Ophelia
Weeks have passed since I received that note.
Time moves, but the confusion inside me only thickens with each passing day.
It’s now mid-November, and my days have narrowed to the same steady pattern—study, Bellamy, classes, repeat.
Exams are getting closer, so I keep my head down, burying myself in revision as if focus might quiet the chaos in my mind.
It doesn’t.
Because sometimes, when the world goes still, I see the word MURDERER burned behind my eyelids.
I assure myself it was a cruel prank. A mistake. A fragment of my imagination.
I wish it were all some kind of madness, that I could be diagnosed and medicated and done with it.
But then there’s the note. And my sister’s words.
And suddenly the fragments don’t feel like nightmares at all.
They feel like memories—my memories—the ones my mind tried to bury, only for them to claw their way back.
And the question that circles through my head, endlessly, day and night, is that someone knows.
Someone knows what happened to me that night.
Everything seems to point back at me, as though I did something.
Did I truly kill…?
I can’t even finish the thought. I don’t want to believe it.
And if I did… if it’s true, then whoever sent that note certainly knows.
So what is it they want from me?
If it’s meant as a threat, it’s working. I’m unravelling, one thought, one heartbeat, one sleepless night at a time.
I press my palms against my eyes and exhale. I can’t afford to lose myself here.
The library is hushed, rows of students bent over their books, the soft shuffle of pages the only sound.
I’m surrounded, but alone.
I force my attention back to the text in front of me, pretending the words are making sense.
They aren’t.
The heavy oak doors open at the far end of the room, their hinges groaning softly, but I don’t look up. Not until I hear the scrape of a chair across from me.
Someone sits down.
I lift my gaze, and freeze.
Arlo.
We haven’t spoken properly in weeks. I’ve avoided him, and he’s seemed more than content to return the favour.
But now here he is, lowering himself into the seat opposite mine as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He’s in dark jeans, a black hoodie, and boots, looking maddeningly at ease. His hair is styled back, though a few strands have fallen over his forehead.
He doesn’t speak. He simply pulls out his books, opens one, and begins to read.
For a fleeting moment I can’t help but wonder, why me? There are plenty of other tables. But when I glance around, I see most of them are already taken. Even so, he could have sat elsewhere. With anyone else. He didn’t have to sit here.
I wish he hadn’t.
It’s almost as if he can hear my thoughts. He looks up from his book, his mouth tilts in a cruel approximation of a smile.
“Don’t read too much into it. I’m not here for the company. You just know how to keep your mouth shut and not bother me.”
I look away from his infuriating face and do exactly that, keep my mouth shut, or rather force it shut.
In my mind, though, I picture myself leaping across the table and throttling him until he chokes on his arrogance.
I give a small shake of my head and fix my eyes back on my book instead.
After working through a few more pages of notes, I rise and make my way between the rows of shelves in search of a particular volume on animal behaviour.
The library here is nothing short of magnificent, soaring shelves that demand ladders to reach their highest tiers, it’s the sort of place that could make even the most jaded soul feel like a reader again.
I spot the book I’m after and rise onto the tips of my toes to reach it. My fingers barely touch the spine when a solid chest brushes against my back.
A hand reaches past mine, his skin grazing my knuckles before he slips the book from the shelf.
He doesn’t hand it to me. He simply holds it.
I turn slowly, his scent filling my senses.
My eyes catch on his chest first, before I force myself to look higher, past his throat, his jaw, until I reach his stare.
He must be over six foot two, and at my five foot three, I have to tilt my head back just to meet his look.
He’s watching me. His jaw is tense, like I’ve somehow offended him, yet his eyes… there’s hunger there.
A swarm of butterflies stirs in my stomach, and I nearly wince at myself for it.
Die, please.
This man is not butterfly material.
He can’t seem to stay away, but that doesn’t mean his hatred has softened.
I hold his stare, forcing myself to look composed while the heat inside me betrays it.
“Don’t do that,” he grits out.
“Do what?” I ask, genuinely lost.
He reaches up, his fingers brushing my chin as he pulls my bottom lip free from between my teeth.
“Stop biting your lip.”
“Why?” The word escapes before I can stop it, because I can’t seem to think of anything else to say, too caught in his stare, too unable to focus on anything beyond him.
“Because.” His voice drops lower as he leans in, one arm braced against the wall, caging me in, the book still held in his other hand.
His breath grazes the shell of my ear, warm against my skin. I straighten instinctively, every nerve pulled taut beneath his closeness.
He presses a slow kiss to my neck, then lifts his gaze back to mine, his eyes dark and unreadable.
Then, without warning, he closes the distance and bites my lower lip.
The sting is brief, but the heat that follows is far more consuming.
I can’t decide if it’s discomfort or something dangerously close to pleasure, especially when his tongue follows, tasting the blood he’s drawn.
Before I can even process what’s happening, the book slips from his grasp and lands at my feet.
A second later, he turns on his heel and walks away between the rows of shelves.
I stand there for a moment, dazed, pulse still racing, before gathering myself and returning to my table, willing my breath to appear steady.
It’s empty. His things are gone. When I glance around, I spot him near the exit, stopped mid stride and speaking with Milo.
I sit down and open the book, reaching for my pencil case. When I unzip it to take out a pen, a folded slip of paper is waiting inside.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a wave of cold panic spreads through me.
With trembling fingers I reach for it, then quickly glance up.
Arlo is watching me, his expression inscrutable but touched with confusion. I force myself to take out a pen, pretending nothing is wrong, praying he hasn’t noticed the note—or, at the very least, won’t think anything of it.
When I look back up, he’s gone. With shaking hands, I unfold the paper.
How does it feel to wake up each day knowing he never will?
After all, you made certain of that, didn’t you?