Niah's POV
Esme
That name just wouldn't let go. Even after Jules left and Zaire went right back to his scribbling, like nothing weird had happened, it echoed in Niah's head.
It was like déjà vu mixed with a dizzy spell, like stumbling across a word in some half-burned journal and never really getting what it meant.
And the way he said it was not casual. Nor was it a slip of tongue. He said it like he meant it, like it was hers. But it wasn't, or was it?
She didn't feel like an Esme. Whoever that was.
She was Niah—messy, sleepy-eyed, ink-smudged Niah, the girl who couldn't do 'normal' if her life depended on it, and who dropped things whenever she got nervous.
And Zaire Castellan? He made her nervous. Like, heart-in-her-throat, hands-shaking, nervous.
He didn't even bother to apologize for calling her Esme. Didn't even explain, didn't backtrack. Just gave her that unreadable look, as she should already get it. Like he was more annoyed by her confusion than surprised by his own words.
She tried to focus on her notes, but her brain just wouldn't cooperate. Even the smell of parchment and lemon balm ink made her think of him now.
Zaire. His name had wedged itself into her life, like a bookmark you keep finding no matter how many times you try to lose it. Always there, always waiting for her on the next page.
And now this whole Esme thing? Did he know something she didn't?
"Niah?" a voice called from the hallway.
She jumped, nearly toppling the stool she was perched on.
Dr. Thorne stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, looking as precise as ever. "You're still here?"
"Yeah," Niah blurted out.
"I-I was just… wrapping up."
Dr. Thorne gave her that look, the one that said she knew way more than she let on. "Zaire left ten minutes ago. You could've too."
Wait, he'd already left? She hadn't even noticed.
"Elira—uh, Dr. Thorne?"
"Yes?"
"Do you know why Zaire calls me Esme?"
There was the tiniest flicker in Dr. Thorne's expression. Barely there, but Niah caught it.
"I don't make a habit of interfering in names," Dr. Thorne said, careful and measured. "But maybe… ask him directly."
Which was not an answer. Not even close.
Niah didn't push. She just nodded, packed up her stuff, and headed home, her thoughts tangled and stubborn, refusing to make any sense.
They didn't untangle that night. Not even when she stood in front of her mirror, hair a disaster, eyes too wide, whispering 'Esme' to her own reflection like she was telling a ghost story.
"Who are you?" she asked the girl in the glass.
And for a split second, it almost felt like her reflection was about to answer.
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