Clara

  I glance back at Alister, seeing him talking to Stephanie in the hallway.

  I shouldn’t have been worried. Even if he looked shaken from hallucination. Even after that guilty look on his face when he grabbed my arm. Like he wanted to say something important but couldn't find the words.

  I make myself focus on Zach. No troublesome thoughts allowed.

  "The show's about to begin." He says, suddenly holding my hand and pulls me towards the crowd. A jolt runs through my body, making me feel conscious about my sweaty hands.

  We stare at the stage as the crowd falls silent, anticipation thick in the air. The sound system roars to life, its rhythm pulsing deep in our chests. I don't really care for the show. But since I'm with him, I shouldn't try to let the loud noises bother me.

  Zach's eyes, which never seem to lose their sparkle, look at the performance excitedly.

  How is he always like this? Since the first time I saw him at orientation, he hasn't changed a bit.

  I remember the day all too well.

  He almost died.

  Jumping into the pool just for someone's treasured necklace that they got from their mom, not knowing how to swim. It was really stupid of him. Yet even after someone saved him, he still managed to smile as he handed the item back.

  He cares about the smallest things, and never falters when life knocks him down. Even after losing his mother young and appearing devastated on the news, he found a way to move forward with hope.

  I look down at his hand, then reach for it.

  Say, If I stand beside you like this, will I ever become like you? Will you let me into your bright world, let me move through life as you do? Owing nothing, fearing even less?

  My fingers brush his, and he turns, surprised. His eyes drop to our hands, then rise to meet mine. As our gazes lock, the world fades, and for a brief moment, time stands still. He then leans toward me, and my throat tightens.

  "What's wrong? Not liking the show?" He yells into my ear. I feel my heart rate go down with disappointment. The air is sucked out of the moment, leaving me feeling deflated and a little foolish.

  "No, it's fine!" I yell back, trying to reach him through the music and noise. "It's just a bit loud, that's all!" My hands fidget with the lace of my dress. Why is this so awkward?

  He then grabs my arm. Normally, it would’ve sent butterflies through me, but I keep my face neutral, hiding the sting of the bruise. I glance up at Zach as he starts pulling me through the crowd. I stumble, struggling to match his determined pace. The crowd blurs, faces and colors pressing in, as we push through. Finally, we break free and stop near a bench.

  "I guess it was too loud." He says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

  I stare at the ground as I try to gather my thoughts. "Zach, can… I ask you something? It might sound a bit weird."

  He shrugs with a grin. "Shoot."

  "...How do I be like you?"

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to pull them back. They sound so childish, so desperate—but I don’t know any other way to say it. The question that swirls in my mind whenever I see him.

  He chuckles. "Why would you want to be like me?"

  "You just… You look like you’ve got everything figured out. Like life doesn’t really get to you, so..." I trail off feeling embarrassed.

  These past few days with Alister just made me look at my life more closely. I don’t feel happy.

  To be truly happy, one must find contentment in their own life. We’re always chasing that feeling. Striving to be satisfied with who we are and where we are. When I look at Zach, it feels like he’s already there. Always so bright, so at ease, like a knight in shining armor.

  He bursts out laughing, throwing his head back, and I silently wish the earth would swallow me whole before I embarrass myself any further."I can’t believe you think that highly of me."

  He plops down on the bench too, slouching comfortably like we’re just two kids skipping class. "I don’t know what’s going on with you, but… look, no one really has it all together. You can have everything people think matters and still feel like it’s not enough. If you’re chasing perfection, you’ll burn out. Sometimes, it’s just about seeing what you do have—and learning to be content with that."

  "Does...that work for you?" I ask curiously.

  "Of course it does." He says and abruptly stands up, avoiding my gaze. "You two! Over here!" He calls out to Stephanie and Alister standing far away.

  But...I wasn't done talking. Was I dampening the mood?

  As the two approach, Zach runs ahead to meet them. I follow, fingers grazing the bruise on my arm, trying to concentrate on that pain as I can feel my future image of us together starting to crack. And the empty void of nothingness peeking through it.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Being alone with him only highlighted the distance between us.

  "Hey."

  Alister suddenly steps in front of me, eyes fixed on my arm. "Come with me for a sec, will you?"

  "What is it?" I ask.

  "It's urgent." He insists, breaking away from the group. Before I can ask more, he’s already walking, and I follow. We eventually arrive at the back of the department building. At a spot where not many students are present.

  Why has he brought me here?

  "Sit there." he says, pointing towards a bench under the tree. As I sit, before I can even process it, he grabs my wrist. My face burns with embarrassment as he lifts my arm, eyes locked on my sleeve.

  "W-what are you doing?" I stammer, panic rising as he pulls the sleeve down, revealing bruises blooming on my skin like rotting fruit.

  Humiliation and vulnerability flood me as I try to pull my arm back, desperate to hide the bruises—and my shame. I don’t want him to see. I don’t want anyone to see. But his grip stays firm, his eyes narrowing as he studies the marks.

  "Let go," I snap, trying to reclaim control. "You’ve seen it. Aren’t you satisfied?"

  "Making it even," Alister says calmly, pulling out a tube and squeezing ointment onto his finger. His touch is gentle as he dabs the burn mark. It stings. "You try so hard to pretend nothing hurts."

