My room was a mess—papers piled high, notebooks stacked haphazardly on the desk, corners bent, pages curling like dead leaves. Half-finished homework, scribbled reminders, and abandoned doodles spilled across every surface.
And then there were the sketches. Too many sketches. She was everywhere—in the margins of my notebooks, tucked between pages, drawn over and over. Some were detailed, some barely more than outlines, but every one was her: the girl I could never quite finish. Her hair flowed across the page in graphite waves; her face was always turned away, hiding, as if even on paper she refused to exist fully.
I sat in the chair, hunched over a blank page, pencil hovering like I might ruin it just by touching it. Moonlight slashed across the clutter, catching the edges of pens and pencils scattered like fallen soldiers.
"...Haaa."
"When will this end?"
"Haaa…"
My voice barely filled the room as I stared at the mountain of unfinished notes scattered across my desk. They had to be done and handed to our class monitor tomorrow morning.
"Oof. Not tomorrow. Later."
I checked the time on my phone.
4:37 A.M.
A sharp knock sliced through the quiet.
Knock. Knock.
"Hmm…?"
I frowned. No one visits at this hour.
With a tired sigh, I stood and walked toward the front door, my footsteps dragging against the cold floor.
"Early in the morning… what could you possibly ne—"
Stab.
"…Huh?"
The word escaped me in a breathless whisper.
I looked down.
A knife protruded from my stomach, the metal glistening dark as blood began to soak through my shirt. For a heartbeat, the world felt distant. Like I was watching someone else's body.
Then the pain crashed in.
Adrenaline surged through my veins, drowning out the shock. I grabbed the attacker's shoulder with shaking hands and hurled him to the ground with whatever strength I had left. I punched him once. Twice. The second blow landed with a dull thud.
He staggered back, cursing under his breath.
Before I could grab him again, he shoved me away and bolted into the dim hallway. His footsteps pounded down the stairs, then vanished into the early morning silence.
The door swung slightly on its hinges.
I staggered backward, collapsing against the wall before sliding down to the floor. My hand pressed against the wound, warm blood slipping through my fingers.
Across the street, a neighbor who had been watering plants on their balcony froze at the sight of the struggle through the half-open door. A shout pierced the dawn.
"Hey! What's happening?!"
Footsteps scrambled. A phone dialed in frantic urgency.
"Hello? Emergency! Someone's been stabbed—yes, he's bleeding—please hurry!"
Their voice echoed faintly through the thinning edges of my awareness.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder with every passing second.
My vision blurred.
Beside me, my phone lay on the floor, its screen cracked but still glowing. On it was a picture of a woman.
Not a real woman.
A drawing.
Soft lines. Careful shading. A figure I had sketched countless times from memory and imagination. Her face was turned slightly away, obscured in shadow, as if even now she refused to fully exist in this world.
My fingers twitched toward the screen but stopped halfway.
The sirens were close now.
The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed everything was that unfinished face staring back at me.
Was she staring back…?
---
I woke to the sound of hushed voices and the dull beep of a monitor. My eyes felt heavy, every blink like dragging concrete across my eyelids. My stomach throbbed, but it wasn't the worst part.
When I opened them fully, I saw Mom and Dad sitting close by, their faces pale and tight with worry. Mom's hand gripped mine, her thumb rubbing small circles over my knuckles. Dad's jaw was set, his stern expression barely hiding the worry beneath.
"Ren…" Mom whispered, her voice trembling. "You're awake."
I tried to speak, but my throat was dry and scratchy. "…What… happened?"
"You were stabbed," Dad said, his voice low but steady. "Someone… came into the apartment you've been staying in. But you're okay now. The police are handling it."
"You shouldn't have moved out," Mom snapped suddenly, her words sharp and trembling with worry. "I told you it wasn't safe! Living alone, even though you're not yet eighteen… it's dangerous!"
I flinched at the force of her words, though I knew she was only scared. "I… I'm fine now, Mom. I… I thought I could handle it."
Mom pressed her hand harder over mine. "Handle it? You could have died, Ren!"
Dad opened his mouth to intervene, but before he could say anything, the door swung open. A doctor stepped in, clipboard in hand, his eyes scanning me quickly.
The doctor approached with calm efficiency, clipboard in hand. "Good, you're awake," he said. "I need to run a few checks—blood pressure, vitals, and examine your wound. Tell me if you feel any sharp pain."
I nodded weakly, every movement sending a pang through my stomach. The nurse helped me sit up while the doctor cleaned the wound and checked the stitches. He gave quick instructions about medication and recovery, but my head felt foggy, and I struggled to focus.
After a few minutes, he stepped back.
"You're stable for now. Rest, take your medication, and avoid any strenuous activity. The police will follow up. If all goes well, you'll be discharged in a couple of days."
Mom exhaled, relief washing over her face. She sank back into the chair beside me, fingers still entwined with mine. Her voice softened, though the shadow of worry lingered.
Mom's thumb rested over mine, warm and steady.
"By the way," she said lightly, glancing at Dad, "Fiona's mother called earlier. She asked how you're doing. Fiona wanted to know too."
My breath caught.
"F-Fiona?" The name felt fragile in my mouth. "How?"
Mom frowned. "What do you mean how? Of course they called me."
Heat climbed up my neck. My stomach tightened—not from pain, but from embarrassment. Of course they would know. My sketches. The notebooks. The quiet hours spent drawing the same girl over and over, trying to give her a face that never quite formed.
I forced a laugh. "You're teasing me, right?"
Dad tried to hide his smile. Mom only looked at me, as if she knew something I didn't.
Before I could press further, the doctor stepped in and called them outside.
Silence settled over the room.
Fiona.
She was my friend. Or at least, she had been. An imaginary friend I had carried since childhood, drawn into the margins of my life. I could sketch her hair, her posture, the way she stood beside me—but her face was always blurred and unfinished. No matter how many times I tried, I could never complete it. After all, she was just a product of my imagination; I couldn't exactly draw the face of someone who didn't really exist. And yet…
She was my secret.
I had given her a history. We met when I was four. We were inseparable for two years. Then she disappeared for three years. At ten, I "found" her again—through a story I wrote about creating an online account, about her finding me instead. From then until sixteen, she stayed. In drawings. In pages. In silence.
But I had started to outgrow her. Or at least, I told myself I had. It was childish, wasn't it? An invisible companion at this age. So I began throwing her away with the rest of my old hobbies, trying to forget something that grows alongside me.
Still… how did Mom know?
Maybe she read my diary. Maybe she found the sketches. A boy constantly drawing a girl—it was suspicious enough.
A few days after the accident, I was discharged.
The hospital doors slid open, and the world felt strangely new. The sky was too bright. The air too sharp. I stepped outside slowly, as if I were crossing a line I couldn't see.
And I would have never thought that I come Acrossed The Line Between Dream And Reality