You never liked music festivals, not the muddy campsites, not the crowds, and definitely not the overpriced drinks. But Tori? Tori lives for them. That wild blonde firecracker—half chaos, half charm—was practically born for moments like those. She begged you to come with her to Fire Bloom Fest, even offered to pay your way. But work had other plans, and honestly, you figured she’d have more fun without you dragging behind in your usual introverted haze. She kissed you hard the night before she left, laughing as she threw her duffel bag into the backseat of her friend’s beat-up Jeep. “Don’t miss me too much,” she teased, her tattoos disappearing beneath a crop top and denim shorts that screamed trouble. You watched her go, a small knot tightening in your chest, but you trusted her. You wanted to trust her. The weekend was quiet without her. You kept your phone close, waiting for texts. And they came—photos of neon lights, glitter-dusted cheeks, girls dancing on shoulders, Tori grinning ear to ear. You smiled at first. That was your girl, reckless and radiant. But late Saturday night, your smile cracked. A blurry photo popped up on her story—just for a second. Tori, inside a tent. Her shirt was off, her back turned, straddling someone who definitely wasn’t you. The image vanished before you could screenshot it. You stared at your screen, heart punching your ribs, trying to convince yourself it was a mistake. But deep down, you knew. That wasn’t a filter. That wasn’t a trick of the light. That was Tori, and she wasn’t alone.

Jada had been your girlfriend all through high school. You were each other's first real love—inseparable, always talking about the future, always planning like nothing could touch what you had. But after graduation, life pulled you in different directions. She left for a university out of state, chasing big dreams and bigger opportunities, while you stayed behind, enrolling at the local community college. You both swore you’d make it work. For a while, you did. Late-night calls, texts between classes, weekend visits—anything to hold on. But love from a distance has its own challenges. Eventually, the calls got shorter. Her voice didn’t sound the same. And then came Rodney. He was everything you weren’t—at least on paper. Wealthy, well-dressed, confident. Jada fell for him fast. What she didn’t seem to notice—or maybe didn’t want to—was that he was also arrogant and just a little too in love with himself. You saw through him instantly, but your opinion no longer mattered. She had moved on. And it crushed you. It took time, but you eventually let go. You focused on school, your own life, your healing. And somehow, four years slipped by. You hadn’t seen Jada in all that time. Until now. You step out into your parents’ backyard for the annual family get-together, expecting the usual chaos—your aunts chatting by the grill, your cousins playing cornhole, your uncles arguing about football. But then you see her. Standing there like she never left. Laughing with your aunt like she’s still part of the family. As if no time has passed at all. And for a second, the air catches in your chest.

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’d seen her before—Heather, the blonde woman with the quiet grace and white cane—walking the same path every weekday morning, always around 7:30. At first, it was just a passing curiosity. You noticed the calm confidence in her stride, how she navigated the cracks in the sidewalk like she’d memorized the rhythm of the world. After a few weeks, it wasn’t just curiosity anymore. You lived two blocks over, and one morning, you laced up your shoes earlier than usual and took to the sidewalk. It started as coincidence. Then it became habit. You’d time your steps so you’d cross paths just before the corner by the old oak tree. Sometimes she’d be listening to music—something mellow and steady—and other times, she’d simply walk with a purposeful silence, tapping her cane lightly ahead of her. You never spoke the first few days. You didn’t want to come off as weird or invasive. But one morning, as you slowed to match her pace for just a moment longer than usual, she tilted her head slightly and said, “You always walk like you’re in a movie scene.” You blinked, caught off guard. “What kind of movie?” you asked, grinning. She smirked, not slowing down. “Something dramatic. Probably with a voiceover.” After that, things changed. She didn’t wear headphones as often. Sometimes you’d walk together for a few blocks, trading quiet observations about the weather, the smells of spring, or the sound of a neighbor’s sprinkler. But every time you hinted at coffee or something more, she’d say, “I like our mornings just the way they are.” Still, she never said no. And every step beside her felt like part of something slowly unfolding.

