The taxi ride was quiet. After I'd finished vomiting my guts out like a tragic heroine, Nate didn't hesitate—he called a cab and, without a word, slid in beside me. He didn't ask. He didn't wait for permission. He just decided to come along, like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if making sure I got home safely wasn't a question, but a responsibility he'd already claimed.
As we drove, I kept sneaking glances at him. He was staring out the window, elbow propped up, his face resting on his hand like he was posing for a moody album cover. Something about the way he looked—calm, distant, maybe even thoughtful—made my chest tighten.
My mind kept replaying everything that happened earlier. The way he acted. The way he responded to me. For the first time, I saw his walls crack just a little. And honestly? It didn't feel bad at all. I caught myself smiling at my own smile.
The ride ended too soon. I wasn't ready for it to be over.
I stepped out of the taxi. Just as I was about to close the door, hesitation gripped me. So I went for it.
"Thank you for helping me, Nate. I really appreciate it," I said, offering him a warm smile.
He gave a small nod. No words. Just that quiet, unreadable nod.
I shut the door and watched the taxi pull away with him inside.
I lingered there for a moment, smiling to myself. Then reality hit, and I shook my head.
No. Don't fall, I warned myself.
Sure, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. But I knew better. Nate had a fan club of gorgeous girls orbiting him like satellites—and I wasn't exactly the brightest star in that sky. I'd already taken a physical beating today. No need to add emotional damage to the list.
I stepped into Mikee's house and felt an odd sense of familiarity, like I belonged here—even though I was only a guest, welcomed by their kindness. I headed to the room they'd generously offered me, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling, thoughts swirling in my head.
Now that I think about it... Nate has OCD. I've heard the rumors, seen how he avoids physical contact, recoiling from even the slightest touch. But with me? He doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he touches me like it's the most natural thing in the world.
My stomach flutters.
No. Stop. Cancel that thought. Cancel that feeling. I told myself, trying to erase the emotions that were beginning to take root.
Still, in the back of my mind, a quiet voice whispered—Maybe I'm different. Maybe I'm special to him.
No, no, no. I shook my head. He doesn't see me that way. Get a grip, Mille. Look at reality.
I sat up and forced myself to get busy. I pulled out my homework, anything to distract me from the delusions threatening to take over.
The next morning at uni, Mikee and I were heading toward our classroom when we spotted a crowd clogging the hallway. Curious murmurs buzzed through the air. I nudged my way through the cluster of students, Mikee close behind, and stopped cold at the sight in front of us.
Axton had someone pinned by the collar, his fist clenched, jaw tight, and eyes blazing. His face hovered inches from the other guy's, like he was one breath away from throwing a punch.
What the hell is going on? I thought, heart racing as I rushed forward.
Without hesitation, I stepped between them, shoving them apart with both hands.
Axton didn't move at first—his body taut with fury, fists clenched, jaw locked. But I met his eyes, silently daring him to push past me.
Don't even think about it.
He froze, tension radiating off him like static before a lightning strike.
Then I turned to the other guy—and my breath caught.
A face I hadn't seen in years.
Familiar. Unwelcome. Impossible.
But it confirmed what I'd glimpsed earlier.
He came back.
And suddenly, everything snapped into place.
The creeping sensation of being watched.
The prickling on the back of my neck when I walked alone.
The shadow near the boba stall, vanishing the moment I looked up.
The hooded figure at the bus stop—still, silent, staring.
I hadn't imagined it.
It was him.
It had always been him.
Wilde.
"Hey, Mille," he said, flashing that same smug smile—like he hadn't been haunting me from the edges of my life.
And just like that, the world around me blurred. My pulse roared in my ears.
But my mind betrayed me, dragging me back to a different version of Wilde. A softer one.
"Mille!" he had called out, jogging toward us with that familiar grin.
Mikee, Axton, and I were sprawled under the gazebo, trying not to melt in the sweltering heat. I felt like a puddle in human form. Wilde appeared like a summer savior, carrying a bag of popsicles in one hand and a smoothie in the other. The pink swirl inside the cup practically screamed strawberry banana.
