"Shit, I'm late."
The words slipped out before I could stop them, sharp and panicked, as I fumbled for my phone under the pillow. The screen glared 8:17 AM at me…seventeen minutes past my alarm. My stomach dropped.
I rolled out of bed, legs tangled in the sheets, and hit the floor with a thud that rattled my teeth. The dorm room smelled like instant coffee and the stale incense my roommate swore helped her "align her chakras." My sketchbook lay open on the desk, half-finished blueprints for the midterm project smudged where I'd fallen asleep on them.
Grabbing my bag, I shoved my laptop inside, along with a granola bar from the nightstand—breakfast of champions. My reflection in the mirror was a mess of wild brown hair and smudged eyeliner from yesterday. No time to fix it. I yanked a hoodie over my tank top, stepped into yesterday's jeans still crumpled on the floor, and bolted out the door.
The hallway was empty except for the muffled sound of someone's shower running. I took the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping over my own feet. Outside, the morning air was sharp with the scent of wet pavement—must have rained overnight. My bike was chained to the rack, the seat damp. I wiped it with my sleeve and swung my leg over, pedaling hard before I'd even fully settled. The campus blurred past, all brick buildings and sleepy students shuffling to class. My lungs burned. I could still make it.
Then I saw it—the glow. A flicker of gold, spiderwebbing across the back of a guy walking ahead of me. His shoulders were hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The cracks pulsed brighter as he slowed near a bench, his breath hitching. I knew what came next. Sure enough, he slumped onto the seat, face in his hands, his whole body shuddering. The cracks flared one last time before dissolving into nothing. He was just… broken now. The weight of whatever had been crushing him finally winning. I looked away, my grip tightening on the handlebars. It was worse when I recognized them—this guy was in my Structures class. Always sat in the back, doodling in his notebook instead of taking notes.
I skidded to a stop outside the architecture building, tossing my bike against the rack without bothering to lock it. Professor Harlow would skin me alive if I missed another critique. But as I pushed through the heavy doors, the glow caught my eye again—this time, creeping up the arm of the girl at the vending machine. Thin, branching lines, like shattered glass held together by light. She was staring blankly at the snack selection, her finger hovering over the buttons. Then, without warning, she punched the machine. Once. Twice. A can clattered into the tray. She grabbed it and walked off, her jaw clenched, the glow fading as she turned the corner.
My own hands were shaking. I flexed them, trying to ignore the memory of my mom's cracks—how they'd spiraled across her chest the night she told me Dad wasn't coming back. The way they'd pulsed, brighter and brighter, until she'd finally snapped and thrown her wine glass at the wall. No one else ever saw it. No one ever believed me when I tried to explain. So I stopped trying. But sometimes, like now, I wondered if I could reach out, say something before the cracks took over.
The clock above the lecture hall door ticked to 8:29. I swallowed hard and slipped inside, just as Harlow's voice boomed, "Ah. Ms. Carter. How kind of you to join us."
Muttering apologies, I slid into the nearest empty seat, heart hammering. My fingers twitched toward my sketchbook, but my eyes snagged on the boy two rows ahead—the one from earlier, his shoulders still slumped. No cracks now, just the rumpled collar of his hoodie and the slow tap of his pencil against his notebook. Normal. Except I knew better.
The girl beside me sniffled, and my gaze jerked sideways. A thin gold thread flickered along her wrist—small, barely there. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and scribbled something in her margins. Probably just a bad day. But I knew how it started. Little cracks first, hairline fractures. Then the dam broke.
Harlow droned on about load-bearing walls. My pen moved on autopilot, sketching arches I wouldn't remember drawing. Across the aisle, a guy cracked his knuckles, and for a second, light spiderwebbed between his fingers. My breath hitched. He rolled his neck and kept typing. Unaware. Always unaware.
The bell rang. I bolted before anyone could corner me about the midterm revisions, dodging backpacks and chatter. The hallway smelled like disinfectant and the yeasty tang of someone's forgotten lunch. I shouldered through the exit, gulping cold air.
And then I saw her.
Professor Keating, usually unshakable, stood by the bike racks, her briefcase dangling from one hand. Gold veins split her cheek, branching toward her temple like lightning. Her lips moved—no sound, just a silent conversation with herself. My feet rooted to the pavement. Keating never cracked. Never.
