Chapter 0: The Beach That Never Was
I remember the beach.
It wasn't just a beach—more like someone had glued an amusement park and a summer island onto it. A postcard too bright to be real, all stitched together with heat haze and seafoam.
The sky was cotton-candy soft.
The waves glittered like sequins.
The kind of place that shouldn't exist.
And maybe never did.
There were six of us.
The girl with the wind-chime bracelets walked like she was chasing echoes in the tide. Her sunglasses never slipped—not even when clouds rolled in like bruises.
The one with lavender headphones sketched the sky in a salt-stained notebook, music leaking softly into the breeze. She only cried when no one was supposed to notice.
The boy with the camera stayed behind the lens. He caught cannonball splashes, tangled towels, sunscreen smiles, and mid-laugh faces—but somehow, he never ended up in the footage.
The loud one cast jokes like spells. He laughed even louder when the tide started pulling things away. He made everything a game, even the sad parts.
The boy in the hoodie always forgot something—sunscreen, flip-flops, names. But when he smiled, it felt like you'd been remembered.
And then there was me.
The barefoot girl with frizzy braids and too much sunlight in her laugh.
I laughed like I could hold the whole moment in place.
We didn't arrive at the same time. Or maybe we did.
I just remember him first.
The boy with too-long sleeves and a quiet voice.
He smiled like we'd known each other forever.
And maybe we had.
We belonged.
We laughed like idiots.
Shared snacks with wet, sandy fingers.
Played splash fights. Made sand art. Pushed each other into the foam.
I laughed too loud.
He didn't mind.
We watched the sun burn down like it owed us something.
Then we rode a train. Or maybe a subway.
Maybe just a tunnel with windows.
He forgot his wallet.
We laughed.
I told him to be more careful.
He said, "It's fine. I'll catch up."
But when we saw him again, something had changed.
He didn't speak.
He didn't look at me.
None of them did.
Like someone had taken scissors to the invisible string between us and just… snipped.
The beach was gone.
Now we were in a city.
Grey skies. A bus.
The girl with the wind-chime bracelets was crying so hard she couldn't speak. Her headphones were tangled in her hair.
The one with sunglasses stared out the window like it had answers. Her sketchbook was blank as her thoughts.
I sat between them.
Hands folded.
Waiting for someone to say it. Anything.
I sat between them like I didn't know how to exist anymore.
But no one said anything.
Something had shifted.
Strings had snapped.
We walked through streets I didn't recognize.
I tried to catch his eye—just once.
The boy who forgot his wallet.
He looked past me.
***
I woke up.
They weren't real.
Just a dream version of something I wished for.
Not the bracelets. Not the sketchbook.
Not the boy who forgot things just to be remembered.
Not the one behind the lens. Not the one who laughed too loud.
But the silence? The drifting? The part where it all faded?
The loss?
I've felt that before.
That was real enough.
Not the friends. Just the ending.
Sweaty sheets. City fan spinning.
Dull morning sun slipping between my curtains.
My throat ached—like I'd been yelling underwater.
It wasn't entirely a memory. Just a few bits and pieces.
But it felt like one. Like my mind had dressed the truth in prettier places.
My chest felt heavy.
I'd had friends once. Close ones.
At least, I thought they were close.
Until the silence started. Until they moved on. Until I stopped asking why.
Sometimes people just drift.
No reason. No fight.
Just space where closeness used to be.
I shook it off. Pulled on a hoodie. Slipped into sandals.
Just going to the corner store. I needed eggs.
Maybe instant noodles.
On the way back, I crossed the road at the light.
Two girls walked ahead—deep in their own world.
Laughing. Sharing earbuds. Twirling cheap bracelets.
Behind them, three boys trailed.
One walked backward, cracking dumb jokes only he found funny.
One filmed it all on his phone, grinning.
Another tossed his wallet in the air and caught it, lazy and easy.
I don't think I saw them, and I'm not sure if they saw me either.
But something was familiar.
Maybe I forgot.
I just walked past. Grocery bag swinging against my leg.
A dream fading behind my eyes.
