I slipped quietly into the bathroom, careful not to wake Mikee as she slept soundly in the next room. I'd stayed over at her place so many times that by now, a few of my clothes and undergarments had found a permanent home in her drawer.
I grabbed what I needed and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash over me. The silence of the house wrapped around me like steam—gentle, undisturbed.
After rinsing off, I reached into the cabinet for a towel and dried myself off. I didn't bother with my hair. Instead, I padded softly to the window, wrapped in the quiet of morning.
I sat down, knees tucked to my chest, and gazed out as the early light spilled across the yard in golden streaks. Birds chirped softly in the distance, their song threading a delicate sense of peace through the stillness.
Behind me, I heard the rustle of sheets—Mikee was finally waking up. She sat up groggily, her hair sticking out in every direction.
"Morning, sleepyhead," I said with a chuckle, eyeing her wild bedhead.
"Oh, shut up," she grumbled, rubbing her eyes.
She shuffled to the bathroom, and soon the sound of running water filled the room. A few minutes later, the faucet stopped, and she emerged, patting her face dry with a towel.
"Let's get some breakfast," she said casually, tossing the towel onto the floor like it owed her money.
Seriously, this girl, I thought, shaking my head as I got up, walked over, and picked up the towel. I hung it neatly on the laundry rack, giving her a pointed look.
"What?" she said, mock-offended.
I shook my head, laughing quietly to myself, and followed Mikee downstairs to the dining room. The morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting soft shadows across the polished table. I took a seat, and she plopped down across from me, still half-drowsy.
Moments later, Sandra entered, pushing a food trolley with practiced grace. She'd been with Mikee's family for as long as I could remember—ever since we became friends—and somehow, she was still here, still serving with that same quiet dignity.
This feels like a five-star breakfast service, I thought, smiling to myself. I'll never get used to this.
Sandra placed a plate in front of me—golden toast, fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and a tall glass of strawberry banana smoothie—my favorite. My comfort food. I couldn't help but grin.
"Thanks, Sandra!" I said, flashing her my biggest smile.
She gave me a curt nod, her expression as stern as ever. But I knew better—beneath that no-nonsense exterior was someone genuinely kind and thoughtful.
I glanced at Mikee's plate: oatmeal, a cinnamon roll, and the same smoothie.
Classic Mikee—sweet tooth with a healthy twist.
We dug into our breakfast, the quiet hum of the house wrapping around us like a blanket.
After we finished eating, I suddenly craved another strawberry banana smoothie. I turned to Sandra.
"Can I have some more, please?"
She didn't say a word—just walked off. A few minutes later, she returned with another tall glass, and I couldn't help but grin.
"Thanks, Sandra! Love you," I said, happily taking the glass from her hand.
Mikee shot me a look.
"You've had like three servings. And you're still hungry?"
She squinted at me. "Where does all that food go? Do you have a black hole in your stomach I don't know about?"
I gave her a sheepish smile. "I don't know why, but I'm just really, really craving strawberry banana smoothies."
She shrugged. "Whatever," and turned toward the living room.
I followed her, watching as she flopped onto their sectional sofa with a soft poof. I sat beside her, sipping away.
"So... what's the plan today?" she asked, sounding bored.
"I dunno. What do you usually do on weekends?" I asked, not really invested.
My weekends were predictable—wake up, make breakfast, shower, crash on my bed, read a novel or scroll for a movie. Nothing fancy.
"Hmm. You know—the usual. Shopping for clothes, bags, shoes," she said with a shrug.
"Life of the rich," I teased.
"Oh!" she suddenly lit up. "Let's do something only rich people do."
I raised a brow. She said that like she wasn't already filthy rich.
"Like what?"
"Adventure," she said dramatically.
"What? No." I recoiled at the idea of moving my body for anything other than food.
"Okay, how about something artsy?" she offered, like she'd cracked some genius code.
"Hmmm..." I dragged out the sound, pretending to think.
She leaned in, hopeful.
"No," I said, amused by her disappointed pout.
"Oh, come on! Just pick something," she insisted. "Aren't you bored of lying around all day, eating junk and watching nonsense?"
"Nope," I said with a grin.
"Please?" she begged, pulling out the puppy eyes.
"Nope. Hmm-hmm." I shook my head, lips sealed.
"Pretty please? It doesn't have to be adventurous. You're a lazy ass anyway."
I gasped in mock offense. "Ouch. My feelings."
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Pottery? You can sit the whole time. Just use your hands."
"Hmm."
"Or a museum? Look at some art. A little walking won't kill you."
"Nah, I'm good," I said, sipping again.
