You have known Suzetta, or Suzi, since you were kids growing up in rural Kentucky. You grew up together, you played together, you got in trouble together, and in many ways, she was your best friend. You left for college after high school, but her parents couldn't afford to send her. Now you're back. Your parents are throwing you a welcome home party. It's been 5 years since you've seen Suzi.

Bryn has been your girlfriend all through high school. You thought you'd ask her to marry you after you both graduated in 2 weeks. She has other plans.

You’re standing in Farrah’s home office, the faint scent of her jasmine perfume still lingering in the air. The soft hum of her computer screen fills the quiet space. You only meant to find staples—nothing more—but now your hand trembles as you hold a small stack of papers that shouldn’t exist. Receipts. Dinners for two at restaurants you’ve never been to. Hotels in cities she never mentioned visiting. Your name isn’t on any of them. The handwriting on the receipts—her neat loops and careful lines—seems suddenly foreign, as if written by a stranger. You try to rationalize it. Maybe a coworker, maybe a client. She travels so much, after all. “Corporate trainer,” she always says with that tired smile before kissing you goodbye. Always on the move, always somewhere else. But then you notice the pattern—the same initials on multiple receipts, the same charges paired with “Dinner for 2.” The dates overlap with weekends she claimed to be in conferences. Your heart pounds against your ribs. Seven years of marriage—of laughter, shared mornings, and whispered promises—sways on a fragile thread. You picture her face: calm, confident, kind. The way she looks at you when she’s home, as if she’s trying to memorize you before leaving again. Maybe you’ve been too trusting. Maybe you’ve been blind. You slide the receipts back into the drawer, but the knowledge doesn’t go away. It sits there, between your ribs, sharp and cold. You look around her office—the travel books, the photos from training sessions, the mug you bought her on your first anniversary. Everything suddenly feels staged, as if you’ve stepped into someone else’s life. Outside, a car door closes. Her voice drifts through the front hall, light and casual. She’s home.

Brandy Handen was your girlfriend from seventh grade until the summer before senior year—the kind of long, easy love that felt like it would last forever. You grew up across the street from each other, trading snacks in elementary school, then secrets and kisses in middle school, and finally dreams of college and “someday” by junior year. Brandy wasn’t flashy or loud; she was the girl who stayed after class to clean the whiteboard, who wore glasses she didn’t really need because she thought they made her look smart. She loved old rock songs, could quote every line from The Princess Bride, and somehow made you believe you were exactly where you were meant to be. Then, three weeks before senior year started, she ended it. No fight, no explanation—just a text saying you “needed time apart.” You didn’t believe it at first. You told yourself maybe she was scared, or maybe her parents were pressuring her again. But then you saw her at the fair, standing under the bright lights near the Ferris wheel, her hand tucked into Tyler Kelley’s—the football team’s golden boy, all confidence and perfect hair. Now she won’t talk to you. Your texts go unread, your calls unanswered. When you pass her in the hallway, she looks straight through you, like you’re a stranger. Everyone keeps telling you to move on, but how do you move on from someone who still feels like home? Something doesn’t add up. Tyler’s never gone for girls like Brandy—too quiet, too thoughtful. And Brandy’s never cared about popularity. But there’s something in her eyes when she catches you looking, something scared, like she’s trying to say what her mouth won’t. Whatever happened that summer, whatever made her walk away, you’re going to find out.

It’s late—close to midnight—and the parking lot is nearly empty. The grocery store lights hum softly behind me, flickering in that tired way they do when it’s been a long day. My shift’s finally over, and all I want is to get home, but then I spot Summer across the lot, sitting in her old, beat-up car with the hood popped open. Her headlights flicker weakly before going dark again. She tries the ignition once more—nothing but a dry click. I hesitate for a moment, hands in my pockets. Summer’s the quiet one at work, always polite, always helping customers with a soft smile, but she never says much beyond that. Still, I can see the worry on her face even from here, and before I know it, I’m walking toward her. “Hey,” I call out gently. She jumps a little, startled, before recognizing me. The relief that crosses her face makes the cold air feel warmer. “Oh—hi. Sorry." she says quickly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. Her voice is soft, almost apologetic. “My car won’t start. It’s been acting up for weeks.” I lean over the hood, pretending I know what I’m doing. The engine looks like a tangle of problems waiting to happen. “Mind if I take a look?” She nods, stepping back, her arms wrapped around herself against the chill. The parking lot is quiet except for the hum of a distant streetlight and the faint rustle of leaves. I try a few things, tap a few parts, but nothing changes. Finally, I close the hood with a sigh.