For a second, I thought I felt it again.
The sun on my face. The taste of salt.
And someone calling my name.
But it was just wind.
Chapter 1: Just Mildly Irritating
I woke up before my alarm.
No reason. Just the kind of early where the sky's still grey and nothing moves yet.
Not the ceiling fan. Not the street outside.
Not even me, for a while.
I lay there—half-awake, not quite rested.
My throat felt dry.
My chest felt full, like I'd cried in my sleep and forgotten why.
Eventually, I sat up.
There was a crack near the corner of the ceiling.
A fly buzzed near the window, smug and aimless.
The mirror didn't feel like mine yet.
Too clean. Too clear. Too unfamiliar.
I splashed water on my face. Brushed my teeth. Pulled a hoodie over my tank top.
There were still boxes, half-unpacked.
A small cactus on the windowsill.
A welcome pamphlet from the college, already crumpled. Probably stepped on.
I moved here 3 days ago.
New city. New school.
A new chance to matter, maybe. Or at least get seen.
The apartment was quiet, except for the fridge humming like it had something to say.
I made toast. Ate it standing. The butter was too cold.
I left the crusts like I always did.
Only this time, no one was around to complain.
I rinsed my plate and grabbed my bag.
The walk to the station wasn't long.
Pigeons scattered when I stepped too close.
A kid zoomed past on a scooter, shouting to someone behind him.
They both laughed. It echoed briefly, then disappeared into the buildings.
Groups of students were already heading the same direction.
I kept my head down. Earbuds in.
No music playing. Just something to block out the rest of the world.
Some part of me kept hoping someone would notice.
But I didn't make it easy. I never really do.
The closer I got to the station, the more the air shifted—city sounds growing sharper, steps falling into the same rhythm.
The metro was crowded in that polite way—shoulders close, no one talking.
A woman with sharp eyeliner read a paperback with a cracked spine.
A guy in a varsity jacket leaned against the door, yawning into his sleeve.
I didn't stare.
Just watched the city blink by—graffiti. Old billboards. Laundry hanging on high balconies.
Everything looked like it had been here long before me… and would keep going long after.
That thought stayed with me as the metro slowed and the station gave way to the campus gates.
The college gate looked like something from a brochure.
Iron curves. White stone steps. Ivy climbing up like it had nowhere else to go.
There was a fountain that half-worked—bubbling on one side, choking on wet leaves on the other.
Groups had already formed.
Girls taking selfies under the arch.
Two boys with guitars, one trying to balance his awkwardly on his back.
Someone handing out flyers with way too much energy for this early in the morning.
No one looked at me. That was fine.
I walked through the gate like I belonged.
The admin block smelled like fresh printouts and floor polish.
A woman at the desk handed me an ID card without looking up.
"Room 203," she said. "Illustration orientation is in Hall 02. Up the stairs, then right."
I nodded. "Thanks," I said—too softly—and walked on.
The hallway was painted a too-bright yellow.
My shoes squeaked once. I pretended they didn't.
It took me several minutes to find the hall.
Found a seat near the edge. Not at the back—but not at the front either.
Safe middle.
People filtered in, chatting and laughing.
A boy dropped his pen. Someone else picked it up.
A girl complimented someone's shoes while twirling her hair like a movie scene.
People looked at me sometimes, and I smiled back.
Not because I wanted to. It was just habit. A leftover reflex from years of pretending.
No one sat next to me. Not even after the row filled up.
I didn't blame them. I probably looked like I wanted it that way.
A professor started speaking at the front—tall, button-down shirt with sleeves rolled too high—started talking. Something about futures. Possibilities. Journeys, maybe. I didn't really hear the rest.
I was too busy wondering why my chest still felt heavy.
Like part of me hadn't fully woken up yet. Or maybe it hadn't caught up yet.
Like my body made it here, but the rest of me was still on a train platform or curled up in bed, waiting.
Whatever it was, it pressed against my ribs like a hand laid flat. Quiet and constant.
When the break was finally called, everyone stood at once like they'd been holding their breath. Voices spilled into the hallway, the kind of overlapping noise that makes you feel lonelier when you're already alone.
