I jolted awake, eyes snapping open as I scanned the room. My room. Familiar walls, familiar silence.
Was I really that drunk last night? I wondered, sitting up slowly.
I don't even remember coming home.
But the memory of drinking too much didn't sit right.
I hadn't gone that far. Had I?... Maybe someone spiked my drink, I thought, unease creeping in.
Strangely, I felt... refreshed. My body was light, my mind clear. But then, flashes of last night flickered behind my eyes—distorted, painful, surreal.
I ran my hands over my arms, my face, my torso. No bruises. No soreness. Just the ghost of something awful.
That dream... I whispered aloud, shivering at the memory.
It was terrifying. The pain felt so real.
Then a distorted silhouette surfaced in my mind.
Who was that in my dream? What happened?
The images were twisted, perverse—nothing I'd ever consciously imagined.
Am I frustrated or something? Why would I dream that? And with a faceless man? I muttered, trying to make sense of it.
I didn't even like it like that or... did I? Maybe I was just lonely. I need a love life, I sighed.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand—but collapsed to the floor, legs buckling beneath me. My head spun.
Still hungover, I mumbled, brushing it off.
I woke before my alarm, the stillness of morning settling around me like a thin fog. I dismissed it before it could break the quiet, then leaned against the bed, grounding myself. My hands moved on autopilot, smoothing the sheets with half-hearted precision.
In the bathroom, I rinsed the sleep from my mouth, the cold water biting but not quite waking me. I shuffled into the kitchen, drawn by the low hum of the fridge and the vague hope of leftovers—anything fast, familiar, and edible.
A packet of sausage hotdogs caught my eye.
Good enough.
I grabbed a pan and set it on the stove, waiting for it to heat while I fished out scissors from the top drawer to open the packet. Once the pan was hot, I added a splash of oil and dropped the sausages in, the sizzle breaking the morning silence.
After breakfast, I washed the dishes and headed back to my room to get ready for school. I grabbed my usual casual outfit—blue jeans and a checkered, short-sleeved turtleneck—and laid it out on the bed. After brushing my teeth and taking a quick shower, I began to get dressed.
As I stood in front of the mirror, something caught my eye. Just below my abdomen, barely visible against my skin, was a faint marking. I leaned closer.
What the hell...?
It looked like a tattoo—skin-toned, almost blending in, but definitely there. I reached down and touched it, half-expecting it to vanish like a smudge. It didn't.
Did I seriously get a tattoo last night?
I racked my brain, trying to recall anything from the night before. Blank. No wild parties, no shady tattoo parlors. Just... nothing.
What did I even drink? This isn't me.
I shook my head, groaning.
Never again. No more alcohol. Ever.
I stared at the mirror, trying to make sense of the shape. It looked like a butterfly—delicate, symmetrical, almost... alive. I traced my fingers over it again, and a sudden warmth bloomed beneath my skin. Startled, I pulled my hand away.
I sighed, frustration bubbling up.
I wasn't even that drunk. So what the hell happened?
Regret settled in like a fog.
After drying my hair and giving myself one last glance in the mirror—half hoping the mark had vanished—I grabbed my keys.
I started the car, waited for the engine to warm up, then pulled out of the driveway and headed toward the uni, the mystery still burning quietly beneath my skin.
By the time I stepped through the school doors, the buzz of campus life had already begun. Students milled about, voices echoing off the tiled walls.
"Morning, Mille!" my friend called out, waving from across the hall.
"Hey, morning Mikee! How are you feeling after last night?" I asked.
Honestly, I must've been completely hammered—I have zero memory of what went down.
"Great! Do you remember Jameson? The guy I told you about?" she asked, eyes already sparkling.
Jameson Wyatt. Business major, universally liked, campus heartthrob—and now the star of Mikee's latest obsession spiral. It started a few weeks ago, but things escalated quickly after her near-death experience at the crosswalk.
Mikee, true to form, was glued to her phone while crossing the street—yes, she knows it's dumb; no, she hasn't stopped. A car came barreling toward her, and in her breathless retelling, Jameson appeared out of nowhere, pulled her into his arms, and saved her life like some slow-motion rom-com hero.
She swears he looked dazzling. Like a literal savior. And to be fair... he kind of was. But ever since that moment, she's been in full-blown infatuation mode—heart-eyes, daydreams, and casually rearranging her schedule to "accidentally" bump into him between classes.
"Yeah, of course. What about him?"
"Well... I told him I'm into him—and guess what? He said he feels the same way!" she squealed, practically bouncing.
