"You know this is the third time you've changed your study plan, Charlie."
The voice was calm, soft — the kind that didn't scold but nudged.
Charlie blinked at the stack of college pamphlets spread across the teacher's desk. His fingers tapped at the edge of a red folder, more out of reflex than interest. Across from him sat Ms. Varela, his homeroom advisor. Her reading glasses were perched low on her nose, a pencil tucked behind her ear like always. The classroom behind them was empty — first period hadn't started yet.
Charlie shrugged lightly. "I just… don't know yet."
Ms. Varela smiled — not in a condescending way, but in the I've heard this before kind of way. "You've gone from environmental science, to coding, to film, to… photography, was it?"
He scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah, for a minute."
She leaned back in her seat, her chair creaking gently. "It's okay not to know. You're seventeen, not thirty. But colleges will ask, and even if they didn't… eventually you will."
Charlie nodded, not really sure what to say. The quiet hum of the AC filled the silence between them. Outside the classroom window, the quad was already coming alive with early students dragging backpacks and half-finished coffees. The sun had just cleared the mist off the hills behind the school.
"I don't expect you to figure out your whole life in a week," Ms. Varela said, reaching into a drawer. She pulled out a thin sheet of paper and slid it across to him. YOUR FUTURE PATHWAY was written in bold at the top. The rest was a series of prompts: What makes you curious? What do you value? What do you see yourself doing in ten years?
"I don't need it filled now," she said. "Or even this month. But I will collect it from you before you graduate."
Charlie took the paper and gave a small nod. "Okay."
"Just… think about what makes you feel awake," she added with a faint smile. "Not what looks good on paper."
That line stuck with him as he stood up.
"No one's rushing you," Ms. Varela reminded as he turned toward the door. "Take your time."
---
The school's main office was down a hallway that smelled vaguely like printer toner and lemon-scented cleaner. There were posters of past graduating classes along the walls and a bulletin board full of announcements no one really read.
Charlie pushed the door open to the front office.
Behind the front desk sat Mr. Dion, the school's secretary — a big man with kind eyes, coffee breath, and a Dodgers cap he wore indoors like it was stitched to his scalp.
"Charlie-boy," Mr. Dion greeted with a grin. "Your mom too busy to come down again?"
Charlie nodded, offering a faint smile. "Yeah, work's been crazy."
"Figures." The man chuckled, typing something into the computer with one hand. "That woman never takes a break. Still at the hospital?"
"Yeah. Double shifts."
Mr. Dion gave a low whistle and opened a drawer. "Tell her to breathe once in a while. Alright, here's your receipt — school's paid, you're officially still one of us."
He handed Charlie a small stamped slip of paper. Charlie took it, tucking it into his folder with the Future Pathway sheet.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
"Don't mention it. Tell your mom I said hey."
Charlie gave a nod and headed back out. The morning sun was brighter now, lighting up the school's rust-red bricks and cracked concrete pathways. Outside the gate, the street buzzed with cars and the faint sound of a lawn mower somewhere in the distance.
He pulled out his phone.
1 New Message – Alfred:
"Bring some milk with you."
Charlie typed back: "K"
He didn't feel like going straight home anyway. So he turned left and started walking downhill — past the crossing where the old crossing guard sat in her foldable chair, past the corner store with the dusty windows, past the laundromat that always had one broken machine. Sunset Glen's downtown wasn't huge, but it had what you needed if you knew where to look: groceries, coffee, a thrift shop, and a half-dead arcade that still somehow ran.
He figured he'd get the milk first. Maybe check out the bookstore after.
It wasn't like he had anything else urgent to do.
And anyway, it gave him time to think — not that it helped.
He still didn't know what he wanted to do. Still didn't know what made him feel awake.
But for now, the paper was folded in his folder. Waiting. Like everything else.
-----------------
Somewhere between worlds…
Irdra had no idea if she was screaming or if her thoughts were just tearing apart in a loop.
Colors—colors she had no names for—flashed violently past her. The space around her felt both infinite and tight enough to crush bone. One moment she was weightless, drifting like a feather, and the next, it felt like a mountain had been dropped onto her chest. Every twist of the void seemed to tangle her very existence, like threads of her body and soul were being pulled in different directions, unwilling to let go or come together.
"This is how it ends?" she thought, eyes clenched shut against the strobing madness.
She wasn't falling—falling had a direction. This… this was every direction. She was spiraling, dragged forward, backward, inward, outward. Her body was a limp passenger in a journey meant for no one.
Memories flickered in and out of focus like static—her home, the mission, the decision to leave it all behind. "Will they think I failed?" "Will I even arrive as me?" "What if I lost something in here?"