I knew why she was pushing. She was worried—about last night. About me breaking down the moment I saw her face. About how I still hadn't told her why.
I just didn't want to feel sad today. Didn't want to spend the day picking apart my own thoughts.
"I know why you're doing this," I said softly. "And I get it. You're worried. But I'm fine."
"What are you talking about?" she asked.
"Huh? What do you mean, what am I talking about?" I blinked at her.
"Weren't you suggesting we go out so I can feel better and forget about last night?"
"No," she said with a grin. "I asked because I'm bored. But hey, we can go out for that reason too."
"Oh," I said, feeling dumb.
She laughed and smacked my arm. "You should've seen your face!"
I hit her back. "Ow! That hurt," she said, rubbing her arm.
"That's what you get for fibbing," I said, pouting.
"Aww, it's okay, baby. I still love you," she cooed.
I fake-gagged, and her smile widened in amusement.
"So... are we going or not?" she asked playfully.
I looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "Okay, fine. Let's go."
"Yay!" she clapped her hands and bounced off the couch, running upstairs to get ready.
I finished my smoothie, took the glass to the kitchen, thanked the helpers, and headed up to Mikee's room.
We began getting ready. I stood by the mirror, drying my hair with the blow dryer, the warm air humming softly around me. Mikee, ever generous, offered to let me borrow some of her clothes.
She waved me over to her wardrobe with a grin, urging, "Go on—pick whatever you like."
Her closet was filled with designer pieces—elegant fabrics, bold cuts, and price tags I didn't even want to imagine. I hesitated, worried I might ruin something by accident.
"Don't you have anything... less fancy?" I asked, scanning the racks. "These all look expensive."
"Oh, shush," she said with a playful roll of her eyes. "Don't worry about that. Just pick something you like and put it on."
I sighed. "Okay, fine."
I browsed through her wardrobe, careful not to touch anything too delicate. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a simple, understated piece tucked between the glitz. It felt safe—plain but elegant. I pulled it out.
Mikee's eyes lit up. "Oh! That's perfect. You've got a good eye, Mille. That one's stunning."
I smiled, touched by her enthusiasm.
"Thanks for doing this for me," I said sincerely.
She grinned. "What are friends for? We've got each other's backs."
Her words made me smile even more. In that moment, I felt lucky to have her.
We rode in Mikee's car to the mall, music playing softly as she sang along without a care. Once inside, we strolled from store to store—her arms growing heavier with bags full of clothes and shoes. She kept dragging me into fitting rooms, tossing outfits at me like I was her personal mannequin.
Every time I tried to pay for something, she waved me off with a dramatic, "I got you!" And every time, I argued back playfully, insisting she let me cover at least one item.
We hit so many shops that my feet started to ache, but Mikee was still going strong, bouncing from rack to rack like she was on a mission.
How does this girl have so much energy? I thought, shaking my head.
She never moves like this during P.E. I chuckled to myself.
Eventually, I spotted a bench and collapsed onto it while Mikee disappeared into yet another shoe store. I let myself rest, watching her from afar as she debated with herself over which pair to buy—gesturing wildly like she was in a courtroom drama.
I glanced around the mall. It was bustling, crowded, alive. The noise and movement were oddly comforting—a distraction from yesterday's horror.
I shivered.
I never want to go through that again.
But deep down, I had a sinking feeling it wasn't over. Something in my gut told me it would happen again. Soon.
I shook the thought away and pulled out my phone, hoping to kill time while Mikee took her sweet time. I checked my notifications—nothing urgent. Then I scrolled through Facebind, hoping for something interesting. Just memes. Nonsense. I sighed and put my phone away.
I glanced back toward the shoe store. She'd be in there for at least another thirty minutes—probably longer if she found something sparkly.
Across the walkway, a boba stall caught my eye. I shrugged.
Might as well treat myself, I thought, rising from the bench and heading over.
I ordered my drink—and one for Mikee, just in case—and waited quietly, letting my eyes wander.
That's when I saw him.
A dark hooded figure. Just a flicker. A familiar face slipping around the corner across the plaza.
My breath caught.
Wilde?
No—he's supposed to be abroad.
But what if he came back?
I leaned forward, heart thudding, trying to get a clearer look—
"Hey."
I jumped, startled by the voice right next to me.
I turned—and of course. Nate.
The guy who's always everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
"What the hell, Nate! Can you not just pop out of nowhere and scare the life out of me?" I said, pressing a hand to my chest.
He didn't flinch. Just stood there with that unreadable expression.