Guess her efforts paid off.
"Oh wow! That's amazing. Good for you!" I said, genuinely happy for her.
"Thanks! I can finally graduate from solo fantasies. Now someone can actually join me," she said, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Right, because that's what relationships are all about—intercourse and escalating your stalking from online to real life," I teased.
"Shut up! He doesn't need to know all that," she said with a wink.
"You crazy," I laughed.
She burst out laughing too.
"So, are you two like... hooking up now or what?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
She grinned. "We decided to start with dating first—see where it goes."
"Aww, I can already hear wedding bells and tiny feet running around calling me Auntie," I teased.
She smacked my arm. "Shut up!"
I burst out laughing again, and she followed suit, laughter spilling out before either of us could stop it.
Mikee leaned in and nudged me. "What about you?" she asked, eyes twinkling.
"What about me, what?" I replied, raising an eyebrow.
"You and... Bzzzz, huh?" Her lips moved clearly, but the name came through like static in my ear—fuzzy, indecipherable.
I blinked. "Wait, who?"
"Bzzzz," she repeated, grinning like she knew something I didn't.
I nodded slowly, pretending to follow, while my brain scrambled to fill in the blank.
"What about it?" I asked, genuinely confused.
"You said you were heading to the washroom, and next thing I saw, you two were walking out together. I waited for you, but you never came back. So... what happened, huh?" Her eyebrows danced with anticipation.
What is she talking about?
What happened last night?
I searched my memory, and a hazy flashback flickered to life—me heading to the washroom, the music muffled behind the door. As I stepped out, I bumped into someone. They were clearly wasted, swaying like a leaf in the wind.
"Hey, you okay... Bzzzz?" I had asked.
That sound again. The name—buzzing, distorted, like static in my brain.
I couldn't make out their face. Just fragments. A hand reaching toward me. My fingers gripping theirs, and—
Cold.
Ice cold.
Their touch sent a shiver down my spine.
Whoa.
I fumbled for my phone, hands slightly trembling, and dialed for a taxi.
"Bzzzz. Taxi's on the way. Can you walk out on your own?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
They staggered forward, dazed and barely coherent. Instinct took over—I slipped an arm around their shoulders, startled by the chill of their skin. It clung to my fingers like frost. I guided them gently toward the curb, each step slow and uncertain, as if the ground itself resisted us.
The taxi pulled up, headlights slicing through the dark like a spotlight on our mess. I opened the door and helped them into the back seat, careful not to let them fall.
"Hi, sir. Sorry—my friend's really drunk. Just give me a minute," I said to the driver, who glanced at me through the rearview mirror but said nothing.
No words. Just silence.
"Okay..." I muttered, brushing off the awkwardness.
Turning to the slumped figure beside me, I asked, "Bzzzt... where's your wallet? I need to tell the driver your address."
A low, incoherent grumble was all I got.
I sighed and checked their bag—nothing. Then, hesitantly, I reached into the back pocket of their jeans. There it was. I tugged them slightly toward me, pulled out the wallet, and flipped it open.
Inside is an ID, blurred, and the name is unreadable. But the address was clear enough. I relayed it to the driver and pulled out a few bills to cover the fare.
"Bzzzz... hey, I'm heading out now. You'll be okay on your own, right?" I asked, though I knew they couldn't answer. Their head lolled to the side, eyes half closed.
I didn't want to be responsible for them. Not tonight.
But as I try to remember who they were, my mind refuses to cooperate. Their voice—gone. Their face—warped, like a corrupted image file. Every detail slips through my fingers like water.
What is happening?
A dull ache pulses behind my eyes. I rub my temple, hoping to soothe the pounding. But the harder I try to remember, the more distorted it becomes.
"Hey, are you okay?" Mikee asked, her tone shifting from playful to concerned. "I just asked about last night and you look like you're about to pass out. Did something happen? Did Bzzzz do something to you?"
"No—yeah, I'm fine," I said, still rubbing my temple. "I'm just having trouble piecing things together. Last night's a blur, and now my head's buzzing like a broken speaker. I'll be alright."
Mikee narrowed her eyes. "You sure? You're looking kinda pale."
"Really? Is it that bad?" I asked, trying to smile but feeling the weight behind my eyes. "Do I look terrible?"
"Very," she said bluntly. "But if you say you're fine, I'll back off... for now. Just know I'm not done with this conversation."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I muttered, rolling my eyes.
Instant regret. The motion sent a fresh wave of pain pulsing through my skull.