Her stomach twisted again. Her limbs were like jelly, and the longer she drifted in this nowhere-space, the more distant everything became. Like she was being undone, molecule by molecule.
She tried to speak. Not words—just a sound, something to confirm she still had a voice.
Nothing came out.
Suddenly, a pressure built around her ears. A ringing. A snap. A deafening silence.
And then—
WHUUMP.
She was out.
Slamming into cold, hard ground, Irdra rolled onto her side with a grunt, bile rushing up her throat. Her hair clung to her face, sweat poured off her back, and her limbs refused to listen. She barely had time to process where she was—some kind of paved earth, rough and flat, cold like stone—before nausea gripped her again. She gagged, nearly vomiting, chest heaving.
And then—
BEEEEEEEEEP!!!
Blinding white light slammed into her face.
Her eyes shot open, pupils shrinking against the sudden brightness.
A massive, metal beast thundered toward her, lights blaring, roaring on wheels.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She didn't even have the strength to move.
----------------------
Charlie stepped out of the corner store with a small plastic bag dangling from his wrist, the glass bottle of milk clinking gently inside. He cradled a small box of cookies against his chest with the same hand. The cashier had offered a two-for-one deal on some off-brand chocolate chip biscuits—"just for today," the sign read in bright red marker. Charlie wasn't sure if they were worth it.
So he did what any responsible teen would do. He messaged Alfred.
"Should I get the cookies? They're on a deal."
Alfred replied with a single emoji: 👍
That was enough.
Charlie bought them and stepped out into the afternoon air, stretching his shoulders as he walked into the buzz of downtown Filbridge. It was one of those rare golden hours—warm light poured between the buildings, and the sky was a soft orange-blue.
He reached the large crosswalk as the light turned red. A small crowd gathered beside him, their attention buried in glowing phone screens or distant conversations. Cars hummed by. A bus neared from the left, brake lights flickering red with slow precision.
That's when he saw it.
Thud.
A sharp sound. Not loud, but heavy. Something—or someone—hit the pavement hard just across the street.
Charlie squinted. A body.
At first, no one else noticed. People chuckled, scrolled, chatted. But he stood there, half a step off the curb, his breath catching in his throat as he watched a figure crumpled on the road, directly in the bus's path.
The horn blared.
A blinding flash of headlights lit up the street. Charlie moved.
He didn't think—his arm instinctively threw the cookies aside. The plastic bag with milk followed. He rushed forward, weaving past a man who jumped back, a woman who gasped, "What—"
Charlie's backpack bounced against him. His feet slapped the ground. Time stretched thin.
The figure groaned, trying to lift itself. Not fast enough.
He reached them just as the bus screeched, too close, too fast. He grabbed the stranger under the arms and dragged her out of the way with all the force in his limbs.
The horn blared again. Tires hissed. People screamed.
They landed in a heap on the curb, Charlie's knees scraping the pavement as they rolled to safety. The bus halted, inches away, its massive front looming over where the girl had just been.
Charlie looked down, panting.
And that's when it hit him.
"Bluaghhh."
Vomit. Warm, wet, chunky.
Directly on his hoodie.
He stared, stunned. The girl—no, the thing—curled in his lap, her face twisted with nausea and disorientation, her skin slightly paler than it should be. Her golden hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. Her chest heaved as if she had barely survived an avalanche.
People gathered now. Some cautiously stepped closer, others kept a distance, murmuring:
"Did she just… fall outta nowhere?"
"Is he okay?"
"Oh my God, she threw up on him—"
Charlie barely heard them.
The girl's eyes darted around, wide and unblinking. Still dizzy. Still blinded by city lights. To her, it was all a blur of monstrous noise, flashing colors, and strange creatures closing in. Her instincts screamed. She shoved herself away from Charlie and stumbled to her feet, pushing past curious onlookers.
Someone tried to ask if she was okay.
She screamed. Just once—high and sharp—and bolted through the crowd, knocking over a suitcase and brushing past a cyclist. Her steps were frantic, zigzagging.
She ran.
Charlie looked up after her, groaning.
"Wait—hey, you—!" he started, but it was too late. She was gone, a blur swallowed by the crowd and cityscape.
He sat there, stunned, still kneeling, covered in vomit and shock. Then he noticed the small leather satchel that had fallen in his lap. Hers. She must've dropped it when she pushed away.
He looked down at the mess around him. His backpack was on its side. The bottle of milk had survived, miraculously. The cookies… not so much.
A kind older man stepped forward from a safer distance, arms crossed awkwardly. "Uh… you alright, kid?"
Charlie blinked, then looked down at his stained hoodie.
"I think I need a laundromat," he muttered.