Lately, I've felt like Nate and I have somehow grown closer—and I don't even know how. It's subtle, like something that crept in quietly while I wasn't paying attention. Maybe it's the way he's always nearby, orbiting my day without ever fully stepping into it. We barely talk, yet there's this strange pull—something calm, something grounding. I don't understand it, but it's real. And it's unsettling in the gentlest way.
"Why are you always around? Seriously, are you stalking us?" I added, raising an eyebrow.
He looked at me, expression unchanged.
"No," he said slowly. "It's a coincidence."
I gave him a look. Really?
"Whatever you say, statue," I muttered, turning back toward the boba counter as the staff handed me my drink.
"Statue?" he echoed, confused.
I glanced at him. "Yes. Statue. Handsome sculpture who's always stone-faced. Statue."
He smirked—just barely—but then his face settled back into its usual stillness.
See? Statue, I thought.
I tilted my head. "Are you buying a drink?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing here? Just came to chat?" I teased.
"Yeah," he said simply, eyes locked on mine.
That caught me off guard.
What is with this guy? Is he... interested in me? I wondered, suddenly unsure.
He's always around—no matter where we go. I can't help but notice him, like a quiet echo that trails behind us. I've caught him glancing our way more times than I can count, only to vanish like it never happened.
I have my suspicions. His gaze isn't like the one that's haunted me lately—it's softer, more thoughtful. Still, I really hope that eerie feeling I've been carrying isn't coming from him. Just thinking about it sent a chill down my spine.
And Nate must've noticed.
"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.
"Yeah... just the drink. It's cold. Gave me goosebumps," I replied quickly, brushing it off.
I glanced at him—and instantly felt my cheeks flush. His gaze lingered, steady and unreadable, locked on my face. I looked away.
Damn that handsome face. Stop it, Mille, I scolded myself.
I cleared my throat, trying to reset the moment.
"Anyway, I should get back to Mikee before she buys out the entire store," I said, slipping away and walking briskly toward the shop.
Behind me, I heard him call out, "See you around, Mille."
I turned to look back—but he was gone.
Seriously, that guy. Is he secretly Spider-Man or something? I thought, shaking my head.
The way he said my name gave me butterflies. I shook the feeling off.
As I reached the storefront, I spotted Mikee scanning the crowd. When she saw me, she pouted like a kid who'd been left behind.
"Where did you go? Why didn't you wait for me?" she asked, her voice full of mock betrayal.
I handed her the boba. Her eyes lit up.
"Figured you'd be thirsty after all that power-shopping," I said with a shrug.
She gave me a side hug, grinning. "Did I ever tell you how much I love you?"
"More like how much you love the boba," I teased, noticing her eyes drifting toward my own drink.
"I'm not sharing," I added, pulling it protectively closer.
"Awww..." she whined.
I chuckled, the tension from earlier melting into the comfort of her familiar energy.
Our weekend was a blur of shopping, eating, and wandering around town. Mikee never brought up the incident again—probably sensing I wasn't ready to talk. But on Sunday night, I finally found the courage to tell her what had happened two nights ago.
Her face shifted instantly—shock, then concern. She pulled me into a big, warm hug, and just like that, I was crying again.
"Stay at my place until you find a new apartment," she said firmly.
"I don't want to be a bother," I replied, wiping my eyes.
"Don't be ridiculous," she insisted.
Her parents were just as kind, especially after hearing what I'd been through. They welcomed me without hesitation. And before I knew it, another week had passed. It was Monday again.
I sighed.
I really don't want to go to university today, I thought, groaning as I dragged myself through the school halls.
Whenever I had a spare moment—which was basically all the time—I searched online for cheap apartments closer to campus. No luck. So I continued staying with Mikee and her family. They were incredibly welcoming, but I couldn't shake the guilt. I didn't want to take advantage of their kindness. They were sweet, and I didn't want my problems to become their burden.
Over the past week, I'd noticed changes in myself. My body felt constantly drained, like I was running on fumes. I'd fall asleep anywhere—on couches, desks, even benches. And the nightmares... they were relentless. Every time I closed my eyes, they came clawing back. I was sleep-deprived, exhausted, and barely functioning.
Then there was Nate. And that creepy gaze.
I decided to ignore both. I didn't have the energy to deal with them. I felt like I was losing my grip on reality. But ignoring Nate wasn't easy—he kept getting closer. One day, he was suddenly sitting right behind me in class. I didn't want to turn around, but I could feel his gaze drilling into the back of my head.
Whenever I glanced at him, he acted like he hadn't been staring. Mikee noticed too—how obvious he was being. She kept nudging me about it, and I kept hushing her in return. Honestly, I had no idea what was going on in his head.
And then there were the cravings.