I couldn't help but smile.
"Here," he said, handing me the smoothie.
I took it gratefully, sipping deep. The icy sweetness slid down my throat, reviving me instantly.
"You're the best, Wilde," I said, momentarily forgetting the awkward history—his confession years ago, my gentle rejection, and the quiet decision to just stay friends.
"Not fair! I love strawberry banana smoothies too," Mikee whined.
Wilde tossed the bag of popsicles onto the table with a casual flick.
"There," he said, like it was no big deal.
"Wow. Gee, thanks," Mikee replied sarcastically, grabbing one anyway.
"So biased toward Mille," Axton muttered, shaking his head as he reached for a popsicle.
Wilde shrugged. "It's 'cause I like her."
I choked on my smoothie.
My eyes widened. Wilde raised his hands in mock surrender.
"I know, I know. You rejected me. I accepted that. I just... can't help how I feel," he said, honest and unfiltered as ever.
That was Wilde—blunt, persistent, never quite knowing when to stop. I'd tried to keep my distance to avoid moments like this, but here he was again, laying it all out like it was nothing.
"Yeah, I know. It's just... awkward," I admitted, the discomfort settling in like a fog.
"Guess I'll have to live with it if I want to keep hanging out with you," he said, eyes locked on mine.
"Us," Mikee coughed pointedly.
Wilde shot her a look.
I glanced away, guilt creeping in. I couldn't force feelings I didn't have. I cared about Wilde deeply—but only as a friend. And even though he noticed every little thing about me—sometimes too much—I just didn't feel the same.
Mikee and Axton exchanged a glance, silently communicating in that way close friends do.
"Way to ruin the atmosphere," Mikee muttered.
Wilde didn't respond. He just looked at me with that unreadable expression he wore sometimes—then softened it with an apologetic smile.
I gave him a small one in return.
He smiled back—warm, familiar, and just a little heartbreaking.
Suddenly, a hand tugged mine, pulling me out of the moment and into the classroom.
Axton.
He slammed the door behind us. Mikee trailed in after.
"Axton, wait," I said, trying to free my hand.
His grip tightened.
"Yeah, Axton. What was that with Wilde?" Mikee asked, her tone sharp.
I stopped walking, forcing Axton to stop too. He turned to face me.
"Let go of my hand," I said firmly.
He released it, but his expression remained intense.
"Don't go to him," Axton said, voice low and serious.
I frowned. "Why?"
Mikee crossed her arms, clearly just as irritated. "Yeah, why?"
"Just don't," he repeated, more forcefully.
"That's not an answer," I snapped. "Does this have something to do with that fight you had with him in senior high?"
Mikee jumped in, frustrated. "Exactly. Why can't you just tell us? We're not asking to pry—we just want to understand."
Axton looked between us, jaw clenched. Then he looked away, his silence louder than words. He was angry. But why? Back in senior high, everything had seemed fine—until suddenly, it wasn't. Wilde moved abroad, and Axton distanced himself from us like we were strangers.
"If you're not going to tell us, I'm going to talk to Wilde," I said, daring him.
"No, don't," Axton said quickly.
I stared at him. His face shifted—guilt flickering across it like a shadow.
"What is it, Axton?" I asked, my voice softer now, more concerned.
"Just tell us," Mikee demanded.
Axton looked cornered. Frustrated. But so were we. Whatever he was hiding—it was time to bring it into the light.
"Let's talk after school," he muttered, rubbing his hand over his face. "I'll tell you then."
"Fine," Mikee said, arms crossed. "But you have to tell us. Or we'll just ask Wilde ourselves."
Axton gave a reluctant nod. I offered him a small, sad smile. None of us said much after that. The rest of the school day passed in a blur, lectures barely registering.
After class, we headed to a quiet café. We chose a secluded corner, ordered drinks, and waited in silence. Mikee and I watched Axton, who sat with his head bowed, staring at the table. Finally, he sighed and looked up.