I slipped out before the crowd grew teeth.
There was a window down the end of the corridor, half-fogged and dusty. I sat by it. Not facing out, not sketching, not even thinking. Just sitting. Breathing slowly, like that would somehow pull the rest of me back together.
My pen hovered near my sleeve, finishing a fern between faded ink stars I'd drawn earlier—when a shadow fell across the floor.
I looked up. Blinking once. Twice.
A girl stood there, head tilted slightly, like she was trying to figure me out before deciding how to speak.
Her hair—a mix of silver and black dyed strands—was a soft mess, like she didn't care if the wind won. Her bracelets clinking lazily in the wind. She had this look in her eyes—not unkind, just sharp, like she could see through people and still decide to stay.
She held out her hand.
"Hi," she said.
Simple. Direct. No fake cheer, no overexplanation.
Her eyes were clear. Honest. The kind that didn't deceive.
I blinked again. Looked at her hand. Then at her face.
She wasn't loud or dramatic. She didn't have the kind of presence that made everyone turn.
Just a girl—shoulder-length hair, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and a line of bracelets stacked up one arm. One of them caught the light and jingled softly, like a wind chime in the corner of an empty room. Her earrings didn't match. One dangled, the other was just a stud. She wore it like a statement.
"Hi," I said, quieter.
It wasn't my usual reflex smile this time.
It was real. Hesitant. But real.
"I'm Joanna Williams," she said, stepping closer to sit beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You looked like you needed someone non-annoying to sit near you. Lucky for you, I'm only mildly irritating."
I gave a small laugh before I meant to.
She grinned like she'd just won something.
The silence that followed didn't feel heavy. Just there. Simple.
She slid into the seat beside me without a word, thumbs tapping across her phone. I glimpsed sheet music for a second before she minimized it and typed something else—probably texting. Her bracelet jingled softly every few seconds. Like a background melody for this strange moment.
Then she asked, without looking up, "You an illustration major?"
I nodded.
Joanna grinned. "Ugh, you have the same 'don't bother me, I'm making art' aura as a certain emotionally repressed sketch gremlin I know."
I let out another breath-laugh. A bit steadier this time.
She leaned her head back against the wall. "First days suck. But you made it. That's something."
That stuck with me for some reason.
You made it. Not "You'll be fine" or "You'll love it here."
Just... you made it.
Like she wasn't promising anything shiny or fake. Just acknowledging that I had survived enough to sit here, now.
A few voices passed in the hall. A small group, chatting, laughing.
Among them—a girl.
She glanced toward our corner. Her eyes lit up when she spotted Joanna. A quick smile flickered across her face.
Then she noticed me.
Her smile faltered, just slightly—like she was trying to place me in the picture and wasn't sure why I was already in it.
Joanna didn't explain. She just tilted her head and gave the subtlest nod.
And the girl, without missing a beat, broke off from the others and started walking our way.
"Alright, dreamy girl. If you don't have any enemies yet, that's your cue to get some."
She swung her bag over one shoulder, then paused.
"What's your name, anyway?"
I hesitated. "…Isabelle. Isabelle Bennett"
Joanna grinned, like it fit. "Figures."
Before I could ask what that meant, footsteps padded near. The girl with lavender headphones resting over her neck and an oversized hoodie peeked around the corner—sketchbook clutched to her chest like a shield.
Joanna turned slightly. "Hey, Lilith."
The girl's eyes flicked from Joanna to me. She smiled faintly, confused but curious.
Joanna didn't elaborate. Just nodded toward the space beside us. "Come on."
Lilith drifted over without a word, settling beside her like it was muscle memory.
Something about the way they stood—close but not clingy, quiet but sure—made it obvious. They weren't strangers.
Joanna started walking, casual and certain. Then looked back.
"You coming, Isabelle?"
The way she said my name—now that she actually knew it—still made something flutter in my ribs.
I stood. Grabbed my bag. And followed.
Not because I had to.
Because maybe—just maybe—something in me had been waiting to be seen.