Chapter 1
Chapter One
In Shades of Grey
Iwake gasping for breath, my body locked in fear.
I’d been running through dark woods, the moon spilling an eerie silver glow between the trees.
Moss softened the ground beneath my bare feet.
A faceless figure stalked me, laughter echoing through the branches, urging me to run faster—warning that I mustn’t let him catch me, that I would regret it if I did.
The forest screamed in pain, writhing and clawing at my legs, my arms.
But the most terrifying part of the dream?
As I ran, I wanted to be caught.
My heartbeat settles as I stare at the familiar ceiling above my bed. My logical mind tries to banish the unease clinging to my muscles. I’m too old for nightmares to shake me like this.
My gaze drifts across the room—the heap of clothes on the chair I never sit in, the cluttered desk stacked with books, the string of fairy lights drooping along the wall. Ordinary things. Grounding things. Yet my eyes pause on the open window. I could have sworn I’d closed it.
It’s small things like that which convince me he’s still near.
Peter Pan.
The boy who brought magic into my existence.
Part of me knows I must be imagining it, that there’s no way Peter is still lingering here. I’ve grown up—and that is everything he stands against.
Yet sometimes, when I come home from school, books are out of place, my neatly made bed slightly rumpled, as though someone has lain in it. Clothes go missing. What could possibly explain that?
But if he truly is checking on me, why does he never show himself? Never offer even a glimpse of the boy who once held me spellbound?
Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t.
My hands drift down my body—no longer girlish but grown. Full breasts taper to a narrow waist, soft hips flaring beneath my palms. I turned eighteen five days ago—a woman now, whether I feel ready or not.
And Peter? He is still just a boy.
Unable to fall back asleep, I rise to start the day. It’s my leavers’ ceremony, after all. In the adjoining bathroom, I shower and towel-dry my long chestnut hair until it’s only damp, brushing it smooth before coaxing it into curls.
The mirror shows me a woman who doesn’t feel like me.
Eyes so blue, Peter once said they looked like a cloudless summer sky, framed by lashes I now darken with careful strokes of mascara.
Lips fuller than when I pressed that innocent kiss to his cheek before he left me in this very room.
I search for the girl I once was, the girl Peter had known, but she’s gone.
Time, relentless and cruel, had crept in like a thief, stealing what Neverland once promised I could keep. It sharpened my edges, curved my body, and traded wonder for weariness. The reflection staring back at me is proof that I’ve betrayed him simply by growing older.
Peter hated time. And here it is, etched all over me.
I dress in a knee-length white dress and pink kitten heels, an outfit my mum bought specially for today. I twirl before the mirror, feeling pretty. The dress hugs my breasts and waist before flaring into a soft skirt. It feels mature—womanly.
My gaze drifts again to the open window. When Peter isn’t there, disappointment flickers through me.
“You’re ridiculous,” I whisper to myself.
Still, something about today—eighteen, graduating, stepping fully into adulthood—feels final. As though I’m closing the door on Neverland for good. As though it’s time to forget the fantasies of my youth and embrace what lies ahead.
And it hurts.
I enter the kitchen to find my brothers, John and Michael, arguing over a video game.
The television flickers with bright colors, controllers abandoned as they shout across the table.
John, tall and lanky with hair a few shades darker than mine, is about to start year ten.
Michael, shorter and still carrying the roundness of boyhood in his cheeks, will be moving into year eight.
I can’t help but envy them. They still have time.
Mum sets a plate of toast and eggs on the table. Her hair, the same chestnut brown as mine, is tied back with a ribbon. I study her face, the one everyone says I resemble. She’s beautiful, though the years have carved fine wrinkles and sun spots across her skin. Is that what I’ll look like someday?
“Wendy, darling,” she says with a bright smile. She always calls us “darling,” poking fun at our last name. “I can’t believe it’s your leavers’ day already. My beautiful girl, off to university.” She presses her hands to her cheeks. “I’ll be in bits the whole ceremony.”
I smile back, the polite, practiced kind I’ve perfected over the years.
Dad strides into the kitchen—a tall, handsome man with brown hair greying at the temples. He clasps my shoulder. “University of Manchester,” he says, beaming. “Where your mum and I met.”
I glance up at his face and force my smile to stay.
“We couldn’t be more proud,” he adds.
I keep the expression in place, though I feel it quiver at the corners. Maybe I’ll meet a boy and fall in love this year. The thought should spark excitement, hope—something. But it doesn’t.
I have little experience with boys. Peter was my first and last kiss.
And it isn’t entirely for lack of trying.