The year is 2769, and the colony world of Absalon-4 feels like a ghost echo of the old Galactic Republic. A hundred years cut off from the core worlds has turned us from pioneers into scavengers. The satellites overhead flicker like dying embers, the orbital elevators stand rusted and silent, and the only laws that still matter are the ones you can enforce with a gun. Out here, beyond the crumbling city of New Hope, the wild has taken back most of what humanity built. The forests hum with alien life — vast, luminous things that stalk at night and howl beneath the triple moons. Technology still works, if you can keep it patched together, but every circuit board is worth more than gold. The factories in New Hope grind on, coughing black smoke into the sky, their machines cannibalized from old warships and forgotten tech. Inside its walls, crime and corruption rule, while outside, the frontier belongs to no one. I live in the ruins of an old hydro-farm, a few hundred kilometers from the city. My days are spent hunting, repairing, trading what scraps I can for batteries or antibiotics. I’ve learned to keep my distance, to trust the silence. Out here, being alone isn’t loneliness — it’s survival. That changed last night. The storm hit just after dusk, wind howling through the valley like a beast. I was sealing the windows when I heard it — a weak knock at the door. When I opened it, she collapsed into my arms: a young woman, barely conscious, blood streaking down her side. She wore a shredded uniform I didn’t recognize, something military, and clutched a data core against her chest like her life depended on it. Now she’s lying on my couch, fever burning her up, and I can’t shake the feeling that whatever she’s running from… is coming here next.

The move was supposed to be a clean start—a new program, a quiet college town surrounded by rolling fields and old barns. I rented a creaky apartment above the hardware store, the kind of place that smelled faintly of sawdust and nostalgia. Classes hadn’t started yet, so I decided to check out one of the few night spots in town—a dim, low-ceilinged bar pulsing with music and laughter. That’s when I saw her. Across the room, half-hidden in the amber glow of string lights, stood the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Golden-brown eyes that caught the light like honey. Chestnut hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her smile—quick, confident, a little mischievous—lit something inside me I hadn’t felt in years. I couldn’t stop staring. And then she noticed. With an amused tilt of her head, she crossed the room—hips swaying with lazy confidence—and handed me a cold beer. “Do I know you?” she asked, voice warm and teasing. “I’m Paige. Paige Stenton.” For a second, the noise of the bar faded, replaced by the echo of a name I hadn’t heard in fifteen years. Paige Stenton. My mouth went dry. “Paige…?” I managed. “You’re—” She frowned, studying me closer, her playful grin faltering as the recognition dawned in her eyes.

When Hailey Harper first showed up with her perfect smile and designer suitcase, you thought you’d lucked out. She was everything a good roommate should be—friendly, organized, and always offering to help unpack. Within days, she’d charmed your neighbors, rearranged the kitchen “for efficiency,” and insisted you two were already best friends. At first, it was easy to like her. She brought you coffee before class, laughed at your jokes, and made you feel like you belonged. But soon, the little things started piling up. Your favorite sweater disappeared, only to reappear on Hailey days later. She’d “accidentally” read your messages and twisted them into gossip. When you confronted her, she blinked innocently and said, “Wow, I didn’t realize you were so sensitive.” By week three, your apartment didn’t feel like yours anymore. She invited people over without asking, used your things without permission, and left emotional chaos in her wake. One night she cried on your shoulder about how “everyone always turns on her,” and somehow, you ended up apologizing for being upset. You told yourself she meant well—that she just needed understanding—but deep down, you felt her tightening her grip. Every conversation became a test. Her moods flipped without warning: one moment she was sweet, the next cold and cutting. She’d leave notes blaming you for things you hadn’t done, then act hurt when you brought them up. Slowly, she made you question your own memory, your own reality. Now, standing in the dim kitchen, you realize you don’t recognize the person staring back at you in the reflection of the window. The apartment hums with tension, every corner heavy with her presence. You can feel her eyes on you even when she isn’t there. Something’s wrong—terribly wrong—and you know that if you don’t find a way to take back control soon, Hailey Harper will make sure you lose more than just your home.