We headed into our classroom and slid into our usual seats—first and second lane, third row from the back. The bell hadn't rung yet, so we filled the time with chatter: homework, weekend plans, Mikee's blossoming love life, my tragically nonexistent one, and whatever else came to mind.
Suddenly, someone approached us.
Axton Gatlin.
He used to be part of our little crew—me, Mikee, him, and Wilde. The four of us were inseparable in high school. But after Axton and Wilde had that falling out, everything changed. Wilde went abroad, and Axton drifted away. Even though we still go to the same university and share a few classes, we haven't really spoken since.
"Hey," he said, voice awkward and unsure.
Mikee didn't even look at him.
"Hey," I replied, curious why he'd suddenly decided to talk to us after all this time.
"Oh, um... just wanted to ask how you guys are," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"We're okay. You?" I returned.
"Yeah, I'm good," he said, though he didn't sound convinced.
A long silence settled between us.
"So... what's up?" I asked, trying to break the tension.
"Oh, nothing much," he said, trailing off. Then his eyes flicked to me. "Mille, about last night..."
My ears perked up.
Last night? Does he know something?
My curiosity surged.
"Yeah?" I urged, leaning in slightly.
But just then, Jameson walked into the room. Mikee stood to wave at him, then sat back down, her eyes narrowing at Axton with a look that could curdle milk.
Axton caught the glare. "I guess I'll talk to you later," he muttered before turning and walking away.
"Wait—" I started, but Mikee grabbed my arm.
"Don't even," she said firmly.
"What's your problem?" I asked.
"Seriously? After he ghosted us and never explained why he ditched the group or what happened with Wilde, you're just gonna talk to him like none of that mattered?"
"It's not like that," I said. "He mentioned something about last night. I thought maybe he knows something about my fragmented memories... or maybe he was involved."
"I doubt it," she said flatly. "I saw him at the barbecue place most of the time. He was sitting near our table."
I raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And how exactly do you know that? Were you watching him the whole time?"
"You—!" I pointed at her, grinning. "Still got a soft spot for him, huh?"
"No!" she blurted, loud enough to make a few heads turn in our direction.
I waved off the stares and leaned in, amused.
"No," she repeated, this time quieter, more composed. "It's not like that. I like Jameson now."
"Okay, okay," I said gently. "I get it. You care about Axton... just like I do. Even if he's not part of our circle anymore. And... those old feelings..."
I trailed off, watching her face shift—serious now, where there was usually a smile.
She didn't say anything. Just looked away.
Her silence said everything.
And just like that, I was pulled back into my own thoughts, the noise of the room fading as the questions in my head grew louder.
Did something happen with Axton last night?
The question echoed, louder now, refusing to be ignored. I tried to reach for the memory, but nothing surfaced. Just static. I could feel the pressure building behind my eyes, threatening to turn into a full-blown headache if I kept pushing.
Let it go for now, I told myself. Breathe.
I turned to Mikee, trying to shift the mood.
"By the way," I said, raising an eyebrow, "aren't you supposed to be sitting with your boyfriend?"
She glanced at me and sighed, the corners of her mouth tugging into a half-smile.
"Nah," she said with a shrug. "I'm sitting with you today. Don't want you feeling all lonely."
Classic Mikee—always knowing.
That's what I love about her. She rolls with me, no questions asked. Supportive, steady. We just get each other.
I chuckled. "Wow. I'm touched. But seriously?"
She grinned. "I'll see him at lunch. You've got me for now."
The instructor entered, and the room snapped to attention. Everyone shuffled back to their seats, conversations dissolving into silence.
Just as the room settled, the door creaked open—and in walked Nate Caine, one of the school's most talked-about guys. He was infamous for three things—a face that looked like it was carved by angels, a textbook case of OCD, and a personality that could sour fresh milk.
He strode in with his trademark scowl, eyes sweeping the room like he was auditing souls. Then—his gaze locked onto mine. Just for a second. Sharp. Intentional.
And then it was gone. He turned away and dropped into the seat directly in front of us.
Something twisted in my chest. That look—it stirred something. Unsettling. Like a warning dressed up as curiosity.
Weird, I thought.
What was that feeling?
I watched him for a moment.
Okay, yeah. He's stupidly good-looking.
Too bad that face came prepackaged with that personality.
A tragic waste of symmetry.
I made a face—equal parts disappointed and vaguely entertained.
Class dragged on. Nothing exciting. Just the usual blah-blah lectures and doodles in the margins. Eventually, the bell rang again—lunch time.