She blinked, and the glow vanished. Adjusted her glasses. Walked away.
I exhaled, shaky. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe—
My phone buzzed. A text from Mom: "*Can you come home this weekend?"*
Three dots. Then: "*Never mind. Forget I asked."*
My stomach twisted. I knew what that meant. Knew exactly what I'd see if I went home.
I typed "*I'll be there"* and hit send before I could chicken out.
The campus quad stretched out in front of me, all manicured grass and students lounging like nothing was wrong. Like the world wasn't full of people quietly fracturing apart. A guy jogged past, earbuds in, his sneakers pounding the pavement in perfect rhythm. No cracks. Not yet. But I'd learned—everyone had them eventually. The only difference was whether they shattered in public or alone in the dark.
My phone buzzed again. Mom: "*You don't have to."*
I clenched my jaw. That was her tell—pretending she didn't care when the cracks were already spreading. I shoved my phone in my pocket and turned toward the library. Midterms could wait. First, I needed answers.
The psychology section was on the third floor, tucked between gender studies and criminology. I skimmed the spines, fingers catching on '*The Fragmented Mind: Trauma and Perception*'. Maybe I wasn't crazy. Maybe there was a name for whatever the hell this was.
A shadow fell across the aisle. "Looking for something?"
I jumped, knocking a book off the shelf. Professor Keating—real, un-cracked Keating—caught it before it hit the floor. Her fingers were warm, steady. No trace of gold.
"Uh. Research." I gestured weakly at the shelves.
She handed me the book, her gaze sharp behind her glasses. "Interesting choice."
I swallowed. The cover stared back at me: '*Visual Hallucinations and the Brain's Deceptive Signals*.'
Her voice dropped. "You'd be surprised how many people see things others don't."
My pulse spiked. Was that a coincidence? A test?
Before I could ask, she walked away, her heels clicking against the tile.
I exhaled, shaky. Opened the book.
A slip of paper fluttered out—a handwritten note: '*Midnight. Rooftop of the old chem building. Come alone.'*
The words glowed faintly gold at the edges.
I crushed the paper in my fist.
First rule of seeing cracks: never trust them when they talk back.
But I'd be there anyway.
The note burned a hole in my pocket as I paced my dorm room, glancing at the clock every thirty seconds. 11:47 PM. My phone buzzed—another text from Liam, my boyfriend. "*You okay? You've been weird all day."* I chewed my lip, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Liam was solid, dependable, the kind of guy who brought me soup when I was sick and remembered my favorite obscure pizza toppings. But how could I explain this? "*Hey babe, so I see people's emotional breakdowns as glowing cracks and now my professor might be in on it?"* Yeah, no.
I typed back: "*Just stressed about midterms. Love you."* The lie tasted sour.
My reflection in the window scowled back at me. I missed my friends. Missed the way Zoe would throw her arm around my shoulders and yell "GROUP HUG" until the five of us collapsed into a laughing pile. But that was before colleges scattered us across the state. Before the texts got shorter, the replies took days, the group chat went silent. I'd told myself it was just life, but the cracks told a different story.
Two nights ago, a snap from Zoe's party popped up on my feed—her apartment strewn with fairy lights, everyone grinning with red plastic cups in hand. Except me. I wasn't there. I wasn't even tagged. And when I zoomed in, I saw it: golden fissures crawling up her throat as she laughed too loud at some guy's joke. The caption: '*Missed youuuu!'* A lie. The cracks always knew.
My fingers dug into my hoodie sleeves. I'd spent freshman year stitching myself into their lives—memorizing coffee orders, hosting study marathons, being the one who remembered birthdays. But somewhere between summer break and now, I'd become… optional. Like a chair they could pull up or kick aside depending on the night. My phone buzzed again—another Liam text. I silenced it.
The clock hit 11:53. Time to move. I shoved the crumpled note deeper into my pocket and crept into the hallway, the fluorescents humming overhead. The dorm was quiet except for the muffled thump of someone's bass through their door. At the stairwell, I hesitated. Going to Keating meant trusting whatever game she was playing. Staying meant pretending I didn't see the world splintering apart every damn day.
I took the stairs two at a time.
Outside, the air smelled like rain and diesel from the maintenance truck idling near the dumpsters. I kept to the shadows, my sneakers silent on the pavement. The old chem building loomed ahead, its brick facade ivy-choked and pockmarked with age. A rusted fire escape ladder hung just low enough to jump for. My fingers grazed cold metal—
"You came."