"Back in senior high," he began slowly, "I kept asking to hang out at Wilde's place. He always had excuses—said it wasn't a good time, or his parents were home, or whatever."
Mikee raised an eyebrow. "So... you snuck in?"
Axton shot her a look. Mikee pouted but stayed quiet.
"No. I insisted because I'd had a fight with my brother and didn't want to be home. Wilde eventually gave in and let me stay over."
His expression hardened. He paused, then sighed again.
"There was no one else home—he said his parents were at work. We were just chilling in the living room when I got curious and asked to see his room. He said no. Claimed it was messy. Kept giving me excuses. But the more he refused, the more curious I got."
Mikee groaned. "Can we skip to the part that matters?"
I nudged her sharply.
"Ow! What was that for?" she hissed, glaring at me.
I gave her a look that said shut up.
Axton nodded at me gratefully and continued.
"Fast forward—he went to grab snacks, and I... I snuck into his room."
Mikee leaned forward. "And?"
"I saw something I shouldn't have," Axton said, voice low.
Mikee groaned. "Why the suspense?"
"Let him finish," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Just let me speak," Axton muttered.
"Fine," Mikee said, folding her arms.
Axton looked at me. "I saw your pictures. On his wall."
I blinked. "Mine?"
Mikee and I exchanged a confused glance.
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"What do you mean?" Mikee echoed.
Axton exhaled slowly.
"Not just one picture. Dozens. Cutouts from class photos, screenshots from your social media—some cropped from group photos we took at school. Others looked like stolen shots, taken from a distance... and some close-ups. They were everywhere. Even on the ceiling."
I felt my stomach drop.
"So that's why you fought?" I asked quietly.
"Not immediately. I was shocked, confused. I heard him coming back, so I ran out before he saw me in his room."
Mikee frowned. "You didn't confront him?"
"Not then. But it haunted me. The way he had your face plastered all over his room like some kind of shrine. So the day you saw us fighting—I confronted him."
Axton's voice grew darker.
"He denied it at first. Tried to laugh it off. But when I didn't back down, he got angry. That's when he showed his true colors. He threatened me. Told me to stay away from you."
I stared at him, overwhelmed. Mikee looked just as stunned.
"Remember when he confessed to you and you turned him down?" Axton continued. "He must've thought I had feelings for you too. He said if I told you or Mikee, he'd hurt you both. Told me to stay away from you, Mille."
His face was tight with pain.
"You don't have to keep going if it's too much," I said gently, placing a hand on his.
He looked at me, eyes steady. "You deserve to know."
He took a breath. "I recorded our conversation. I threatened to expose him if he didn't back off. Told him if he came near you again, I'd let you hear it."
Mikee's eyes narrowed. "But you never did. I get not telling Mille, but why not tell me?"
"I didn't want to worry you," Axton said softly, offering a faint smile.
I felt my tension ease slightly.
"So... what happened after?" I asked.
"He tried to grab my phone. I fought him off. Things escalated. That's when you saw us—mid-fight."
My mind drifts, staring into nothing.
None of this makes sense.
I mean, Wilde has always been... intense. Blunt to a fault. Overbearing with the attention he insists on giving me. But this? This was something else. Something darker. I could feel it crawling under my skin, a chill that wouldn't go away. Goosebumps prickled along my arms.
"Sorry I never told you," Axton said, looking at us with guilt etched across his face.
"You should have," Mikee snapped, her voice sharp.
"After Wilde moved abroad, I figured it was over. No point in dragging it back up and worrying you both. He was gone. And it's not like he ever physically hurt Mille, or emotionally messed with you, right?" He glanced at me, then at Mikee. "Except for that last part before he left."
"You still should've said something," I replied. "We could've been prepared. You didn't have to deal with it alone."
"I know. I was in high school, and my teenage brain thought keeping quiet was the right move."