In a world where armored warriors, mythical beasts, and unpredictable magic are part of daily life, one sport has emerged as a unifying spectacle for the many races of the Old World: Blood Bowl. Forged from the remnants of ancient battlefield traditions and the dwarven enthusiasm for spirited competition, Blood Bowl blends the intensity of combat with the thrill of sport. It’s more than a game—it’s a cultural phenomenon. Humans, orcs, elves, dwarfs, skaven, even the undead take to the pitch in pursuit of fame, fortune, and lasting glory. The field is revered, though the rules are... flexible. Spiked balls, enchanted gear, and occasionally vanishing referees are all part of the charm. From Nuln to Naggaroth, fans crowd the stands, placing bets and cheering wildly as goblin cameramen race to capture every dramatic moment. Some teams have carved their legends into the game. The Reikland Reavers, noble and resilient, lead the charge for humanity. The Orcland Raiders play with unmatched raw power. The Skavenblight Scramblers bring speed and strategy few can match, while the Darkside Cowboys embody the cunning edge of dark elf play. But in recent seasons, no team has captured more headlines—or sparked more debate—than the Bögenhafen Barons, led by one man. As twilight falls over Barons Stadium, cheers echo across the pitch. The Barons have claimed another hard-fought victory. I make my way through the post-match bustle, parchment in hand, and find him near the end zone—sweating, smiling, armor scraped but gleaming. “Griff Oberwald,” I call out, flashing my Cabalvision badge. “Another win. Another touchdown. Another unforgettable performance. How do you keep doing it?” He barely glances at me, a grin curling as he wipes grime—his or someone else's—from his gauntlet. “How?” Griff says coolly. “Simple. I’m Griff Oberwald. The real question is—why do they still think they can stop me?”

The morning mist drifted low over the ground as your tribe began to stir, the scent of smoke and damp earth lingering in the cool air. You sat by the fire pit, carefully honing the edge of your spear, when Nya appeared, her dark eyes dancing with a familiar spark of mischief. A leather satchel rested at her side, and her braid—practical yet untamed—brushed her shoulder. “I found something,” she said quietly, crouching beside you. “The cave from the old stories. I saw it yesterday, just beyond the ridge where the vultures fly.” You looked up, curious. “The forbidden cave?” She smiled, almost teasing. “That’s just what the elders call it to keep the little ones away. But we’re not children anymore, are we?” The cave was said to be sacred—a resting place for the spirits of ancestors, cloaked in mystery and silence. Few dared speak of it, and none were meant to go near. Yet something in Nya’s voice stirred a quiet wonder in you. And when she gently reached for your hand, her fingers warm and insistent, you found yourself rising without a word. The path was not easy—narrow and wild, thorns catching at your clothes, strange calls echoing through the forest canopy. Nya moved with ease, as if she were part of the landscape, always just ahead, glancing back now and then to meet your eyes. You admired her ease in this place. Perhaps even wished it were your own. By late afternoon, you reached a rocky ledge where the trees thinned and a stillness settled over the land. The cave entrance stood before you—tall and shadowed, its jagged edges softened by hanging vines that stirred in the wind. The air there felt different: hushed, cool, expectant. You stood with Nya at your side, both gazing into the darkness. She turned to you, a hint of challenge in her smile. “Still think it’s just a story?” You wrapped your fingers a little tighter around your spear. “Only one way to know.”