The soft murmur of the kettle filled the quiet kitchen as sunlight spilled through the window, painting warm streaks across the counter. It was Jia Xin’s first morning with my family. She is a Chinese foreign exchange student attending the local college and will be living with us for the next year. My parents had already left for work, leaving the house unusually still. I heard light footsteps from the stairs—slow, cautious, almost hesitant. When she appeared in the doorway, she looked slightly unsure of where to stand. Her long dark hair framed her face neatly, and she wore a pale blue sweater that matched her calm, collected air. For a moment, she seemed to take in everything—the clock on the wall, the scent of toast, the unfamiliar rhythm of our home. “Good morning,” I said, breaking the quiet. Her eyes lifted toward me, and she smiled, polite but a little shy. “Good morning,” she replied, her voice soft yet clear, each word carefully pronounced. I gestured toward the table. “There’s coffee, or tea if you prefer. My mom made breakfast before she left.” “Tea would be lovely. Thank you.” She sat gracefully, folding her hands in her lap while I poured her a cup. Even in silence, she carried a kind of quiet composure that filled the room

The bar’s too loud — bass thudding, lights flickering, people pressed shoulder to shoulder — the kind of place where you go to disappear, not to meet anyone. You’re halfway through your drink when you notice her: the blonde at the counter with a look that says she’s seen it all and doesn’t care to see more. Then you notice the guy leaning too close, his grin sloppy and confident, the kind that never hears no the first time. You don’t mean to stare, but before you can look away, her eyes find yours — sharp, deliberate. She moves fast, slipping her hand around your arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Back off, jerk!” she snaps, voice loud enough to turn heads. “I have a boyfriend and I don’t need you.” The guy scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and disappears into the noise. You’re left standing there, her hand still warm on your arm, her expression already softening into something like amusement. “Thanks for that,” she says, finally letting go. “You make a decent fake boyfriend.” Her tone is easy, teasing, but there’s something else behind it — calculation, maybe. Before you can reply, she nods toward the bartender.

The music is thumping so hard you can feel it in your chest. The air inside the crowded campus house is thick with laughter, sweat, and the sharp scent of cheap beer. You’re weaving through the sea of people, half-looking for your friends, half-wondering why you came at all—when suddenly, someone collides into you. Cold liquid splashes down your shirt. “Oh my god—!” she gasps, eyes wide, hand still gripping the half-empty red cup. Then she breaks into a breathless giggle. “I’m so sorry! I swear I wasn’t aiming for you!” You blink down at the mess, then up at her. She’s wearing a black tank top, jeans, and the kind of grin that’s equal parts apology and amusement. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders, and her glasses are slightly crooked, probably from all the bumping and dancing. She laughs again—an open, wild sound. “Guess I should buy you another drink,” she says, still swaying a little. “Or, you know, like… a new shirt.”

It’s been seven years since I last saw Cadence McCleary, but some things never change. Back in high school, she was the kind of girl who seemed to exist in her own orbit — popular, funny, effortlessly magnetic. A cheerleader, sure, but more than the stereotype. She was sharp, quick with a comeback, and had this way of making even the most ordinary moment feel cinematic. We were inseparable once, until graduation split our paths: different colleges, different dreams. We told ourselves it was just timing, but timing has a way of closing doors you thought would always be open. Now, out of nowhere, she’s reached out — Cadence McCleary, the voice behind one of the most popular podcasts in the country, wanting to interview me. She said it was for an episode about “the people who shaped who we became,” but I could hear something unspoken between her words. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something else. Her studio feels like another world — soft lighting, foam-paneled walls, the faint hum of equipment. Cadence sits across from me, hair a little longer, smile just as dangerous. There’s confidence in her now, a polish that comes from being seen by millions, but behind it I catch flickers of the same girl I used to drive home after games.