"Is that why you stopped hanging out with us?" Mikee asked.
He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah."
"Seriously?" she said, incredulous.
"Every time I saw you guys, I was reminded of what happened. I was scared I'd slip and tell you. I didn't know how to handle it."
"And after that?" I asked.
"Well... once I finally grew up and realized you could probably handle it better than I ever could, I was too embarrassed to face you. Whenever I saw you, my body just... avoided you. Like it had a mind of its own."
I couldn't help but laugh. Mikee and Axton turned to me, confused.
"Sorry," I said, still chuckling. "It just sounded so ridiculous the way you said it."
"I know, it's stupid," Axton admitted. "But I can talk to you guys about it now. I get that."
"Stupid idiot!" Mikee said, smacking him lightly on the head.
"Ow! What?" Axton winced.
"You could've told us ages ago that Wilde was a psycho-stalker. We could've had a plan."
"Well, you know now. We can figure something out," Axton said.
"You two are acting like children," I said.
They both looked at me.
"Now, now, children," I teased, hoping to ease the tension. "Like Axton said, let's focus on what we can do now that we know."
"What's your plan, Mille? He's after you," Axton asked.
"Right. How do we deal with Wilde?" Mikee added, then turned to Axton. "And we want to hear that recording. No excuses. We need to know you're not just making this up."
"Geez, so much for trusting your friends," Axton muttered.
"Well, Mikee has a point. Wilde is our friend too," I said—just as Mikee muttered, "Your friend."
I turned to her. "OUR friend," I repeated firmly.
"I never accepted him as a friend. You just let him hang out with us," Mikee said.
I looked at Axton.
"I did think of him as a friend back then," he said, rubbing his head.
"Whatever. He did what he did. You brought this up—stick with it," I said, matter-of-fact.
"Okay. Good thing I still have the recording saved after all these years," Axton said, pulling out his phone.
Later that day, Wilde tried to approach us, but we avoided him. Axton and Mikee glared at him every time he passed. I turned away whenever he came near. His mask dropped completely—he stopped pretending to care. He was different now. Unfiltered.
He tried to talk to me several times, but with Mikee and Axton shielding me, he never got close. We agreed someone would stay with me at school to keep him at bay. Mikee convinced me to postpone my apartment search until things settled and we figured out what to do about Wilde.
I spent my days like a heroine trapped in a tragic tale—drifting through time, waiting for the next chapter of pain to unfold.
Another week passed. The same unbearable agony struck my lower abdomen, sharp and sudden, folding me in half. I collapsed, unconscious once again.
And just like before, I dreamt of that night.
But this time, it felt like a continuation.
A sequel to the horror.
He wasn't going to let me go.
The pain intensified, blooming like fire beneath my skin—each second a cruel crescendo. Terror gripped me. I sobbed, loud and broken, as the room spun and the nightmare deepened.
He leaned in, brushing his lips against mine. I turned away, uneasy, the sensation lingering like a stain. His fingers traced my cheek, then drifted downward. His gaze settled on my stomach. Slowly, he lifted my shirt and placed his palm against my skin. A gentle warmth radiated from his touch, spreading through me like a quiet wave. The pain began to dissolve, replaced by a soft tingling—strangely comforting.
"Ahh..." The sound escaped me.
And then I woke up.
Sort of.
Someone was covering my eyes. I felt their hands—gentle, deliberate—pressing against my face. Something was slipped into my mouth. Bitter at first, then warm, like sinking into a heavy blanket. The pain began to fade, replaced by a strange, unnatural calm.
I was tired.
Tired of this cycle.
Tired of not understanding.
Half-defeated, I didn't fight as hard this time.
I already knew—I couldn't stop it.
Something unseen held my arms down, keeping me from resisting. I let them finish whatever it was they were doing. They poured something inside me—something that felt like fire and ice. It burned, but as I surrendered to it, the pain began to ebb. This time, it was easier to accept.
My body relaxed.
They moved away.
Drowsiness crept in, heavy and irresistible.