The island had seemed like paradise that morning—a perfect stretch of untouched sand in the middle of the Philippine archipelago, encircled by clear blue water and framed by jagged cliffs and thick palm forest. The kind of place travel magazines fantasized about. No buildings, no tourists, no distractions. Just nature and a few dozen people with cameras, makeup kits, and crates of designer clothing. You were part of the logistics crew, responsible for getting the team and equipment to this isolated location. A one-day shoot. In and out. That was the plan. But by late afternoon, the sky had turned an ominous gray. The storm swept in fast, its winds howling through the trees before anyone had a chance to react. The boat crew, fearing rough seas, had radioed that they were returning to the mainland. You tried to convince them to wait. They didn’t. Now the boat was gone. The radios were silent. The cell signals were dead. You had thirty people, most unprepared for anything outside of air-conditioned hotels, huddled under improvised tarps made from lighting scrims and abandoned silk fabrics. Equipment cases lay buried under sand or lashed together to form makeshift barricades against the wind. And then there was Kate. Twenty-five, poised, flawless even in the chaos. She was the face of the campaign, flown in from Paris three days earlier, her features as sharp and polished as the angles of her cheekbones. Her dark brown hair, cut short in a pixie style that framed her expressive eyes, was now matted from salt spray. She didn’t speak much, but her silence had weight. She stood apart from the others, near the remnants of the collapsed wardrobe tent, arms crossed, her jaw tight with frustration. The storm hadn’t just stranded her. It had stripped away the structure she lived by—schedules, control, image. Now, she was stuck in the same sand as everyone else, without heels or handlers, facing the same uncertain night. And you were the one she blamed for it.

I wasn’t expecting anyone that night. It was just past ten, the city humming softly beneath my apartment windows, when the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Danielle standing there—eight months pregnant, hair pulled back hastily, eyes rimmed red. Her coat hung loose over her belly, and she clutched a small overnight bag like it was the last solid thing she had left. "Can I come in?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. Of course, I stepped aside without a word. She brushed past me, the scent of her shampoo—something faintly floral—trailing behind. I hadn’t seen her in weeks, not since the last family dinner, when she and my brother had still been acting like everything was fine. But it clearly wasn’t. Not anymore. She sank into the couch, both hands resting protectively over her stomach. I didn’t ask her to explain—her expression already did. Betrayal. Pain. A kind of shock that hadn’t settled yet. "He kicked me out," she finally said, her voice shaking. "He’s seeing someone else. Said he needed a ‘fresh start.’ Like our baby is some mistake he can just walk away from." I sat down across from her, anger flaring in my chest. My brother—my own blood—had always been impulsive, selfish at times. But this? This was unforgivable. "You’re not alone," I said, firmly. "Not now, not ever. You can stay here as long as you need." Her eyes filled again, but she nodded, and for the first time since she arrived, her shoulders eased just a little. She wasn’t okay. But she wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

The smell of grilled carne asada and the sound of laughter filled the backyard as my mom’s annual spring gathering hit full swing. I was leaning against the fence, sipping a soda, when I saw her—at first, just a silhouette stepping through the side gate. Then the sunlight caught her face. Selena Navarro. Ten years. It had been that long since her family moved to Arizona. We were just kids back then—inseparable. Treehouse secrets, scraped knees, chasing each other through sprinklers. I’d almost convinced myself she was just a part of the past. But now she was walking across my backyard, the same laugh, the same sparkle in her dark eyes—only now she looked... different. Grown. Confident. Beautiful. She was about 5'3", her figure soft and curvy, like she didn’t mind indulging in life’s little pleasures. Long, straight black hair spilled over her shoulders, framing a face I knew but hadn’t seen in too long. My mom caught my eye from the patio, smirking. Of course—this was her doing. A surprise, she’d said. Selena’s eyes landed on me. For a second, it was like we were ten again—muddy shoes and popsicle stains. But then she smiled wide, walking up like no time had passed. "Well look who finally got taller," she teased. I laughed, heart thudding. "And look who came back." She nodded. “Just started college—education major. Thought it was time to come home.” Maybe this time, she wouldn’t have to leave again.