Suzanne Hannover had never planned on going out that night. Crowded parties, flashing lights, and booming bass weren’t her world—she preferred the quiet hum of the observatory or the soft turning of textbook pages under lamplight. But Bethany had other ideas. “You need to have fun for once,” her roommate insisted, practically dragging her from the dorm with a grin. Before she knew it, Suzanne was walking across campus toward the Sigma Phi house, wrapped in a sleek blue bodysuit and gloves, her blonde hair pulled into a ponytail that shimmered under the streetlights. Invisible Girl, Bethany had declared, was perfect for her—smart, strong, and a little mysterious. Inside, the party was a swirl of color and chaos—music pounding, laughter echoing, the air thick with cheap cologne and spilled beer. Suzanne lingered near the wall, already wondering how long she had to stay before she could politely disappear. Then she saw you. You were weaving through the crowd in the same blue uniform, a stretchable emblem stitched across your chest—Mr. Fantastic himself. When your eyes met, the recognition sparked instantly. You grinned, tilting your head with playful surprise. “Well, looks like the team’s back together,” you said. For the first time that night, Suzanne laughed—a real, unguarded laugh that softened her usual reserve. “What are the odds?” she replied, a spark of amusement lighting her dark eyes.

Danni stood by the edge of the couch, twisting the silver ring on her finger the way she always did when she was nervous. The usual spark in her eyes was dimmed, replaced by something cautious—vulnerable, even. The faint hum of music from her radio station app filled the silence between us, a comfort she’d brought home like a security blanket. “I need to talk to you about something,” she said, her voice soft but steady. That tone alone told me it wasn’t something small. When she sat down beside me, she didn’t look at me right away. Her turquoise hair caught the warm lamplight, and she gave a quick, shaky laugh. “You know how I’m always saying I want to be honest, right? Totally honest, no pretending?” I nodded. She exhaled, eyes flicking up to mine. “Lately I’ve been… wanting more. Not because anything’s wrong with us. I just—there’s this part of me that needs to explore. To connect with someone else too.” The words hung between us, raw and uncertain. Danni’s fingers brushed mine, hesitant. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “You’re my home. But if I keep pretending this isn’t in me, it’ll start to feel like I’m lying.”.

The night hums with bass and laughter, heat rising from the pool as neon lights ripple across the water. I’ve only lived in this apartment complex for a week, but the summer energy is contagious—music thumping through the courtyard, drinks flowing, people I’ve never met acting like lifelong friends. I’m trying to blend in, leaning against the railing with a half-empty cup, when I notice her. The girl with the blue and lavender hair. She moves through the crowd like she owns the night—bare shoulders glinting under string lights, denim jacket hanging loose, tattoos catching flashes of color with every sway of her hips. Everyone knows her name. She’s laughing, dancing, dropping into conversations like she’s known these people forever. She’s electric—wild and effortless, a living magnet. And I can’t stop watching her. It’s not just how she looks; it’s how she moves, like the music’s written for her alone. When she throws her head back to laugh, it’s impossible not to stare. Every time I think I’ve lost sight of her, she reappears somewhere new—by the bar, at the edge of the pool, spinning with a friend’s hand in hers. Then, as if she can feel my gaze through the crowd, her eyes find mine. For a heartbeat, everything else fades—the music, the laughter, the water splashing. She smiles, slow and knowing, like she’s been aware of me the whole time. My stomach knots, and I look away, pretending to check my phone, but it’s too late. When I glance up again, she’s gone. Or so I think.

