Chapter 11: The Day After
Bright woke up around 11 AM, eyes half-lidded and glued to the ceiling.
The room was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that made him second-guess if the world outside still existed.
His brain took its sweet time booting up.
Did yesterday really happen?
He groaned, dragging the blanket over his head like that would somehow block out the memories.
Emily kissed him.
Twice.
His face heated just thinking about it.
Bright slammed the blanket off. Nope. He was not going to obsess over that. It was just Emily messing with him—probably some weird mind game to make him squirm.
But no matter how much he tried to shove the thought away, his mind kept circling back to the other part—the bigger part.
Emily was that Emily.
The little girl from the orphanage. The same kid he'd shielded without a second thought.
How the hell hadn't he recognized her?
Granted, chubby cheeks and bunny dolls didn't exactly scream "future headache with a gun fetish." But still—he felt like an idiot for not connecting the dots.
Bright sighed, rubbing both hands over his face. His whole life felt like a cosmic prank lately.
He sat up, legs swinging off the bed, body sluggish from oversleeping.
Step one: survive the morning.
Step two: avoid thinking too hard about anything.
Step three: wait for Emily to inevitably pop up and make everything worse.
Except...
He grabbed his phone.
No messages. No missed calls.
Weird.
Emily had a habit of either showing up or spamming his phone whenever she felt like tormenting him. The fact that she hadn't so much as sent a single grenade emoji made his stomach twist—just a little.
Maybe she was giving him space.
Maybe she was plotting something.
Both options were equally terrifying.
Bright shuffled to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and took a long shower. Hot water drummed against his sore muscles, washing away the last dregs of sleep.
By the time he emerged wrapped in a towel, his brain felt a little clearer.
He checked his phone again.
Still nothing.
Okay, now it was officially weird.
---
Bright tried not to think about it.
He sprawled out on the couch, booted up his PlayStation, and threw himself into a mindless shooting game. Hours passed as he mindlessly blasted pixelated enemies into oblivion, fingers moving on autopilot.
His stomach eventually growled loud enough to break his focus.
He sighed, padding toward the kitchen.
The fridge was depressingly empty—just a half-eaten chocolate bar, some questionable milk, and a single slice of pizza he'd been avoiding for three days.
Instant ramen it was.
While the water boiled, Bright grabbed his phone for the tenth time that day.
Nothing.
His thumb hovered over Emily's contact.
You alive?
He typed it out.
Deleted it.
Typed it again.
Deleted it again.
No way was he texting her first. That was exactly what she wanted—him squirming.
Instead, he locked the screen, tossed the phone onto the counter, and returned to his ramen like it had personally betrayed him.
---
By late afternoon, the silence had stopped feeling like peace and started feeling like pressure.
Bright paced the apartment in slow circles, chewing the inside of his cheek.
This was stupid. Emily was probably off somewhere doing whatever rich, semi-criminal weirdos did in their free time.
But that nagging voice in the back of his head wouldn't shut up.
What if something actually happened?
What if she got into trouble?
What if—
Bright shut the thought down. Emily could take care of herself. Hell, she was probably off somewhere laughing at him for worrying.
Still, the longer the hours dragged on, the heavier the silence felt.
He flopped onto the couch, grabbing a half-empty bag of chips from the coffee table.
Any second now, she'd barge through the door with some smug comment.
Any second now.
...
Nothing.
Bright scowled at the ceiling.
"I hate you," he muttered to the empty room.
---
By nightfall, he'd officially cracked.
His fingers hovered over his phone again.
You alive?
He stared at the message.
Deleted it.
Typed it again.
Deleted it again.
"Goddammit."
He sent it.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
The little typing dots appeared almost immediately.
Bright's heart skipped—not that he cared or anything.
Alive. Why? Miss me?
Bright's eye twitched.
Of course she'd act like nothing was weird.
No. Just checking if I was free from suffering.
There was a long pause before she finally replied.
You wish.
And just like that, Bright felt the knot in his chest loosen—barely.
At least she was okay.
---
He left it at that.
No teasing. No jokes.
He didn't ask where she'd been, and she didn't offer any explanations.
They both knew how their weird little game worked.
If you didn't talk about it, it didn't exist.
By the time Bright finally crawled into bed that night, the whole day felt like it had been on pause—like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for the next inevitable disaster.
He stared at the ceiling, trying not to wonder when she'd show up again.
Trying not to care that he'd spent the entire day waiting without even realizing it.
Tomorrow would be the same.
Emily would come crashing back into his life, dragging him into something weird, dangerous, or both.
And Bright would follow—because apparently, that's what he did now.
He sighed heavily, pulling the blanket over his head.
"Annoying rich girl."
His stomach grumbled.
With that final bitter thought, Bright finally drifted off—half-expecting to wake up to Emily throwing a fake grenade at his head the next morning.
Probably.