The storm weakened, not vanished. The thunder that had once rattled the windows now grumbled lazily in the distance, and the rain lost its violent claws, settling into a steady drizzle. The auditorium buzzed as teachers huddled near the stage, whispering sharply.
Finally, one of them raised her voice.
"You may all go home now. Straight home. No wandering."
A collective sigh swept the hall. Chairs scraped, bags zipped, and students funneled out in waves of chatter and laughter. Relief hung thick in the air, as if none of them wanted to admit how nervous they had been.
Beside me, Max stretched with the kind of exaggeration only someone six feet tall could pull off. His arm nearly smacked me in the head.
"Careful," I muttered, ducking.
"Not my fault you're short," he said, flashing me a grin.
"I'm not short. I'm average."
"Average is just a polite word for short."
I glared at him, my spiteful inner gremlin clawing at the bars. He knew damn well how much it annoyed me. He lived for it.
At six feet, Max was a self-proclaimed "statue of perfection." His hair always looked like it had been styled by a tornado, but somehow, it worked. His jawline wasn't sharp enough for the cover of GQ, but close enough to make him smug. A solid seven out of ten on the universal scoreboard—same as me, though he'd never admit it.
We were both narcissists in our own way, mirrors to each other's vanity. The difference was Max flaunted it, while I liked to imagine mine was more… refined.
The night air outside was damp and heavy, carrying the earthy scent storms always left behind. Water pooled in cracks along the pavement, reflecting the dim glow of the streetlights.
"So," Max said, hands stuffed in his pockets, "our parents are gone, the house is free. Guess what that means?"
"You're finally learning how to do laundry?"
"Nope. Tattoos."
I sighed. "Here we go."
"I'm serious. Think about it—the perfect time. No moms, no dads, no one to yell. Just two legends immortalizing themselves in ink."
"You mean you immortalizing yourself. I'm not joining your midlife crisis two decades early."
Max ignored me, rolling up his sleeve to flex his bicep as if he were already imagining it. "Dragon wrapping around the arm. The ultimate chick magnet."
"You'd attract more mosquitoes than girls," I said.
He jabbed a finger at me. "And you? Don't act like you've never thought about it. I know you. You'd want something dramatic. Wings on your back, maybe. Something that screams main character energy."
I stiffened. He wasn't wrong. Ever since binging Attack on Titan, I'd secretly pictured the Wings of Freedom tattooed across my shoulder blades. But no way was I giving him the satisfaction of being right.
"Yeah, because nothing says responsible adult like giant wings across your back," I muttered. "Great plan. Totally won't regret that in twenty years."
"You'd regret not doing it," he countered, smug as ever.
I kicked a puddle in his direction, splashing his jeans. "Keep talking and I'll tattoo loser across your forehead myself."
He laughed, the sound too loud for the quiet street. We bickered the whole way home, trading barbs and insults, both of us pretending the storm had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
When we reached the corner where our routes split, Max gave me a mock salute.
"Later, short king. Don't cry yourself to sleep tonight."
"Later, giraffe. Try not to get your head stuck in any ceilings."
We went our separate ways, and the street grew too quiet without him.
My house sat dark, waiting. I slipped inside, shoes dripping across the floor. The silence was heavy, but familiar. My parents had already left yesterday for their joint trip with Max's family—two weeks of peace, freedom, and probably questionable food choices.
My phone buzzed before I reached the stairs.
Mom: Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay? Heard the storm was bad around your school.
I stared at the screen. No way was I telling her about the evacuation. She'd panic, call the school, call Max's mom, and turn it into a full-scale investigation.
Me: Yeah, I'm fine. Just some rain. Nothing serious.
A pause.
Mom: That's good. Make sure you eat. And please don't drag Max into any trouble. He's a nice boy, but he can be easily influenced.
I nearly choked on my own spit. Max—a nice boy? If only she knew.
I typed back quickly.
Me: Relax, I'm fine. Love you.
The irony wasn't lost on me. My mom thought Max was the saint and I was the devil on his shoulder. Meanwhile, Max's parents thought I was the golden child and their son was the corrupted one. If only the truth had witnesses.
Shoving the thought aside, I trudged upstairs. My room was as I'd left it—messy but mine. I peeled off my damp clothes, threw on something comfortable, and collapsed onto my bed.
The mattress groaned beneath me, familiar and warm. Phone in hand, I scrolled through endless posts, half-reading, half-thinking.
The storm felt like a memory already, something fading into the background of an ordinary night.
I didn't know then how wrong I was.
*Author note*
Hey guys, your favorite author here!
If you're enjoying the story so far, let me kno I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Got any suggestions? Feel free to share them!
And if you'd like to see your own character appear in the story, drop a comment and I'll see what I can do.