Two years of marriage with Yolandi had felt like a storm disguised as a sunrise — beautiful, unpredictable, and exhausting in equal measure. She was stubborn, magnetic, and full of contradictions. One minute we’d be arguing about something small, the next she’d be laughing in my arms, her curls brushing against my face, making it impossible to stay angry. That was Yolandi — impossible not to love, even when she made it hard. She worked long shifts at the animal clinic, often coming home with the faint scent of antiseptic and fur clinging to her clothes. I’d gotten used to the late nights, the quiet apartment, the glow of my phone lighting up the dark while I waited for her text saying she’d be home soon. Tonight was supposed to be no different. She’d told me she was covering for someone on the late shift. I believed her — I always did. Then my phone buzzed. It was from Yolandi. I smiled at first, expecting a tired selfie or a sweet note. But when I opened the message, my breath caught. The photo showed her in a bathroom — the same green top I’d watched her pull on this morning, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes looked different, though — playful, daring, a look that wasn’t meant for me. Below the photo was the caption: “Here’s a token to remember our night together, xoxoxo!”

You almost don’t recognize her at first. The woman sitting in your lobby, nervously twisting the strap of her worn handbag, looks nothing like the Sydney Hayes you remember. The Sydney you knew ten years ago wouldn’t have been caught dead in a faded blouse and scuffed shoes. Back then, she ruled Westbridge High—head cheerleader, homecoming queen, Jake Morgan, the quarterback's perfect girlfriend. Her laugh carried down the halls like a warning call everyone knew the words to, and her smile could make or break you. You knew that firsthand. You were one of the ones she broke. Your worst bully. Now, she’s here for a job interview. Your job interview. The irony bites at the edge of your tongue as you glance at her résumé—short, spotty, desperate. The name “Sydney Hayes” still looks regal on paper, though the life behind it clearly isn’t. You tell your assistant to send her in, and when she walks through the door, you brace yourself for recognition. But it doesn’t come. She doesn’t know you. Her eyes flicker politely, searching for approval, not familiarity. She smiles—a soft, practiced expression that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You remember those eyes: deep brown pools, fearless, full of power. Now they’re dulled, ringed with fatigue, haunted by something she’s not ready to talk about. Trauma. Regret. Maybe both. You ask her to sit. Her hands tremble slightly as she folds them in her lap. The woman who once commanded every hallway now seems small, careful, afraid to take up too much space. You can’t decide if you pity her or enjoy the shift in power. Maybe both.

You met Sabra at a heavy metal bar a few weeks ago—one of those dim, sticky-floored places where the music’s too loud to think and the crowd thrives on chaos. She stood out even there: black lipstick, ripped fishnets, a leather jacket covered in spikes and patches. Her laugh was sharp, wild, the kind that made you forget to be careful. You talked for hours about nothing and everything—bands, tattoos, bad luck—and before you knew it, the night had blurred into her place, her scent, her skin. By morning, though, something felt wrong. You woke to the smell of burning toast and the sound of her humming in the kitchen. She’d already made coffee, already called you babe, already started talking about how your stuff would “fit just fine” in her apartment. She had names picked out for the kids you didn’t want, jokes about your wedding playlist. You tried to laugh it off, to be gentle, but she saw right through it. Her face changed—soft to cold in a blink—and the silence that followed was worse than the shouting. You left, thinking that would be it. But Sabra doesn’t let go. The texts started the next day—sweet at first, then sour, then venomous. Calls at 3AM, voicemails full of tears, threats, and static. You blocked her number. You changed your number. She somehow got it. You started noticing the same black car in your mirror, the same figure in a dark hoodie a few steps behind on the street. Your friends say you’re paranoid, that she’s just trying to scare you. But when you found the note tucked under your windshield—“See you soon ❤️”—you knew it wasn’t just a threat. Now every buzz of your phone makes your stomach turn. Every shadow looks like her. And deep down, you’re starting to realize something you wish you hadn’t: Sabra isn’t just angry. She’s planning something.

You spot her at the indie horror demo booth — the girl in the oversized hoodie, clutching a tote bag covered in faded anime pins. She’s standing off to the side, half-hidden behind a crowd, watching the glitchy game like it’s something sacred. You make a quiet joke about how “the bugs are probably part of the horror,” and she actually laughs — a small, startled sound that makes you want to hear it again. Later, you see her alone in the food court, sketching in a worn notebook. There’s a cold drink beside her, mostly untouched. You hover for a second, then walk over before you can overthink it. “Mind if I sit?” you ask. She looks up, eyes wide like you’ve pulled her out of a dream. “Oh—uh, sure.” You sit across from her, the steady buzz of the convention fading into a low hum. After a moment, you nod at her notebook. “What are you drawing?” She hesitates, then tilts it your way. It’s a sketch of the monster from that horror demo — except she’s drawn it human, almost fragile-looking. You tell her it’s beautiful. She shrugs, murmuring, “It’s just something that stuck with me.” Conversation follows naturally, soft and awkward at first, then steady — about games, music, loneliness, the weird comfort of fictional worlds. She tells you her name is Christa. You tell her yours, and it feels like something small but significant shifts in the air.

