An hour had slipped through her fingers like fine sand.
In the silence of the aftermath, the passage of time felt deceptive, almost cruel.
"It all came too fast, all of it," Trizha whispered to the empty air of the hallway. "An hour just passed, and suddenly, the speakers are blaring announcements to prepare for Prom night... I wasted so much of the morning singing with Nomoro, and now the dormitory feels like a ghost town. Everyone is already out there, and I'm still tired up. Damn it, I'm actually starting to get worried."
She stepped out of her suite, dressed in outdoor clothes that felt crisp against her skin.
She felt refreshed, physically at least, but a lingering, miserable annoyance gnawed at her.
The Prom announcement had been a sudden jolt to her system, sending her into a brief, frantic panic before the rational part of her brain reminded her that "Prom Night" actually happened at night.
She walked down the long, carpeted corridors, leaving Nomoro behind in the room.
He had been quiet, watching her with that same steady gaze as she prepared to leave, a silent anchor in her storm.
As she walked, her mind drifted back to a call she had received from Claria a few days ago.
Her mother had tried to tell her that she had arranged for someone to deliver a custom prom dress to the hotel.
At the time, Trizha had been so deeply entrenched in her own drama—so obsessed with maintaining her "Influencer" facade—that she had effectively blocked the woman out.
Claria had even followed up with a detailed virtual message, which Trizha had also swiped into oblivion without a second thought.
The memory of her own recklessness made her face burn with a furious, localized embarrassment.
She felt a sharp, jagged pang of regret for ignoring the one person who had always stood by her.
She hated that she had pushed her mother away just to amuse Zackier—a man who, as it turned out, didn't exist in the way she thought he did.
Now, the reality of her homecoming loomed over her.
The La Luna Sangre vacation week was coming to an end, and soon she would have to stand face-to-face with Claria.
Her mother was a woman of extremes: deeply caring and fiercely protective, but strictly cruel when Trizha earned it.
"And I definitely earned it this time," Trizha muttered, a worried sigh escaping her as she rounded a corner.
She continued her journey through the labyrinthine corridors, heading toward the hotel's "Pick-Up" area—a secure zone where parents and visitors could drop off items for the students.
It was a long walk, and the isolation of the hallway was starting to weigh on her.
Suddenly, she skidded to a halt.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she stared straight ahead.
Emerging from the dim light of the far end of the hall was a figure that looked like it had stepped out of a nightmare.
A girl with long, ink-black hair, dressed in casual clothes but draped in a heavy, dark blanket that hung vertically over half her body, was gliding toward her.
An intense, oppressive atmosphere seemed to radiate from the girl, darkening the very air around her.
Trizha gulped, her throat tight with fear.
For a fleeting, terrified moment, she thought she was looking at a ghost.
The girl moved with a slow, heavy intensity, and Trizha couldn't even see her face because her long, thick bangs—the classic "Sadako" style—shrouded her eyes completely.
But then, the fear began to melt into a strange, familiar confusion.
That dark aura, that specific brand of dramatic gloom... it was unmistakable.
Trizha's lips curled into a soft, relieved smile.
"Long time no see, Margaret," Trizha said, her voice steadying.
The "ghost" girl took one more rhythmic step and came to a halt.
She tilted her head slightly, her bangs parting just enough to reveal the pale, familiar face of…
…Margaret.
"For your information, we have only been separated for three days," Margaret remarked, her voice a low, melodic monotone.
Despite the gloom she projected, a small, nearly invisible smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Trizha nodded, her fingers moving as she mentally ticked off the calendar. "Friday, Saturday, Sunday... and today is Monday. Nope, that's four days, Margaret."
"Friday doesn't count," Margaret responded, shaking her head with a fuzzled but emotionless look. "Friday was the day of our last shared reality. The rest of the days were the ones that actually mattered. Besides, counting is a mundane human obsession."
She stopped a few feet in front of Trizha, her presence unsettlingly still.