Mikee and I headed toward the cafeteria. The moment she spotted Jameson, she veered off and grabbed his arm, tugging him toward me. I, however, made a beeline straight for the menu board.
"Can you at least wait for me, you foodie?" she called out, still dragging Jameson behind her like a reluctant puppy.
I scanned the options, eyes landing on a steaming bowl of something that looked halfway decent.
Hmm. That'll do, I thought, already stepping toward the register.
Mikee finally caught up, Jameson in tow, and slid in beside me in line.
"Geez. Can't you wait for me for once?" she grumbled.
"I'm hungover and starving. The beast must be fed," I said, rubbing my stomach like it owed me something.
"Wow. Priorities. Shouldn't I be your first priority instead of food?" she teased.
"Sorry, girl. You don't look that appetizing," I shot back with a smirk.
"Ouch! My feelings!" she gasped, clutching her chest in mock pain.
I pointed at Jameson. "Looks like you've got your priorities sorted too."
Jameson just smiled at me while Mikee hugged his arm.
"Guess you're right," she giggled, gazing up at him.
I faked a dramatic gag. She smacked my arm.
Later that day, class ended and I started packing up my stuff, sliding books and papers into my bag.
"Hey, you're coming Friday, right?" Mikee asked, popping up out of nowhere.
"Coming where?" I said, blinking at her.
"The get-together. Don't tell me you forgot," she said, hands on hips.
"I barely know half our classmates from high school. Why would I go?" I raised an eyebrow.
"To drink and party, duh," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"No thanks. I literally promised myself I wouldn't drink again after blacking out last night. Not happening." I shook my head for emphasis.
"Then don't drink. Just come party. Maybe pick someone up and finally get yourself a love life," she teased, hugging my arm.
I clamped my mouth shut and shook my head like a stubborn toddler. "Mmm-mmm."
"Pretty please?" she said, fluttering her lashes dramatically.
"Ugh," I groaned. "If you stop doing that, I might consider it."
"Deal," she said, releasing my arm and standing up straight like she'd just won a negotiation.
Mikee and I parted ways—she headed off for her date with Jameson, and I went straight home. The moment I stepped into my apartment, I dropped my bag onto the bedroom floor and collapsed onto the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Long day, I thought.
As I lay there, unmoving, my mind began to drift—slipping back to that night. I closed my eyes, trying to sharpen the edges of the memory, to bring it into focus.
Music—muffled. A hand reaching. It was cold. Ice cold. And "Bzzzz?"—the name static. There's silence and then fragments. The ground resisted us. His ID picture was blurry with an unreadable name.
Then more—
His feet dragging. There was a keychain serpent, with cold metal. No warmth. More discomfort. A chill crept over me. Then came the shadow, looming. I turned around but was too late.
I sat up suddenly, heart pounding. That feeling—like prey. Like something had marked me. The memory was still fractured, but the fear was crystal clear.
I was circling something. Close. But not quite touching it. Like reaching for a shape in the fog—almost there, but it kept slipping through my fingers
I shook my head, trying to shake it off. A cold shower might help.
I stripped off my clothes, tossed them into the laundry basket, and stepped into the shower. The water hit me like ice, and I shivered. But as it soaked into my skin, the chill began to soothe me. The fear ebbed, slowly, like fog lifting.
After the shower, I dried off, wrapped myself in a robe, and padded over to grab my pajamas. Fatigue crept in, heavy and unrelenting. I turned off the overhead light, flicked on the lamp, and let sleep take me.
"Bzzzz... hey, I'm heading out now. You'll be okay on your own, right?" I had asked, knowing full well he couldn't answer. His head had lolled to the side, eyes barely open.
I hadn't wanted to be responsible for him. Not that night.
"Okay, I'm going," I'd said, reaching for the car door.
But before I could close it, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.
I flinched, tried to shake him off, but he wouldn't let go.
I sighed, frustrated. "Fine," I muttered, pushing him back inside.
I climbed in too, slammed the door shut, and the driver pulled away. Half an hour later, we arrived.
I dragged him out of the car with a grunt.
"Haa... Hey! At least try to stand," I said, breathless.
My gosh, I thought, half dragging, half guiding him into the building.
We reached the elevator. I set him down on the floor, catching my breath before pressing the button. The ID said 11th floor. I sighed, already exhausted.
The elevator doors opened—
—and I blinked at the ceiling. Morning light filtered through the curtains. My body felt heavy, like I'd actually hauled someone up eleven floors.
Another day, another headache. That dream again—clinging like fog to the edges of my mind.