It started on a rainy Thursday afternoon—gray skies above and a stillness in the air that made even the wind seem cautious. I had booked the appointment on a whim, half-curious, half-desperate. The clinic was tucked away in the back of an aging office park, its sign worn but her name unmistakable: Dr. Angela Schmidt, PhD – Clinical Psychology. She opened the door herself, as if expecting me. Tall, composed, with sharp eyes that pierced through me in a glance. Her presence was magnetic but unnerving, like stepping into the gravity of a black hole. I followed her into the office without a word, and the door shut behind me with a finality that made my skin prickle. Her voice was smooth—too smooth. She asked questions, but not the kind you could answer easily. Somehow, she already knew the truths I hadn’t admitted even to myself. Every time I tried to steer the conversation, she’d tilt her head slightly, smile faintly, and I’d lose my grip. I spoke more than I intended, gave her more than I meant to. By the end of the session, I felt oddly drained… and tethered. She placed her hand lightly on my shoulder as I stood to leave, her touch cool, deliberate. “You’ll come back,” she said, more command than suggestion. And though I didn’t respond, I knew I would. There was something in her gaze—hungry, possessive—that both terrified and fascinated me. As I stepped back into the rain, I realized I hadn’t walked out freely. I’d been dismissed. And part of me was still in that room, behind her calculating smile.

The ballroom shimmered with golden light, laughter echoing off crystal chandeliers as elegantly dressed guests sipped champagne and perused the evening’s program. This wasn’t just any gala—it was the city’s annual “Hearts for Hope” charity auction, where local bachelors offered themselves up for a date, all in the name of raising funds for children's hospitals. The crowd buzzed with excitement, the air thick with anticipation and playful competition. Backstage, I adjusted the cuffs of my jacket and tried to ignore the thump of my heartbeat. I wasn’t exactly used to being paraded in front of a crowd, but when the organizers asked for volunteers, I couldn’t say no. It was for a good cause—and maybe a bit of fun, too. The auctioneer’s voice boomed over the mic. “Next up, we have a man with charm, brains, and a winning smile. Ladies, get your paddles ready!” The curtain drew back, and I stepped into the spotlight, trying to keep my stride confident. A mix of laughter and cheers greeted me, and bidding started quickly. “Three hundred!” “Five hundred!” The numbers climbed faster than I expected. I scanned the crowd casually, until my gaze caught hers. She stood near the back—tall, poised, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders. Her blue cocktail dress hugged her form perfectly, the color making her look like something pulled straight from a dream. She raised her paddle with a calm confidence, her eyes never leaving mine. “One thousand dollars!” The room hushed. “No further bids?” the auctioneer grinned. “Sold!” My heart skipped. She had won me. But from the way she smiled as I stepped down toward her, I had a feeling the real adventure was only just beginning.

Julia had been planning the double date all week. “It’ll be fun,” she said, eyes shining as she scrolled through rooftop restaurants on her phone. “Amy needs someone. I have just the guy.” I should’ve known better. Julia was my girlfriend—flirty, confident, the kind of girl who lit up every room. Amy was my opposite type: serious, a little guarded, but steady. She’d been my best friend since we were kids. We shared inside jokes, late-night talks, and the kind of history you couldn’t replicate. And that drove Julia crazy. She never said it outright, but the way her tone shifted when Amy texted me, the way she’d cling tighter around her, it was all there. So when Julia arranged a “casual” double date—me and her, Amy and a guy named Evan—I sensed the trap. But I didn’t say no. The four of us met at a trendy rooftop bar, string lights overhead, soft music playing. Amy showed up in a simple black dress, hair pulled back, eyes wary. Julia greeted her with a hug a bit too tight and a smile a bit too wide. Evan was nice—charming even—but Amy barely looked at him. Her eyes kept drifting to me. Julia noticed. Her fingers laced tightly with mine under the table. As the evening dragged on, Julia kept dropping little jabs—how “close” Amy and I were, how “comfortable” we seemed. Amy finally spoke up, her voice cool. “Are we here to have fun, or to prove something?” The table went silent. I looked between them, realizing too late: this wasn’t a date. It was a battlefield. And I was standing right in the middle.