"But… this is unexpected," Margaret followed up, her hidden eyes seemingly scanning Trizha for cracks. "I calculated that you would be acting miserably dramatic by now. I expected you to suffer a complete psychological break the moment I appeared in your line of sight. Not that i wanted to see it."
Trizha let out a short, mock-fearful laugh, swatting her hand through the air as if to clear a cobweb. "That's a creepy thing to imagine, even for you. But I'm way past that now. I've moved on, ever since—"
"Since Nomoro intervened and saved you from yourself?" Margaret cut her off, her voice flat but knowing. "I can already tell."
Trizha raised an eyebrow, shifting her weight and placing a hand on her hip. "So you already knew what he did for me yesterday? Were you watching?"
Margaret shook her head slowly. "No. It was merely a logical deduction based on the variables available. But you just confirmed my guess with that defensive posture. Still... your reaction to me is... anomalous."
Margaret crossed her arms gently.
Though her arm had been healed for days, she still held herself with a certain
guardedness, as if the memory of the dislocation still lingered in her nerves.
Her gaze lifted, focusing intensely on Trizha's face.
What she saw was an expression as calm as the surface of an ocean after a devastating typhoon.
Trizha looked like a damaged vessel that had taken on water, been tossed by the gale, and somehow managed to stay afloat.
She looked... different.
"You weren't supposed to look this 'usual,'" Margaret mused, her fuzzled smile returning. "In fact, you don't look usual at all. You seem... significantly more mature."
Margaret's curiosity was a cold, drowning weight.
She wanted to peel back the layers and understand exactly what had transpired in those three days to cause such a radical shift.
She tried to analyze the blonde girl before her, searching for the old Trizha—the one who had saved her that day in the rain.
This new Trizha felt different, yet the core of it—the "Connection"—felt like it had evolved in a positive direction.
Before Margaret could finish her silent observation, Trizha spoke.
"Matured or still an idiot, I'm still Trizha either way," Trizha said, her voice ringing with a newfound clarity. "And I'm still here. I'm just... growing."
Margaret's analytical thoughts vanished in an instant.
She was left uncharacteristically speechless.
For the first time since the day Trizha had first reached out to her, Margaret felt a genuine, instinctive warmth.
She chuckled silently, a rare sound that held a hint of pride.
"I see," Margaret said, her eyes searching Trizha's. "But for the sake of confirmation, do you have any tangible proof that you are still the person you claim to be?"
Trizha smiled, a playful spark returning to her eyes. "Yeah, I actually have one piece of proof."
Trizha reached for her bag, her fingers fumbling with the zipper for a moment before she reached inside and pulled something out.
She walked closer to Margaret, closing the distance until she could reach out and press an object into Margaret's hands.
Margaret looked down.
Her breath caught in her throat, and for the first time, real tears began to well in her eyes.
She gripped the object with both hands, her knuckles white.
Trizha didn't wait for a reaction.
She slid past Margaret, walking away with a big, cheerful smile that finally looked real.
"I'll leave that with you for now," Trizha called out over her shoulder. "I have to go grab my prom dress before they close the desk. See ya!"
She began to run, her footsteps light against the carpet.
But after a few paces, she skidded to a stop and turned back one last time.
"Also, Margaret... thank you for coming to see me," Trizha yelled, her eyes shining. "I really missed your weird, dark humor! And I'm sorry about what i did to your arm!"
With that, she turned and disappeared around the corner.
Margaret stood alone in the hallway for a long time, staring at the empty space where her friend had been.
Tears finally escaped her lashes, trailing through her bangs.
She slowly turned in the direction Trizha had gone, her heart feeling lighter than it had in years.
"Wyne..." Margaret whispered to the silence. "If you are truly serious about your decision... maybe you should change your mind while you still can."
She turned and began her own leave, clutching her treasure tightly.
It was a framed picture of Trizha, Wyne, and herself—the three of them together, before the world broke.
To Margaret, it wasn't just a photograph; it was a lifetime treasure.