Two days had slipped by since Mikee's date. Now it was Friday, though the week felt like one long, indistinct blur. Each day stitched itself to the next with the same uneasy thread, like something unseen was watching from just beyond the veil of memory.
As I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, a thought surfaced—faint, but persistent. The get-together Mikee had mentioned.
I sighed.
That was today.
More socializing. Great. Time to brace for awkward small talk and forced smiles, I told myself.
Evening rolled in, and I started getting ready.
Ding!
My phone lit up with a message from Mikee—she'd sent the address. I kept getting dressed, catching a glimpse of the tattoo on my stomach in the mirror. I shook my head and looked away.
Once I was ready, I headed out to the driveway and drove to the location she'd sent.
When I arrived, Mikee was already waiting at the door. She waved as I walked up.
"Where's your boyfriend? Didn't come with him?" I asked.
"Oh, he dropped me off," she said. "Felt out of place staying—he doesn't know anyone from our class."
"Wow. How considerate," I said, mockingly. "Didn't seem to matter when I told you I barely know anyone either."
"You're different. He's different," she shrugged.
"Where does your loyalty lie? Disappointing," I teased.
"Obviously with you. That's why you're here," she said with a grin.
"You and I clearly see things differently," I laughed.
"And that's exactly why we're friends," she laughed back.
We stepped into the restaurant and headed straight to the counter. After telling them we were part of the class reunion, they led us to the reserved room tucked in the back.
Inside, it was a flurry of greetings—smiles, waves, hugs. I plastered on my best polite grin, nodding at everyone who acknowledged me. My cheeks were already twitching from overuse. Mikee dove into conversation with people she knew, while I quietly slipped into a seat.
I'm already exhausted, I sighed inwardly.
I scanned the room, searching for familiar faces. A few stood out—former classmates, vaguely recognizable. When their eyes met mine, I offered a small nod, a light "hello," and another practiced smile.
My gaze drifted to the banquet table off to the side. I stood, grabbed a plate, and loaded it with food. A glass of wine followed.
I was mid-bite, focused on chewing and sipping, when someone slid into the seat beside me. I glanced over—and nearly choked.
I coughed hard, wine threatening to spray everywhere. I grabbed my glass and downed what was left, still sputtering. The person handed me another drink—also wine—and I gulped it down like it was medicine. Finally, I took a deep breath.
"Huu. I almost died just now. Thanks," I muttered, wiping my mouth with the napkin laid neatly in front of me.
Then I turned—and froze.
Of course.
Nate. Freaking. Caine.
What the hell was he doing here? I didn't remember him ever going to my school.
I gave him an awkward smile. He stared back with his usual unreadable expression—but something in his eyes felt... different.
I stole a few glances as he continued to look at me, now fully facing me. I decided to pretend he wasn't there and focused on stuffing my face with food.
He stayed quiet. Just sat there.
Why is he sitting here?
Please go away, I begged silently.
There's something about him—something that always throws me off. And it's never a good feeling.
Just go away, I thought.
But my eyes kept drifting back to him anyway. He was still watching me—quiet, unreadable.
What is it with him and staring?
I cleared my throat. "Didn't expect to see you here," I said, aiming for casual, but it came out brittle.
He looked away.
That ticked me off.
Seriously? You sit next to me, stare like a statue, and now you're ignoring me? Why even show up? With your OCD, this place should be your personal nightmare.
"I thought you hated me," he said, voice low.
I raised an eyebrow. "Not really. You just make people uncomfortable. And your personality's kind of... insufferable."
He shrugged, unfazed. "I hear that a lot."
Then, almost like an afterthought, he said, "I'm Nate."
I let out a short laugh. "I know who you are. Everyone at the university knows you."
He finally looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Yeah. I figured."
"You're like campus folklore. The guy who never talks, never smiles, and still manages to show up in every group photo like some kind of academic cryptid."
The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. "People talk. Doesn't mean I care."
"You don't care that everyone's watching you?"
"I'm used to it," he said. "They watch, they speculate. None of it means they actually know me."
That threw me off. I wasn't expecting him to say that.
"Okay..." I said slowly.
"I'm just not very sociable," he added, finally glancing at me.
Hmm.
There was a pause. His gaze lingered a little longer this time, like he was trying to read something in my face.
"What's your name?" he asked. "You never said."
I blinked. Had I really not?
"Aemilius," I said. "Most people just call me Mille."
He nodded slowly, like he was filing it away somewhere important.
"Aemilius," he repeated, testing it out. "Doesn't sound like someone who backs down easily."