Sardines with jam. Pickles and peanut butter. I know how disgusting that sounds, but they tasted amazing. My ultimate obsession? Strawberry banana smoothies. These cravings earned me weird looks from strangers and disgusted expressions from Mikee.
At lunch, I sat in the cafeteria with my pickle-and-peanut-butter combo, savoring every bite and sipping my smoothie like it was gourmet.
"Mille, what is with you these days?" Mikee asked, staring at my plate in horror. "I can't even watch you eat. That stuff is disgusting."
She fake-gagged, and I rolled my eyes.
Jameson, sitting next to her, and Axton beside him, both wore matching expressions of disbelief.
"How can you eat that without gagging?" Axton asked, half amused, half horrified.
"I honestly don't know," I said, moaning dramatically as I took another bite. "But it tastes so good."
I raised my hand, offering them a sample. "Want to try some?"
They recoiled instantly.
"Suit yourselves," I shrugged. "You don't know what you're missing."
Axton shook his head, while Jameson muttered, "I'm good."
Mikee gave me a classic are you serious? look.
Oh well. Let them judge. I took another sip of my smoothie, feeling oddly comforted by the strange mix of flavors.
At the end of the day, Mikee and Jameson headed off on another date—but not before I caught her sneaking a glance at Axton, who was busy with something else. When she noticed me watching her, she quickly turned away, then glanced back with a guilty expression.
I gave her a small, understanding smile. She smiled back, then looked at Jameson... and after a moment, stared off into the distance.
I'd completely forgotten how reckless I'd been two Fridays ago—wandering off alone, exhausted and vulnerable. And here I was again, doing the same thing. Axton jogged up beside me, clearly intending to walk me home, but his phone rang. It was his part-time job, calling him in unexpectedly.
He looked torn, reluctant to leave me alone.
"Make sure to call or message me when you get home," he said firmly.
"Yes, Dad," I teased.
"I'm serious, Mille," he replied, his tone sharp with concern.
"I know. I'm just trying to lighten the mood. I'll be fine, promise," I said, offering a reassuring smile and motioning for him to go.
He hesitated, then nodded and walked off.
Feeling drained, I found myself at a bus stop. I sank onto the bench, my body heavy with exhaustion. My head kept nodding forward, sleep tugging at me like a tide I couldn't resist. I leaned against the glass panel beside me and let myself drift.
And then—
He grabbed my leg, yanking me backward. I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of me. Before I could react, he flipped me over, pressing his hand against my stomach.
A wave of heat surged through me—violent, overwhelming. It drained me instantly, like my energy was being siphoned out of my body.
"Bzzzz—let me go!" I screamed, thrashing beneath him.
He didn't budge. His strength was unnatural. He stared down at me with that same twisted smile, his eyes glowing like embers.
My body weakened. The warmth intensified, searing through me like fire beneath my skin. That's when I knew—he wasn't going to let me go.
I jolted awake, heart pounding, when I felt someone sit beside me.
I turned slowly.
A figure in a black hooded sweater sat beside me, hunched and silent. The hood cast deep shadows over his face, hiding everything but the edge of a jawline I swore I recognized.
Something about him felt familiar—too familiar.
I blinked hard, rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the fog of sleep still clinging to me like cobwebs.
But the unease didn't fade.
If anything, it sharpened.
A few minutes passed. The bus arrived.
I got on, the hooded figure following close behind. I chose a seat at the very back, wanting a full view of the bus. He sat in the middle row, far enough to ease my nerves—but not far enough to forget he was there.
He gave off a strange energy. Suspicious. Unsettling.
I exhaled slowly, relieved he hadn't sat closer. I leaned my head back, watching the city blur past as the bus rolled through streets and intersections. The gentle rocking of the ride lulled me again. I tried to fight it, blinking hard, but my body was too tired. Sleep crept in once more.
And the dream—no, the memory—resurfaced.
Where he touched me, the pain bloomed, sharp and relentless.
"Let me go!" I screamed, voice cracking with desperation.
He didn't move. That same twisted smile. Those ember-like eyes.
The heat surged again, burning through me. My limbs weakened. My breath shortened.
He wasn't going to let me go.
The pain grew sharper with every second, blooming like fire beneath my skin.
Terror gripped me. I sobbed—loud, broken—as the room spun and the nightmare deepened.
Then, somewhere in the haze, a voice reached me. Soft. Familiar.
"Mille, wake up," he said gently.
The hum of his voice comforted me. I leaned toward it instinctively, nuzzling into the warmth beside me.
"Mille," he repeated, this time firmer, his deep voice vibrating through our contact.
I slowly opened my eyes, blinking away the remnants of sleep—and met a familiar pair of green eyes.
Nate.
