It was jealousy. Bone-simple as that.
Vielle sat in her room, where she had turned the lights so low it seemed the shadows would come alive and slide out to touch her. Her walls, decorated with posters of fantasy realms and fairy maidens, now looked phony—sugary and germ-free. She glared at her own hands—trembling, clutching at air that never returned a thing to her. Those same hands had softly touched George's fingers once, when he had given her a worksheet, had cradled her pillow and made it her pretend arm. But he had never looked at her. Not ever.
"Why her?" she whispered, her voice as thin as a wisp. "Why not me?"
She replayed the sight of George in her head—shivering on the ground, belly ripped open, bleeding, exposed. She could have saved him. Should have been the girl crouched beside him. The one to cling to his hand and offer comfort. But it was Margo. Margo with her pale gaze and grief-drenched silence. Margo with her haunted faces and a past wrapped in silk and desolation.
Her smile twisted. A broken ribbon of malice distorted her features.
"If she vanishes," she mouthed, swaying in her chair, a lullaby forming on her lips, "I'll be the last one left."
She pictured it: Margo vanished. Was gone. Rolled up in the same strangeness that clung to her. People would hurt for a little while. But George would weep in Vielle's arms. They would stay there. Heal there. And Vielle would not be invisible.
The sun came up, but it brought no warmth.
Margo walked alone down NorthFord Lane, a route familiar now. The sidewalk cracked under the weight of years and silence. Trees leaned in close like they were eavesdropping. The sky hung low and cloudy, heavy with unshed storms.
"Hey," George said, appearing at her side. His voice was light, but brittle at the edges.
Margo turned slightly, her expression unreadable. "You're okay now?"
"They sewed me up. What was that thing. it wasn't alive," he snarled. He turned to her then, gentler. "Thanks. For spending that night. You didn't have to."
Her face went red. She looked aside. "I did."
Then, without invitation, his arm went around her hip. Soft but unyielding.
Her muscles tensed. Her breathing hitched. "George—"
A word was about to be spoken when a shout erupted.
"Margo!"
Vielle.
She was running at them, slapping the pavement with her feet. Her face was wide-eyed, wild-haired, electric with something inhuman. She never lost stride. She body-checked at them, her shoulder crashing into Margo.
They went down. George stumbled away from her. Margo crashed hard to the ground. Her cheek slapped the rock.
"AHH—!" she screamed.
A thin streak of blood ran from her cheekbone, scarlet on alabaster skin.
Vielle fell to the floor. "Oh God! Margo! Are you okay?" Her words constricted with manufactured distress.
Too sweet. Too rehearsed.
George sped down the aisle. "What in the world, Vielle?! What's wrong with you?!"
Vielle gestured dramatically with her hands. "She's fallen! I was trying to catch her!"
"You pushed her!"
Whispers started. Students swarm like moths around pain.
George took another step forward. His voice, soft as ever, gained steel. "You've been acting strangely all week. What are you even attempting to do?"
Vielle's face changed. The concern was not there. Her smile became brittle. Rage smoldered beneath her mask.
She hit him.
There was a ringing snap. George did not even flinch.
And then a new voice cut through the tension like glass.
"Enough!"
Lei. Grade 7 president. Towering, intense, and unnervingly calm. She walked through the circle.
"This is school, not theater class. Vielle, tell us what happened. Now."
Vielle's voice became venomous. "She's a liar. She's playing everyone."
Lei's eyes flashed. "You're the one yelling and hitting people. Sit down."
Vielle twitched. Her fists clenched.
Margo sat up slowly. Blood covered her jaw. She looked dazed, as if she'd just woken up in a nightmare.
And then, she screamed.
"STOP!"
Everything froze.
Everyone turned.
She rose to her feet, breath ragged, eyes soaked in tears.
"I'm tired… of all of you."
The hallway went cold. The air turned heavy.
The classroom door creaked.
No one touched it.
It swung open.
Gabriel stood in the doorway. Not a sound had announced him. But he was there, eyes shadowed, smile faint.
Some kids blinked.
Some took a step back.
Others simply stared, uncertain.
Lei whispered, "Who's that…?"
But nobody answered.
Because Margo was speaking again.
"Gabriel," she breathed, her voice full of longing.
He stepped inside.
No one else moved.
Only Margo.
Lei backed away. "She's talking to herself."
George leaned in. "Is she okay?"
Gabriel reached a hand toward Margo.
Only she saw the shimmer.
Only she saw the light curling from his fingertips like fog.
"You're bleeding," he said.
"I'm fine."
"Come with me," he offered.
"Not now."
He tilted his head. The shadows followed.
"Later, then," he said. "Sooner than you think."
He vanished.
The door shut.
That night, Margo sat in her room. The bruise throbbed in waves, each one echoing her heartbeat. She pressed an ice pack to her cheek but felt no relief.
Pain was not new.
Pain was familiar.
It was the knowing that hurt more.
She knew what no one else did. That she could see him, and no one else could. That Gabriel wasn't just a boy. That things bent around him. Bent toward her. Bent out of reality.
The trees whispered about her. The shadows leaned in.
She glanced out the window.
He was there.
Past the roses.
Waiting.