My eyes shut, no longer mine to control.
When I woke, the aftermath was familiar.
The pain was gone.
As if it had never existed.
I felt... refreshed.
Whole.
But I knew better.
I looked around. The room was unfamiliar—dim, cluttered. Balls, mats, scattered equipment. I stood slowly, disoriented, and found the door. As I stepped out, recognition hit me.
The gym storage room.
Seriously?
If they're trying to help me, couldn't they pick a better place?
I felt a wave of irritation rise in my chest.
Whatever they're doing to ease the pain might be working physically, but emotionally? Mentally? I'm unraveling.
I groaned.
My phone buzzed—dozens of missed calls and messages from Axton and Mikee. I quickly texted them back, letting them know I was okay and telling them where to find me.
They showed up within minutes.
Mikee rushed in and pulled me into a tight hug, her arms trembling slightly. Her face was a storm of emotions—relief, frustration, worry—all tangled together and barely held back.
Then came the scolding.
Both of them.
Tag-teaming like overprotective parents lecturing a reckless child.
I stood there, quiet, letting their words wash over me.
Guilt settled deep in my chest.
I apologized.
I understood their concern—especially with everything going on with Wilde. They'd been trying so hard to protect me, to shield me from whatever danger he might bring. Their fear wasn't misplaced.
But I couldn't explain.
Not because I didn't want to.
Because I didn't know how.
How do you put into words something you barely understand yourself?
I didn't even understand what was happening to me.
They didn't press.
No questions.
Maybe they sensed I had no answers to give.
After that, I started paying closer attention.
There was a pattern.
The pain returned every two weeks—sharp, unbearable, always in the same place.
And each time, I blacked out.
Each time, someone—some stranger—intervened and eased the pain.
I didn't know who they were.
I didn't know how or why.
But now I had a plan.
Next time it happens, I won't just endure it.
I'll stay conscious.
I'll stay aware.
And I'll find out who's helping me... and why.
The following day, Wilde was relentless. His presence was like static in the air—grating, impossible to ignore. He and Axton clashed more than once, their tension spilling into every corner of the room.
Across the space, I noticed Nate.
He was watching Wilde.
Not casually—intensely.
His glare was sharp, unyielding, almost hostile.
Why was Nate glaring at Wilde?
He didn't even know him.
Maybe it was the chaos.
The constant arguments.
The way Wilde and Axton turned every hallway into a battlefield.
But if that were the case...
Shouldn't Nate be glaring at Axton too?
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of confusion.
Too many questions.
Too few answers.
And I'm just... tired.
Tired of the pain.
Tired of the mystery.
Tired of pretending everything's fine when it clearly isn't.
—
Hello, Mobsters!
Okay, real talk—I'm cutting the chapter here because that fourth-to-the-last sentence? That's not just a line. That's me. That's my soul laid bare. I'm exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Work is a beast, and trying to update chapters weekly? It's like running a marathon through quicksand—with a forced smile and a caffeine IV drip.
I've stretched myself thin, and honestly? I don't even know why I'm pushing this hard. Maybe it's the rush of writing again. Maybe it's the beautiful chaos I secretly thrive on. Or maybe it's just... me being me. The struggle of moi, wrapped in self-inflicted pressure and sprinkled with whipped cream on top of a stress sundae. But hey—like they say, "If there's a will, there's a way." And I'm stubborn enough to keep finding mine.
As for this chapter? I'm not sure if it hits the way I hoped. Maybe it's a slow burn. Maybe it's a quiet storm. Maybe it's just the calm before the next emotional explosion. Every reader vibes differently—and as your author (aka Moi), I'm still wondering how I managed to finish this one. But I did. And that's a win I'll take.
I'll keep grinding to keep you hyped. You keep reading. I'll keep bleeding words. Deal? Work hard, me. Fighting, me! 🔥
Let's reconnect next chapter—because right now, I'm totally people-drained and emotionally flatlined 🥲
—mobpsych37