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you stood at the pump, watching the numbers climb on the old gas station meter. Midnight in nowhere, Florida. The kind of place where the crickets were louder than the radio, and the air smelled like warm asphalt and motor oil. You didn’t see her at first—just the slam of the door as it burst open behind you. Then: footsteps. Fast. Wild. You turned just in time to see her sprinting across the lot. Barefoot, skinny, scraped up. A crop top clung to her frame, and a streak of blood ran down her shin. She didn’t look at you—she looked through you, like you were just another obstacle between her and survival. “Please,” she gasped, breath hitching as she skidded to a stop near your car. “I need a ride. Right now.” You hesitated. Then the next door slammed open. A man stumbled out—stocky, mean-looking, yelling something you didn’t catch but didn’t need to. He held a tire iron, swinging it like a promise. That made your mind up fast. “Get in,” you said. She didn’t wait for a second invitation. The passenger door creaked as she dove in, slamming it shut behind her. You dropped the nozzle, not even bothering to replace the cap, and jumped behind the wheel. The guy was almost at the rear bumper when your tires shrieked to life, gravel spitting as you tore out of the gas station and into the dark. The headlights lit up the empty road ahead. Your heart pounded. She leaned back in the seat, panting, arms wrapped around herself. You didn’t ask who she was. Not yet. But you knew—whatever you’d just driven into—there was no turning back.

Move-in day was supposed to be simple—clean bed, decent Wi-Fi, no weird roommate habits. What you didn’t expect was a housing mix-up that landed you in a co-ed suite with Kya Ito: pre-med perfectionist, painfully beautiful, and dressed like she walked out of a high-end teen fashion blog. Her side of the room looked like a museum exhibit—minimalist, spotless, and expensive. The moment you stepped in, she stared at your duffel like it was contagious. “You’re the roommate?” she asked, horrified. “Unless there’s a backup in your closet,” you replied. She immediately started emailing housing. You started unpacking—on her side, just to test her. The next week was a silent war. She posted schedules on the fridge; you ignored them. She labeled her oat milk in three languages; you moved it to the back every morning. She played soft jazz; you blasted your “Chaos Mix” in retaliation. Yet something about the tension kept you from asking for a transfer. Maybe it was her flawless composure. Maybe it was how fun it was to rattle her cage. Then, one rainy Tuesday, you came back to a strangely quiet room. No jazz, no laptop hum. Just a muffled cough. Kya was in bed, buried under blankets, hair a mess, face flushed with fever. “I’m fine,” she rasped when you asked. But she looked wrecked—sweating, shivering, and clearly too stubborn to ask for help.

The sun warms your skin as you and Phoebe lie stretched out on a soft towel, the sound of waves gently rolling onto the shore in front of you. It’s one of those perfect beach days—blue skies, salty breeze, and nowhere you need to be except here, beside her. Phoebe rests her head on your chest, her fingers lightly tracing the pattern of your swimsuit as you both soak in the calm rhythm of the ocean. She's smiling, relaxed, her black hair splayed over your shoulder, dark eyes half-lidded from the heat. You glance around the beach, just taking it all in—the sea, the distant sound of laughter, a group of people playing volleyball. But when your eyes return to Phoebe, her smile is gone. She’s quiet, watching you carefully, and there’s something in her expression that makes your stomach twist. "You think she's pretty, don't you?" she says suddenly, voice flat. You blink. “Who?” “That girl by the volleyball net. You've looked over there like five times.” You sit up slightly, confused. “I was just—Phoebe, I wasn’t—” She cuts you off, already pulling away, sitting cross-legged now with her arms wrapped around her knees. “It’s fine. You probably think she’s hotter than me anyway.” Her words sting. Phoebe is beautiful—breathtaking even. With her tanned skin glowing in the sun and that wild, jet-black hair, she turns heads everywhere. But beneath all that confidence she shows the world, you know how deep her insecurities run. You reach for her hand, heart sinking, trying to figure out how everything changed so quickly.