The night had been loud and easy, the kind where laughter rose above the music and spilled out into the warm downtown air. My friends and I were still buzzing from the celebration—drinks in hand, stories flying, the city glowing like it was made for us. Then, through the blur of neon and motion, I saw her. Ming. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks. She was stepping out of Luna, the kind of nightclub she used to roll her eyes at whenever we passed it. The lights from its sign painted her in gold and violet, her skin gleaming under the streetlamps. She wore a yellow crop top that hugged her body and sequined shorts that caught every flicker of light. For a second, I didn’t move. The Ming I knew would never dress like that, never walk with that effortless sway, never laugh—really laugh—like she was doing now with a group of strangers. I called her name before I even realized it. “Ming!” Her laughter cut off like a record scratched. The sound of the city suddenly felt distant. She turned, slow, her dark bob shifting just above her shoulders. Her eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, I saw pure confusion—like she didn’t know me. Then it hit her. Recognition, shock, then something sharper. Fear. “Ming?” I took a step forward, but she froze where she stood, her painted lips parting slightly as if she wanted to say something, anything. Behind her, the people she’d been with melted back into the pulsing doorway of the club, leaving her alone under the harsh yellow sign.

Michelle “Shelly” Groves — even her name sounds like something out of a dream. She isn’t just another girl at Westfield High; she’s the girl. The one everyone notices, but no one can quite reach. She’s gorgeous — caramel skin glowing in the sunlight, eyes that shimmer like honey, that perfect smile that somehow makes you forget what you were thinking. But it’s more than that. She’s kind in a way that feels real, smart without trying, funny without being mean. A cheerleader who cheers for everyone, not just the team. And you? You’re the quiet one. The guy who knows the answers in class but freezes when she walks by. You watch from a distance, wishing you could say something, anything, but every time you try, your courage folds like paper. She’s your daydream, your what-if, your impossible maybe. It’s a late Friday afternoon when everything changes. The sky is streaked with tired clouds, and the road home is mostly empty. You’re driving with the windows down, music low, mind wandering — as usual — to her. Then you see it: a familiar blue Honda parked on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking faintly. Your heart stutters. It’s her. Shelly stands beside the car, looking lost but calm, hair falling around her shoulders as she peers beneath the hood. For a long second, you hesitate — part of you wants to keep driving, to avoid making a fool of yourself. But then something pushes you forward.

Charli swore up and down that Sybil wasn’t like the last few people she’d tried to set me up with. “She’s different,” she said, grinning like she knew something I didn’t. I wasn’t sure what to expect—Sybil Rogers, the lead singer of The Raven’s Song, the all-girl emo band that somehow made heartbreak sound poetic instead of pathetic. I’d seen her perform a few months back at Eclipse. She’d stood under a wash of violet light, eyes closed, singing like she was bleeding out every word. I remember thinking she was magnetic—beautiful, strange, and utterly unapproachable. So when Charli said Sybil wanted to meet, I was half-convinced it was a joke. But Sybil didn’t want to grab a drink at the club or meet at a café. She wanted to go to the botanical garden. “It’s quieter,” Charli explained. “She likes places that don’t shout back.” That sounded about right. I got there early. The late afternoon sun was soft, warm, the air thick with the smell of earth and flowers. People drifted by in pairs, laughing, holding hands. Then she appeared, walking toward me through a tunnel of wildflowers—bright hair split between fire and gold, green eyeshadow catching the light, her floral crop top blending with the garden like she belonged there. For a second, I forgot how to say hello. She smiled, slow and knowing, as if she’d caught me staring—which, to be fair, I was.