I whirled. Keating leaned against the building's corner, her blazer replaced by a hooded sweatshirt. No glasses. No briefcase. Just her, and the faintest shimmer of gold tracing her collarbone like a necklace.
"You're one of us," she said.
My breath fogged between us. "One of what?"
She smiled, slow and knowing. "The ones who see the breaks."
Somewhere in the distance, a car backfired. The sound echoed off the empty quad. I flexed my hands, suddenly aware of how small I was—how unprepared. But the note in my pocket pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Keating pushed off the wall. "You've got questions. I've got answers. But first…" She held out her palm. A single golden thread spiraled from her wrist, stretching toward me like a lifeline. "You have to admit you're tired of pretending."
The thread hovered between us, glowing.
I reached for it.
My fingers brushed the golden thread—and the world dissolved into static. The dorm, the quad, Keating's expectant face—all gone. Instead, my phone buzzed violently against my thigh, the screen flashing *Mom* in bold letters. The sound of rain on pavement rushed back into my ears, sudden and loud. I was standing outside the chem building again, alone, my hand outstretched to empty air. The thread, Keating, the moment—vanished.
I fumbled for my phone. "Hello?"
Silence. Then a shaky inhale. "Claire?" Mom's voice was thin, frayed at the edges. The way it got right before the cracks spread. "I—I didn't mean to call. It's late."
My stomach knotted. Behind me, the chem building's windows were dark, lifeless. No sign of Keating. "Mom. What's wrong?"
A pause. A rustling sound, like she was pulling a blanket tighter around herself. "Nothing. Just… missed you." A lie. The cracks always knew. "You don't have to come this weekend."
I exhaled through my nose. The note in my pocket felt heavier suddenly. Midnight had come and gone. Whatever game Keating was playing, I'd missed my cue. "I'm coming," I said, firm. "I'll take the first train tomorrow."
Another pause. Then, so quiet I almost missed it: "Thank you."
The line went dead. I stared at my phone, the call time blinking—2 minutes, 17 seconds. Long enough for the cracks to spread. Short enough to pretend everything was fine.
I turned away from the chem building, my feet carrying me toward the dorm on autopilot. The quad was empty now, just the occasional flicker of a security light. My breath came out in white puffs. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. A laugh echoed. Normal sounds. Normal night. Except nothing was normal—not since I'd started seeing the breaks.
Back in my room, I tossed my hoodie on the chair and flopped onto the bed. The ceiling had a water stain shaped like a question mark. Appropriate. My phone buzzed—Liam again. I swiped it open.
*"Sleep well, weirdo. Love you."*
A normal text. A stupid, sweet, utterly normal text. I thumbed back a heart emoji and rolled over, pressing my face into the pillow. The note crinkled in my pocket. I ignored it.
Morning came with a scream.
Not mine—some girl downstairs, high-pitched and horrified. My phone was blowing up before I even sat up. Campus-wide alert, news links, a frantic call from Liam. I blinked at the screen, sleep-glued eyes struggling to focus.
*Professor Margaret Keating, 47, found deceased in her office early this morning…*
My fingers went numb. The article blurred. Cause of death: pending investigation. But the photo—that was unmistakable. Keating's glasses askew on her desk, her coffee mug half-full. And behind her, barely visible unless you knew to look: a single golden crack spiderwebbing across the wall.
I swallowed bile.
Liam's call came again. I let it ring. Outside, sirens wailed toward the humanities building. Someone sobbed in the hallway. And all I could think was: *She knew. She damn knew.*
Now she was gone.
I yanked the note from my hoodie—the one with the rooftop meeting. The gold at the edges had faded to a dull brown, like dried blood.
I should've gone.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
*"They'll say it was a heart attack,"* the text read. "*Don't believe them."*
My breath caught. A second later:
I stared at the words. Then, slowly, the cracks in my own reflection stared back.
Morning light bled through the blinds, striping my unmade bed where I'd tossed all night. Liam's last text—*Sleep well, weirdo*—glowed accusingly on my nightstand. While I'd been grinding my teeth over lost friendships and mom guilt, Keating had been dying. Or worse: murdered. I ran a hand through my tangled hair. What kind of professor leaves a cryptic rooftop note and winds up dead twelve hours later?