The rain had just started to fall when I stepped off the train in Kyoto, a fine mist curling through the narrow streets like memory itself. I was in Japan on business—an international tech symposium, three days of panels and late-night schmoozing. Tokyo had been efficient, bright, clinical. But Kyoto… Kyoto felt like something else entirely. Like time had chosen to linger here. I had a few hours to myself before the next dinner meeting, so I wandered. No GPS, no schedule—just a sense of being drawn somewhere. Lanterns flickered to life along the alleyways, casting amber light on wet stone. That’s when I saw it: a small, almost hidden entrance tucked between two wooden buildings. A sign, hand-painted in kanji I couldn't read, hung above the door. I ducked inside. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine filled the air. It was a teahouse, quiet and intimate, with low tables and soft shamisen music weaving through the room. I was the only foreigner there, clearly, but no one stared. A woman approached—elegant, poised, with a calm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She knelt beside me and introduced herself in flawless English. "My name is Sayuri," she said. "Tonight, I will be your companion." She wore a pale blue kimono that shimmered like moonlight on water. Her voice was soft, but carried weight. We talked—about art, about cities, about nothing and everything. I was supposed to leave in an hour. I stayed all night. There was something behind her words. Something unspoken. I was a stranger with a round-trip ticket and a return to routine. She was a keeper of tradition, trained to make men feel seen—without ever revealing herself. But that night, something cracked. And in the silence between our sentences, I wondered if we were both pretending less than we thought.

You wake up face-down, half-draped over your living room sofa, your mouth dry and your head pounding like a bass drum. Every muscle in your body protests as you shift, trying to piece together how you ended up here. The sunlight stabbing through the blinds doesn’t help. You sit up slowly, groaning, and fragments of the night before start drifting back in. You remember heading out to the Thunder Dome with your friends—a blur of flashing lights, pulsing music, and bodies moving in rhythm. Shots were poured, drinks went down easy, and at some point, the dance floor pulled you in. Then… her. A girl. No—the girl. Long, dark hair, eyes that seemed to glow under the strobe lights, and a laugh that cut through the music like a spark in the dark. You danced with her. Talked, maybe? It's all fuzzy now. Your phone buzzes sharply on the coffee table, snapping you out of your haze. You reach for it with a groan and squint at the screen. It’s a text from an unknown number. Attached is a photo—her. The same beautiful brunette from last night, smiling at the camera with a glint of mischief in her eyes. Beneath the image, a message reads: "You left your wallet. You can have it if you can find me. Need a hint?" Your heart skips. Suddenly, you're wide awake.

The air smelled like pine and distant rain as you and Becky made your way along the narrow trail winding up the wooded mountain. You adjusted your pack, glancing at Becky trudging behind you, her rainbow-colored tie-dyed bandana holding back her blonde hair. She looked wildly out of place—her tight black tank top clinging to her from the climb, denim shorts catching on every stray branch and thorn. She swatted at bugs with one hand and held her phone like a compass with the other. “Wait!” she called, stopping suddenly to squint at her screen. “Okay, this app says there’s a shortcut just off the ridge—like, a half-mile detour and we’ll shave off an hour.” You looked at the faint, almost nonexistent trail she was pointing to—a tangle of roots and shadows. “That’s not on the map.” Becky gave a confident little shrug, her usual bubbly smile tinged with stubborn excitement. “It’s on this map. Come on, babe. Don’t you trust me?” You did, mostly. But Becky was a city girl through and through—her idea of a “hike” usually involved a Starbucks halfway. Still, something about the way the light hit her bandana and the gleam in her eye made it hard to say no. So you followed. The trees closed in quickly. The trail narrowed, then disappeared completely. Hours passed, and Becky’s phone battery ticked toward zero. She insisted she still knew where you were, even as the sun started dipping behind the ridgeline. “We should turn back,” you said, voice low. “I know where we are,” she snapped, though her grip on the phone tightened, knuckles white. By the time the screen finally died, it was nearly dark. No trail, no signal, no shortcut—just woods, thick and endless. “We’re lost, Becky.” She looked at you, eyes wide, her confidence cracking. Then she laughed—short, nervous, hollow. “Okay... no big deal. You’re the woodsy one, right? You’ll fix this.” You didn’t answer. You were already scanning the shadows, heart pounding.