"Right. So why talk to me now? I thought silence was your thing."
He hesitated. Just for a second.
"Nothing," he said. "Just wondering if you've been... feeling anything different lately."
There was a flicker of something in his eyes—quick, but unmistakable.
Why is he asking that?
And what's with that look?
"Why are you asking?" I said, my voice sharpening.
"If not, then never mind," he said quickly, brushing it off.
But that only made me more curious.
That question—"feeling anything different?"—lingered in my mind like a splinter.
It pulled me back to last night.
I still couldn't piece together what happened after I helped that drunk guy into the taxi. Everything after that was a blur—no memory of how I got home, no sense of time passing. Just blank space.
And now Nate's been acting strange. Cryptic, almost weird. Asking if I've "felt anything different lately." What does that even mean?
Then there's Axton—bringing up last night like it was supposed to mean something.
Something's off. I can feel it. But I'm still in the dark.
It was confusing. And unsettling.
"Hey, about last night—" I started, but before I could finish, he stood up and walked away.
Gone. Just like that.
I groaned internally. Seriously? So stuck up.
I glanced around from my seat. Mikee was still deep in conversation, laughing and chatting like she was born for this kind of scene.
So sociable, I thought, half amused, half envious.
I closed my eyes, trying to rewind my thoughts—forcing my mind to retrace steps that felt erased. Then, like slipping into a fog, something began to surface.
We reached the elevator. I set him down on the floor, catching my breath before pressing the button. The ID said 111, so that means it's in the 11th floor. I sighed, already exhausted.
The elevator doors opened.
Just a bit more.
Outside, the night pressed against the window, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. The silence was thick—peaceful, but unsettling. I stared out into it, breathing slowly, trying to steady myself.
"You owe me for this," I muttered, rubbing my sore shoulders, the weight of the night settling in.
The room was unsettling. Too quiet. Too still. My eyes scanned the space—bed, nightstand, shelves of books, and little else. No posters. No clutter. No signs of life.
"Dull and stiff," I murmured.
I wandered to the bookshelf—psychology, anatomy, human behavior. All dense, academic titles.
"This is what he reads? Planning a career change or a personality transplant?" I joked aloud, tracing my fingers across the spines.
One title caught my eye—Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind. I pulled it free and flipped through the pages.
I feel the air shifted.
And then—just as the memory began to take shape—sharp and unsettling—someone tapped my shoulder, snapping me back to the present.
"Hey, what's up?" Mikee said, suddenly beside me. "Are you just gonna sit here all night stuffing your face, or are you gonna go fishing?"
"Nah, I think I'm good for tonight," I said, tapping my stomach.
"What? No one caught your fancy?" she teased.
"How about Nate? I saw him here earlier," she added.
"Yeah. He was sitting next to me," I told her.
"Woah! For real? How was it?" she said, dropping into the seat beside me.
"Did you guys talk or something?" she asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"Nothing worth noting," I said, shaking my head.
"Oh, bummer," she said, hopping back up.
Then she grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet.
"Let's go!"
"What?" I asked, clearly uninterested.
"I'll help you catch some fish," she said, dragging me toward the crowd.
Everything after that slipped by in a haze. But my mind stayed tethered to that night. The memory was still cloaked in fog—just beyond reach. Yet I could feel it there, pulsing beneath the surface, waiting to break through.
If I kept pushing, it would rise.
And maybe... I wasn't ready for what it would show me.
—
Hey Mobsters!
Yep, that's what I just decided to call you—my readers, my crew. You can call me Mob, Psych, or Mobpsych (minus the 37 if you like). Whatever rolls off your tongue easiest 😉
This is my first time publishing a book on this platform, and honestly? I have no idea how it'll go. But with a little courage—and a gentle nudge from a friend—I figured it was time to give it another shot. The last time I wrote a book was back in elementary school. Just one. Never again... until now. Life happened. Ideas came and went. Distractions piled up. But here I am, finally putting words out into the world again.
I'm not super chatty in real life, but I'll try to be here. I want to get to know you all and maybe even get used to sharing more of myself. Who knows—maybe this will help me be more sociable offline too (though I'm not holding my breath 😅).
Just a heads-up: I might post a story once a day. No promises, but I'll try. It's been ages since I've written anything, and my brain feels a little rusty. I had some help getting started, and I'm still finding my rhythm.
Anyway, before I overload your eyeballs with my rambling—thank you for being here. I hope you enjoy the first chapter.
Catch you whenever I catch you.
—mobpsych37