Without thinking, I nestled my head against his neck. I felt him stiffen, but didn't pull away. There was something grounding about his skin, his presence. I felt myself sinking into it.
"Mille," he said again, more insistently now.
My mind began to clear. I sat up slowly, disoriented, and looked at him.
"Nate?" I murmured.
He just stared at me.
"Wha—what are you doing here?" I asked, confusion clouding my thoughts.
I glanced around. I was still on the bus.
"I needed the ride," he said, as if that explained everything.
"Yes, but... why?" I asked, still groggy.
Then it hit me—what I'd just done. A rush of heat bloomed across my cheeks, but I forced myself to play it cool, brushing the feeling aside like it was nothing.
He ignored the question and asked one of his own.
"Why are you alone? Where are your friends?" His voice was serious, almost protective.
"They're on a date," I replied. "Anyway, why are you here? Don't you have a car?"
"I needed the ride," he repeated, stubbornly.
"That doesn't make sense," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Don't you have a car?"
He dodged again. "What about you? Why aren't you driving?"
"Mikee gave me a ride," I said, my tone sharpening. "Why does it matter? You still haven't answered my question."
"My car's getting fixed," he said finally.
I raised an eyebrow. Huh. Just happens to be the same time I'm not using mine, I thought, not bothering to hide my skepticism.
He noticed my expression and sighed. "It's a coincidence."
Sure it is, I thought sarcastically.
"Right..." I said aloud, clearly unconvinced.
I glanced around the bus. The hooded figure from earlier was gone. Relief washed over me. I looked back at Nate, who was staring out the window, distant.
I scooted slightly away from him. He noticed.
I felt guilty, though I hadn't done anything wrong. But he didn't say a word.
One moment he's chatty, the next he's back to his stone-faced silence. He seriously has something going on—and I'm not sure I want to know what it is.
Then, out of nowhere, my stomach lurched. I gagged, the nausea hitting me like a wave. Nate noticed instantly. He was beside me in seconds, steadying me with one hand and patting my back with the other. He reached up and pressed the stop button without hesitation.
When the bus pulled over, he helped me off. We barely made it to the bus stop before I doubled over, vomiting onto the pavement. Again and again, until I felt hollow. Nate crouched beside me, holding my hair back, his hand still gently rubbing my back.
It was mortifying.
After what felt like forever, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and groaned.
"How are you feeling?" Nate asked softly, still beside me.
Suddenly, I became hyper-aware of his presence. Embarrassment flooded in. I waved off his help, trying to regain some dignity.
"I'll be fine," I muttered, the bitter taste still lingering in my mouth.
"You sure?" he asked, concern threading through his voice.
It was the first time I'd seen him show any real emotion. Empathy. It caught me off guard. My tone softened.
"Yeah. Must've been something I ate. I've been having these weird cravings lately—mixing foods that probably shouldn't go together. So... this," I said, gesturing to myself, "is the result."
He let out a small chuckle, and for a moment, the mask slipped. His usual stoic demeanor cracked just enough to show something real. Then, almost like he realized it, he straightened up and tried to compose himself again.
Ha, I thought, a flicker of triumph sparking inside me. So the tough guy act does break.
—
Hey hey, Mobsters!
Another chapter down—woo! 🎉 This time, I tried to ease you in gently, like a warm bath... before dunking your head in ice water near the end. That sudden jolt of tension? Yeah, I felt it too while writing. Hope it hit you just right!
Also, can we talk about that little bud of romance starting to bloom? 🌸 Just a wink of sweetness amid the chaos. I'm giddy. You're giddy. Mille's probably not giddy, but we'll get to her in a second.
Now, about that mysterious hooded figure—cue dramatic music. I tossed in a new character to spice things up and keep you guessing. Who is he? What does he want? Is he just cold and forgot his jacket? You tell me. Everyone reads the same words, but the experience? Totally personal. So spill your thoughts—I'm all ears.
Honestly, I'm feeling super motivated right now. A friend suggested I build the story chapter by chapter, and it's been blooming with ideas ever since. Mille's fragmented memories? She's mostly unbothered now.
Mille: "As if. You come over here and vomit your guts out in my place. Let's see how 'unbothered' you feel then."
Nate: (glares silently, like he's plotting my demise)
Mobpsych: (nervous laugh, sprints away)
(whispers) Okay, that was terrifying. If looks could kill, I'd be a chalk outline on the floor and Nate would be the prime suspect. So before I get emotionally assassinated by my own characters, I'm gonna make a tactical retreat.
Catch you in the next chapter, Mobsters! Stay spicy. Stay curious. And maybe send Mille a care package.
— mobpsych37