  "I don't need your pity. I may be weak—"

  "Having the power to do something about your situation, yet refusing to do anything, doesn't make you weak, it makes you a coward." He interrupts. "What I feel is more frustration than pity."

  Why do I feel like I'm getting scolded? It's annoying.

  "…Why are you really doing this?" I murmur, tired more than angry.

  "I don’t know," he replies thoughtfully, as if his body’s moving on its own.

  I don't like it. I don’t like seeing him act this way, and I feel more embarrassed about what I said last night. It's as if I were drunk on emotion. I didn't even hear him out.

  "What I don’t understand," he says, stepping back and dropping to one knee. My eyes narrow as I follow his movement, unsure where this is going. "Is that if you hate me so much, why didn't you drive away when you had the chance? You could have escaped when you saw me like that. And why give me this rubber band?"

  I freeze as he removes my shoe and touches my ankle to check the cut.

  Lightning. That’s the only way to describe it. My fingers dig into the bench as the shock shoots up my leg and bursts behind my ribs. I feel utterly exposed. When did he see the cut? Did the bastard catch me wincing as I walked?

  I stay quiet, unsure how to handle the warmth creeping up my face. For someone who hates being touched, he sure doesn’t respect my boundaries.

  "I don’t know either," I sigh, leaning back and closing my eyes. "Maybe I just saw myself in you? Crying, breaking down like that. Looking pretty pitiful." I smirk and glance down at him.

  His brow twitches as he tries to hide a frown, carefully pressing a bandage onto my ankle. "I see. So it’s about self-pity. Feeling emotionally fulfilled, or seeing yourself as a kind person, even generous to monsters like me."

  I roll my eyes. "Either you never learned the word thank you, or you're too stubborn to say it." He glares back and I smirk. "Guess it's both then."

  I suppose this is his way of both gratitude and apology. He really is too prideful.

  "I… might have run into those artifact hunters last night," I finally admit.

  "What!?" His amber eyes flash with surprise. "And you’re only telling me now?"

  I lift my chin, holding back my irritation. "I wasn’t sure I could trust you with any information until I knew you were serious about the truce."

  He sighs, stands, and sits at the far end of the bench. The distance feels deliberate, like he needs space to gather himself. Leaning forward, forearms on his knees, he speaks. "Go ahead."

  I start telling him everything that happened after his call, watching him listen closely.

  "Invisibility?" he mutters, more to himself than me, dropping his gaze to the ground in thought. I brace for sarcasm, for a jab about how ironic it is, or maybe a boast about how much better his power is

  But it never comes.

  "You’d make a great spy," he says instead, glancing back at me. "Having exceptional marksmanship and the ability to slip into any place, undetected? This gives us a great advantage." The sincerity in his voice takes a second to register.

  "Keep practicing," he says. "Time how long you can stay hidden. And if you feel any side effects, stop immediately."

  A warm rush spreads through my chest—pride, unexpected and fierce. It’s such a simple thing, the way he says it, as if it’s obvious I’m capable. I feel like he sees me the way I've waited my whole life to be seen. As someone strong. Someone who matters.

  And somehow, that acknowledgment hits harder than any insult he’s ever thrown my way.

  I take a breath and continue the story. I tell him about the pipe, the woman, the retreat—every detail. When I finish, he frowns.

  "Why didn’t you fight back and try to get answers?"

  "Because murdering people isn’t my first instinct." I retort, rolling my eyes. "It’s survival. Charging head-on when I don’t even know their weapons is foolish."

  I meet his gaze. "Not everything’s solved with brute force. You tried that method. Did you get the answers we needed?"

  He doesn’t answer immediately, lips pressed tight as he looks away. My eyes drop to his wrist. Reddened from the constant snapping.

  He stands and brushes dust off his jeans. "Let’s go. Before the others get suspicious."

  I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from grinning and asking him. Suspicious? Of what, exactly?

  As we walk, I glance down again at his wrist. He hasn’t been gentle with it. "Hey, what do you see when you hallucinate?"

  His hand freezes inches away from the band, then slowly lowers.

  "…Unpleasant stuff." He says, avoiding my gaze. "Things from the past. Things I’d rather die than remember."

  There’s hesitation in his tone. I should drop it. Give him the silence he clearly wants. But instead, I do the exact opposite. My need to tease is starting to overflow.

  "I suppose." I drawl. "I can allow you to hold me again if it gets too much. You know—if you feel like breaking down."

  He groans, already regretting sharing anything with me. I press on, relentless.

  "And who knows?" I mercilessly continue, lifting a brow. "Maybe next time you can catch me if I happen to fall. Real chivalrous. A full-circle moment.”

  He clicks his tongue, shooting me a glare. "I don’t need you."

  I clutch my chest with mock offense. "Really? Because you were holding onto me pretty tightly yesterday."

  He closes his eyes to contain his frustration as I wrap my arms around myself in an exaggerated reenactment. "I can still feel them." I whisper theatrically. "Those unmanly hands… gripping me…"

  "If you don’t stop. I’ll use those hands to strangle your neck."

  My smirk only widens. "Trying to come up more excuses to touch me again? How desperate."

  He storms off ahead, boots crunching harder than necessary on the path. I burst into laughter, loud and unfiltered, trailing after him, not caring for a second who's watching me.

  For someone I claim to dislike, I sure feel a lot less alone when he's around.