I didn't sleep.
Not that I could, anyway.
The journal lay under my pillow like a quiet bomb, just waiting to explode.
They read it.
I knew it.
Even though everything was perfectly in place, the air had shifted. You know when someone breathes near your secrets? Like, the atmosphere just... bends differently.
The next morning, we sat at the breakfast table like nothing had happened. Chloe was humming and scrolling through her phone. Peter stirred his cereal absentmindedly.
I just stared at both of them.
My fingers clenched around my spoon.
They were too normal.
Too careful.
"Sleep well?" Peter asked without looking up.
I didn't respond.
Instead, I asked, "Anything interesting you guys wanna share?"
Chloe blinked. "What do you mean?"
I stared at her. Long enough for Peter to look up.
"Guys…" I said slowly, "why was my journal moved?"
Chloe's eyes widened. "Emma—"
"You read it." My voice was low, almost broken.
Peter stood up. "Emma, listen—"
"You read it."
His expression turned guilty. "Only the last part, I swear—"
"I trusted you," I whispered, feeling heat build behind my eyes. "I trusted you both."
Chloe stood up too. "We didn't want to—Emma, we were just worried about you!"
"So you decided to read my entire heart?" I said, my voice shaking. "You didn't ask. You didn't tell me. You just—ripped it open."
"It wasn't like that!" Peter snapped, finally meeting my eyes. "I didn't even mean to see that page."
My breath caught. "What page?"
He froze.
The silence was too loud.
My voice cracked. "What. Page. Peter."
He hesitated, then quietly said, "Your fourteenth birthday."
My whole body turned cold.
No. No no no no no.
He read it.
He knows.
He knows I love him.
He knows I've loved him since forever.
I felt like vomiting.
"You weren't supposed to see that," I said, tears rushing in too fast. "You weren't supposed to know."
Chloe gently touched my arm. "Emma, it doesn't change anything—"
"Doesn't it?" I said, laughing bitterly. "You read about the day I fell in love, and then you read about the day I turned into a monster."
Peter stepped forward. "You're not a monster."
"Don't say that!" I shouted, the lights flickering. "You saw what I wrote! I burned them! I liked it! I didn't feel sorry—"
"You were scared," Peter said. "You were in pain. You were alone."
"I should've died that day!" I screamed. "They should've let me die!"
He grabbed my shoulders. "Emma—stop it."
I tried to shake him off. "No, let me go—"
"Stop it!" he shouted. "You think you're the only one carrying pain?"
I froze.
He stared at me, eyes red. "You think I didn't cry when I saw what they did to you? You think I didn't feel every blow you took? I couldn't stop them. I watched them break you. And I hated myself for not being able to stop it."
Chloe wiped away a tear, standing beside him. "We're not here to judge you. We're here to stand with you. But you need to let us."
I didn't know what to say.
So I didn't say anything.
I ran.
Out the door. Across the field. Into the woods behind the barn.
And I screamed.
I screamed until my throat hurt.
---
That night, I couldn't even pretend anymore. The pain, the guilt, the shame—it was eating me alive.
I drifted off at some point. I don't even remember when.
But the dream came.
Oh God, it came.
---
The Dream
It started the same way—smoke, fire, a girl tied down, screaming for mercy.
Me.
But this time, I wasn't just watching.
I was her.
I felt everything.
The betrayal. The panic. The rage.
The psychic energy boiling under my skin.
I had tried to save people.
I had healed a blind man's eyes.
I had stopped a murderer before he struck.
I had helped crops grow with a touch.
But one day, a child died because of me—by accident. I had lost control.
That's all it took.
Rumors spread.
"She's dangerous."
"She's evil."
"She'll hurt us all."
And they came for me.
People I'd saved. People I'd loved.
They tried to kill me.
And I snapped.
I snapped.
The daydream turned red. Blood. Screams. Collapsing buildings. Mothers clutching lifeless infants. My powers out of control, like a storm unleashed.
I killed them all.
800 people.
Including babies.
Even now, I could see their tiny faces, charred and lifeless.
And standing at the edge of the chaos…
Peter.
Or whoever he was in that life.
He walked toward me.
Not running.
Not scared.
Just… shattered.
He slapped me across the face.
And whispered, "You deserve this."
Tears ran down his cheeks as soldiers dragged me away.
But he didn't stop them.
Because he knew I was dangerous.
And he hated me for it.
And the worst part?
I hated myself too.
I can back from daydreaming, because I was dreaming and running really messed up.
I didn't know where I was going—I just ran. The trees blurred past me, the air clawing at my face as I sprinted through the woods like a girl with nothing left to lose. My feet hit wet mud, twigs snapped beneath my sneakers, and my heart thundered in my chest. I couldn't take it anymore—Peter, the visions, the blood, the pain, the secrets. Everything. I had to get out.
Then, out of nowhere, I stumbled onto a road I had never seen before. It curved into the woods like some secret path that only existed for the lost. I stood there, panting and trying not to cry, when I heard the low hum of an engine in the distance. It wasn't just any car—it was a car, the kind you only see in mafia movies or parked outside billionaire mansions. Sleek, black, and shiny like sin itself.
It stopped right in front of me, and the window rolled down smoothly. Inside was a guy—no, a man—looking like he'd walked off a Calvin Klein billboard. Sharp jaw, messy dark hair, light stubble, and those eyes... Unavoidably hot. Like, painfully hot.
"Hey, young lady," he said, voice deep like velvet and just a hint cocky. "You alright?"
I swallowed. "Yeah. I mean—no. Not really."
