Elara's Pov:
The therapist's office smells of lavender and worn paper, a forced calm that sets my teeth on edge. I sink into the sagging couch, my oversized sweater swallowing me, sleeves grazing my knuckles, headphones looped around my neck like a tether. Dr. Harlan adjusts her glasses, her voice soft but sharp.
"Elara, how's the week been? Anything new?" I nod, quick and vague, my notebook open on my lap. I scribble: "Classes are fine. Just tired" My hands shake, the pen slipping. 'Please don't look too deep.'
And she did.
She leans forward, eyes narrowing. "You're fidgeting more, Elara. Your breathing's uneven, like something's pressing on you."
My heart lurches, the note flashing in my mind—Found, jagged ink, cigarette smoke clinging like a ghost. It's back. I can't tell her. Writing it makes it real, and I'm not ready to face that. Not yet. I shake my head, scribbling: "Bad dreams. That's all." My chest tightens, the lie bitter. 'Why can't I just say it.'
Dr. Harlan pauses, her gaze gentle but piercing. "Dreams can carry what we bury. Want to talk about it?" My pen hovers, the words clawing at me. Should I? The note feels like a weight, pulling me under. But telling her means opening a door I've bolted shut, letting the past slink in. I write: "Not today. Just school stuff."
She nods, not pushing, but her eyes linger. "Alright, Elara. Your silence is yours to control now, not a chain. I'm here when you're ready." I force a smile, but it feels hollow, like I'm hiding behind it.
The session crawls, her questions probing—sleep, classes, loneliness. I answer in short scribbles, my mind drifting to blue eyes, a subway car, a voice like gravel and warmth. Aiden. He's stuck in my head, his quick grin, the scar on his knuckle. 'Why does he feel like a spark?'
I clutch my notebook, the note's threat lingering—Found. 'Who's out there?' Dr. Harlan's voice fades, and I'm relieved when the hour ends. I slip out, the air outside sharp, biting my cheeks.
The college town hums, streets alive with shop lights and chatter. I pull my headphones up, a quiet indie song—soft guitar, low vocals—drowning out the noise.
My sneakers scuff the pavement, my thoughts a tangle of Aiden's face and that smoke-scented note. 'What does he think of me?' I'm mute, scribbling in a notebook like a kid. 'He probably thinks I'm weird.' . The streets blur, my feet moving on their own, and suddenly, I'm in front of Brew & Bloom, the café's warm glow cutting through the evening fog. 'How did I get here?'
I peer through the window, heart stuttering. Aiden's there, behind the counter, brewing coffee, steam curling up. He's focused, no laugh, just that intense look from the subway, his dark hair falling into his eyes. Jake, the lanky barista, says something, and Aiden grunts, pouring milk with a steady hand, his scar catching the light. He's so… real. My chest aches, a pull I can't name. I step toward the door, hand brushing the handle, breath shallow. 'Go in. Write something.' But doubt floods me—'He probably thinks I'm dumb.' I let go, retreating. Not now.
The alley behind the café is quiet, the air cool and damp. I lean against the brick wall, needing a breather. One, two, three breaths. Fog swirls, streetlights hazy. My backpack shifts, and a page slips out—my sketch, Aiden's eyes staring from the pavement, sharp and blue. No! My heart lurches, and I bend to grab it, but the back door creaks open, loud in the silence.
I dart behind a crate, hiding on impulse, pulse hammering. 'Why am I doing this?' Footsteps crunch, and Aiden steps out, hands in his pockets, breath visible in the chill. He looks worn. He spots the sketch, bending to pick it up. He unfolds it, brow furrowing, then a small grin tugs at his lips. That's me. He stares, like it's a puzzle, then slips it into his pocket, like it's worth keeping.
Why? He scans the alley—sees nothing, just fog—and heads back inside, the door clicking shut.
I emerge, cheeks burning, hope flickering like a fragile flame. He kept it. But the alley feels heavy, like eyes in the shadow. 'Is someone there?' The note's word echoes—Found—and fear claws at me, sharp and cold.