The bass thumps beneath your feet, the strobes flicker in time with your heartbeat, and bodies move like waves across the packed nightclub floor. You’re halfway through your drink when you spot her—long black hair cascading down her back, emerald eyes cutting through the haze of lights. She’s standing stiffly near the edge of the crowd, clearly uncomfortable as a guy leans in too close, gesturing wildly despite her body language screaming “no.” Something flips in your gut. You don’t even think—just act. You weave through the crowd and tap her shoulder. “There you are, babe,” you say with a casual smile, sliding your arm gently around her waist. “I was starting to think you ditched me.” She catches on instantly. Her face lights up with gratitude, and she leans into you like it’s second nature. “Sorry,” she says sweetly. “Got caught up. Thanks for finding me.” The guy backs off, muttering something under his breath as he disappears into the mass of dancers. You glance at her. “You okay?” She exhales, then laughs—soft, relieved. “Yeah. You really saved me there. I owe you.” You step back a little, giving her space, and she adjusts a strand of hair behind her ear.

The engine sputtered one last pitiful cough before dying completely, leaving you stranded in the parking lot of Al’s Place with a burger wrapper on your lap and a half-empty soda in your cup holder. You cursed under your breath and slammed the wheel. Just your luck. Inside the diner, Avril watched you from behind the counter, arms crossed, brow arched. Tall, sharp-eyed, and all sharp edges, she looked like she was born to roll them. She smirked and stepped out the front door, wiping her hands on a red dish towel. “You planning to live out there now or just in a really committed staring contest with your steering wheel?” she called. You leaned your head out the window. “Car died. Won’t even fake it for me.” Avril clicked her tongue and came down the steps. “Figures. You drive like someone who only half-believes in maintenance.” “Thanks for the sympathy.” “Who said I’m here to sympathize?” she shot back. “Pop the hood.” You watched, dumbfounded, as she leaned in with surprising familiarity. Grease on her knuckles, her braid tucked into her hoodie, sleeves shoved to her elbows—she wasn’t pretending. After a few minutes and a final grunt of annoyance, she straightened. “Your battery’s toast,” she said. “You’re not getting out of here tonight without help.” You ran a hand through your hair. “Well, that’s perfect. I’ll just camp here.” Avril rolled her eyes. “C’mon. I’m off in five. I’ll give you a ride.” “You serious?” “No, I just came out here to offer moral support in the form of sarcasm,” she deadpanned, then gave you a quick grin. “Yes, I’m serious. Let’s go, broke-down boy.” You weren’t sure what surprised you more—her offer, or the way your heart kicked a little when she held the truck door open for you.

You’ve always kept a low profile. While everyone else in school chased likes, followers, and fifteen-second fame, you spent your nights sketching in secret—building a quiet world of romance, mystery, and emotion in the pages of your webtoon. You never told anyone the characters were based on real people. Especially not her. Abigail. She’s everything you’re not—bold, flashy, unapologetically online. Her laugh echoes down hallways, her outfits set trends before they go viral, and her TikToks rack up views before lunch. She’s the kind of girl who lives life through a screen, while you prefer paper and ink. You thought she didn’t even know your name. Until the day she does. You're in the library, scrolling through your webtoon stats—just a few quiet readers, nothing major. Then your heart stops. One panel's been shared thousands of times. Comments flood in. Your inbox explodes. Confused, you check TikTok. There she is—Abigail—laughing in front of the camera, holding up your webtoon on her iPad. “Y’all. This guy in my school made this romantic webcomic and didn’t think I’d notice I’m the main freaking character!” You freeze. The heroine’s smile, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear—it was always her. But she wasn’t supposed to know. Now everyone does.