"And yet," he smirked slightly, "you're standing alone on a forest road in the middle of nowhere."
"Why'd you stop?" I asked, squinting. "Why'd you pick me up?"
He leaned back, resting a wrist on the steering wheel like he owned the world. "The real question is, why'd you agree to get in? What if I was the villain here, huh? Mafia king, serial killer, psycho? You trusted a stranger."
"You just called yourself all that and still expect me to trust you?"
He grinned. "If it wasn't me, who knows what could've happened to you. I'm just doing what anyone should do. Or at least what someone should."
I sighed and slid in beside him. "I guess I'm just tired."
"Runaway from home?" he asked casually, pulling back onto the road like this was a normal Tuesday.
"Not exactly. No fight. Just… something I can't tell."
"Try me," he said, eyes still on the road.
And something in his voice—warm, unbothered, real—made me spill everything. Every single thing. The powers. The dreams. Peter. The mural. Mrs. Grace. My bleeding eyes. Julie's attack. Even the kiss I shared with Peter. Everything.
He didn't interrupt. He just listened. Nodded. Even muttered a "whoa" or a "what the hell?" at the right moments. But not once did he look at me like I was crazy. Not once did he make me feel like a freak.
"You're something else, pretty lady," he said once I finished. "And I mean that in the best way."
I laughed. Actually laughed. The first real one in weeks. He cracked the worst jokes—dad-level ones—and I couldn't stop giggling.
"What do you call a vampire in a snowstorm?" he said with a mischievous grin.
"I'm scared to ask," I said.
"Frostbite."
I groaned. "Stop."
"Admit it, you laughed."
"I didn't!"
He raised an eyebrow.
"Okay fine—a little. A snort. Maybe."
"Victory," he whispered, like he'd just won a medal.
Four hours passed like minutes. My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen and nearly dropped it—147 missed calls, 130 messages from Peter, 98 from Chloe, 40 from Mom.
I sent one text:
"I'm okay. Need some time. Don't look for me. I'll come back when I'm ready."
"Where should I drop you?" he asked gently.
"Take me where you're going," I whispered. "I don't want to think. I just want... to breathe."
He looked at me sideways for a second, then nodded.
And so I ended up at a mansion. Not a big house. A mansion. Cream marble pillars, black steel gates, a literal fountain. I gaped. He smirked.
"Welcome to temporary freedom," he said, unlocking the door with a fingerprint scan.
Inside was even worse—crystal chandeliers, black velvet furniture, and walls lined with art I'd only seen in books.
"Pick a room," he said.
"You're serious?"
"Dead."
I chose the one with the gold-and-black wallpaper and floor-to-ceiling windows. I walked out, dazed, and sat at the dining table. Before I knew it, sleep had knocked me out cold. Last thing I remembered was feeling something soft and warm wrap around me—his coat. Then a finger brushed my cheek, gentle and almost... loving.
My stomach did those fluttery things again. I whispered to myself, "Do I love Peter? Then what the hell is this?"
I woke up the next morning in soft nightclothes. Not mine. I freaked out.
I bolted out of the room, found him lounging on a couch, sipping coffee like this was a regular morning.
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?" I shouted.
He blinked. "Relax, my love. My housekeeper changed you. Your clothes were disgusting."
"I still don't want anyone seeing me naked!"
"Fair," he said, smirking. "But you looked adorable asleep, drooling on my table."
"I did not drool."
"Want me to show you the video?"
"You recorded—YOU—" I threw a pillow at him.
"Guilty!" he laughed.
I paced the room. "I want to leave."
"Why not stay a little longer?" he said. "Talk. You trusted me with your secrets. What's a little more time?"
"I don't even know your name."
He smiled. "Liam."
Just that. Liam.
I sat down, arms crossed. "You already know everything about me."
"Not everything." He leaned in. "Tell me about Peter."
I froze.
"I love him," I said automatically.
"Do you?"
He came closer. Really close.
I didn't stop him. My heart pounded. I hated myself for it. He was right there—his breath warm, eyes locked on mine. It wasn't even a centimeter. I waited for him to kiss me—but he didn't. His lips brushed my cheek, lingering like silk. My breath hitched.
I was dizzy. What the hell was I doing?
Then, like something took over me, I lunged forward, grabbed his face, and kissed him. Hard.
And he kissed back. His hands found my waist, pulling me closer. My fingers tangled in his hair, and we kissed like we were made to—messy, deep, desperate. Three minutes. That kiss lasted for three whole minutes.
When we pulled back, I stared at him, shocked at myself. "No... no, I shouldn't have—"
"Do you?" he whispered.
"I don't know!" I stood up, grabbing my phone. Messages again. Peter's: "Where are you?" Chloe's: "We're freaking out." Mom's: "It's okay, sweetheart. Come home when you're ready."
Guilt washed over me like a tidal wave.
"I need to go," I said.
"Sure, my love," Liam replied softly.
I changed into the dress he left for me—a short brown floral one. Not my style, but... okay. His maid applied light makeup.
"Is this necessary?" I groaned.
"He likes you," she smiled. "He's never brought a girl here. Only his mother once."
I blinked. "His... mom?"
He'd never told me about her.
As we reached my street, I turned to him.
"What's your full name?"
He leaned in, kissed my forehead. "Peter is your first love. I intend to be your last."
My heart exploded.
And as I stepped out, he called out, "Never forget me. You were my first kiss."
I turned, frozen.
"My name," he said, "is Liam Grace. And I love you."
My blood turned cold.
Grace?
NO. WAY.
Not that Grace.
My story had just gotten a hell of a lot messier.