never work, says Lizzie's too bubbly, too oblivious.
I slumped into the chair beside my bag, scanning the chaos. The student center is a sensory overload, with shouts echoing, sneaker soles squeaking against the floor, and someone rapping loudly in the far corner while another group starts filming a dance right in front of the vending machines. A girl walked past, blaring music from her phone, with no headphones in sight.
Despite the noise, we managed to chat until a tall blonde teeters by in ridiculous pink heels, clutching a Starbucks cup like it's sacred.
Lizzie gasped. "They have a Starbucks here?! We have to go! Immediately."
Before either of us could answer, she grabbed our arms like a gremlin on a caffeine quest and yanked us into motion.
We fought through the crowd like we're in a live-action Mario Kart level, dodging backpacks, nearly getting flattened by a guy with a skateboard, Chloe cursing under her breath the whole way.
When we reached the Starbucks kiosk near the cafeteria, I ordered my usual, mango dragon fruit lemonade, aka liquid therapy. Chloe got a black coffee the size of her head. Lizzie orders something pink and frothy with extra whipped cream and four pumps of syrup.
"You're just drinking sugar with a whisper of coffee," Chloe muttered.
"And you're drinking boiled dirt. Let me have my moment," Lizzie chirped.
Chloe rolled her eyes, then froze. She elbowed me hard enough to nearly spill my drink.
"There. Right there."
I followed her line of sight. A tall figure steps out from the crowd like a shadow stepping into the light. He's dressed in all black, a ripped tee under a fitted leather jacket that hugs his frame like it was made for him. His jeans are worn and torn at the knees, heavy boots laced tight and scuffed with quiet violence. His hair is black, shoulder-length, slightly wavy, half tied back, the rest falling messily across his face like a curtain he wears on purpose. Silver glinted where metal touches skin, an eyebrow ring, a lip stud, a trail of hoops up the curve of one ear. And his eyes, crimson, sharp, otherworldly, find mine across the noise. Not angry. Not soft. Just locked. Steady.
There was something in him that vibrated beneath the surface, danger held in check, like he knew exactly how much space to take up and how to haunt the rest.
I should look away. But I don't. I can't.
My stomach flipped. My mouth goes dry. I look away so fast I almost miss the faint smirk that tugs at the edge of his lips.
"He's alright, I guess," I said, instantly lying. "Cool contacts, though."
"I want ones to match my hair," Lizzie added, delighted.
We shuffled back to the student center, now even louder than before. Someone's arguing over who stole their seat, and a group of theater majors is practicing lines like it's Broadway.
We claim a quiet-ish corner, just enough space to breathe, and collapse into the seats.
Lizzie's back on her feet in seconds.
"Blake!" she yelled, sprinting into the arms of a 6'3" beanpole wearing a flannel that might double as a blanket.
Eric trailed in behind Blake, slower than usual, eyes dulled at the edges, like he's not fully here.
I smiled without meaning to—just… reflex.
"Hi, babe," he murmured, pulling me in for a kiss.
The scent hit me like a slap, biting alcohol, masked by spearmint gum. I froze for half a second.
"I thought you quit drinking in the morning," I whispered.
"It was just one shot," he shrugged. "I'm stressed."
Chloe's jaw clenched beside me. She doesn't say a word, but her silence is louder than the crowd around us.
Blake calls out, "We gotta go, it's almost time for class!"
"Text me," Eric kisses me again, then disappears into the noise without looking back.
I just sat there, the echo of his absence louder than his presence. My stomach twisted. All I could hear was the roar of the student center, the thrum of conversation, laughter that felt too loud, the screech of a chair dragging across the floor.
I didn't say anything. I didn't need to.
Chloe is still beside me, arms folded, radiating fury. I know what she's thinking. You deserve better. You should leave him.
Maybe she's right. Maybe I should.
But then comes the familiar pull, slow, heavy, dragging me back. The thought of ending it opens some quiet pit in my chest. Almost a whole year. A whole version of me wrapped around his name.
I press my lips together. Shake the thought loose.
It's not that bad. He was just stressed. Things will get better.
They have to.
I stare blankly at the space Eric just left, my thoughts spiraling in loops I've traced too many times. The fight. The smell. The excuses. The weight in my chest tightened like a knot that never fully loosens.
Then, movement. A presence.
I glance up, pulled by something I can't name.
And there he is.
A few chairs away, watching the world with unreadable eyes, deep crimson, like some vivid fever dream. His pale skin catches the light, flawless and surreal. Chiseled features carved in quiet stillness. He looks... ethereal. But not untouchable. Not perfect. There's exhaustion behind those eyes like he's lived through something, too.
And for some reason, it makes me breathe again.
His gaze shifted down to his phone, unaware of the small storm he just cleared from my head.
"Can we pick your jaw up off the floor?" Chloe giggled, tapping my chin.
My lips part in surprise. I didn't realize I'd been staring. My cheeks flushed, and I swat her hand away lightly.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, clearing my throat, trying to sound normal again.
She smirked knowingly, glancing behind her.
He hadn't moved. Still sat there. Still distant. Still... there.
And somehow, just for a moment, the noise around us softened. My chest doesn't feel so tight.
I don't know who he is. But I want to.