That night, sleep claimed her despite fear. She found herself in the high school corridors, the air thick with chalk dust and cheap perfume. And there was Ethan, leaning against the wall, watching her.
"You've been different lately," he said, stepping closer. "Even in here, you're guarded. Like you're hiding something from me."
Emma froze. This wasn't just writing now—he was speaking it, suspicion bleeding into the dreamscape they shared.
"I'm not hiding anything," she lied.
"Yes, you are." His voice softened, breaking her. "You look at me like you've seen the worst of me. But how could you? I'd never hurt you, Emma." He reached for her hand, warmth achingly familiar. "So tell me… why do your eyes say otherwise?"
Her lips trembled. She wanted to scream the truth, to shake him, to warn him of Diana, to prevent the betrayal that had shattered her.
Instead, she whispered:
Because I already know how the story ends.
Ethan frowned, confusion shadowing his face. "Then tell me. Please. Let me change it."
But the dream fractured, a warning whispered through smoke and shadows.