Throughout school, there were a few boys who caught my interest—usually because they reminded me of Peter in either looks or spirit.
But it seems I’m cursed, because every time I got close to one, some terrible accident would befall him.
A broken leg. A fractured arm. A sudden hospitalization.
By year twelve, every boy in school avoided me like the plague, not wanting to fall victim to the “Darling Curse.” I could only watch from the sidelines as my friends fell in love, entered relationships, and cried through breakups.
It didn’t bother me much. Not really. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have desires—wants. I long to feel a man’s lips move against mine, his big hands roaming my body. It isn’t as if I want to remain a virgin forever. I want to fall in love.
And when real life failed to offer it, I turned to books. At least in stories, love was always within reach—aching and beautiful and all-consuming. If I couldn’t have it, I could read about it. Pretend. Dream.
I only wished the love I read about, the kind that burned bright and lasted forever, could’ve been mine. Could’ve been his.
If only he had grown up with me.
* * *
The morning air is warm and damp, carrying the faint tang of rain. Cars hiss past on wet pavement, the scent of exhaust mingling with the warmth of fresh bread drifting from the bakery on the corner.
John and Michael push and shove each other, their laughter loud and careless as it rings out across the street. They still have a week before their classes finish—so lighthearted in this grey world, as though Neverland’s saturation never clung to them like it did to me.
I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets and fall into my usual ritual: scanning rooftops and alleyways for a flash of tousled copper hair, a glint of teasing green eyes.
Not that I ever see him. I never have. But I can’t seem to stop looking.
The schoolyard is already bustling when I arrive.
Students cluster in little knots, voices carrying in a tangle of excitement.
Balloons tied to the gate bob in the breeze, and a banner stretched across the entrance reads Congratulations!
The air smells faintly of cut grass and the cloying sweetness of perfume.
I spot my friends Clara and Hannah chatting with a group of boys from our class. Clara notices me first.
“Wendy!” she calls, her blonde ponytail whipping as she spins. She seizes Hannah’s hand, and together they bolt toward me, enveloping me in a hug that nearly knocks me back a step.
“Can you believe it? We’re done!” Clara’s voice is bright enough to make heads turn, her energy infectious. The grey cloud that’s been choking me all morning lifts, if only a little.
Hannah lingers after the hug, her warm brown eyes meeting mine with a silent question: Are you okay?
I nod faintly. Hannah and I have been friends since primary school. She misses little, probably the only one who’s ever seen through the mask I’ve worn since returning from Neverland. The only one who knows the difference between Wendy Darling before and after Peter Pan.
The ceremony passes in a blur. Rows of folding chairs fill the assembly hall, the air heavy with lilies and too many bodies pressed close together.
The headteacher drones on about dedication and bright futures, his voice crackling from the old ceiling speakers.
Applause swells and fades in waves, but I feel adrift, watching it all as though from a distance, as though I’m not truly there at all.
When my name is called, I rise. My legs move automatically, my smile practiced, my steps steady.
Mum’s sharp intake of breath cuts through the low hum of the crowd, followed by the sound of her muffled sobs.
I catch a glimpse of her dabbing her cheeks with a crumpled tissue, the ribbon in her hair slipping loose.
Beside her, dad beams, his proud smile unwavering as he lifts his phone to snap a photo. His eyes glisten, though he’d never admit it.
Clara and Hannah wave wildly from their seats, their cheers bright enough to make the people in front of them turn. Clara bounces up and down, ponytail swishing, while Hannah claps with that steady, grounding smile of hers.
I accept the envelope containing my certificate, shake the headteacher’s hand, and return to my seat.
Around me, my classmates whisper and giggle, some already plotting end-of-year parties and summer trips.
The excitement is infectious, but I feel it only at the edges.
My smile stays fixed. My hands rest neatly in my lap.
On a day meant to mark a beginning, all I can think of is the ending.
Clara and Hannah give me tearful goodbyes after the ceremony, Clara reminding me, between hugs, that they’ll pick me up tonight at nine for our class’s party.
It’s being hosted by Bradley Whitmore, one of the wealthiest boys in our year, at his parents’ sprawling estate on the edge of the city.
They’re the sort of family who appear in the local paper for charity galas and summer holidays in the south of France, and the kind who think a mansion full of new adults and alcohol is a harmless rite of passage.
Dinner is at my favorite little Italian restaurant, tucked between a launderette and a newsagent—gingham tablecloths, candles melted into old wine bottles, the air thick with garlic and baked bread.
A chalkboard menu leans against the wall, promising pasta specials scrawled in looping white letters.
My parents beam across the table, their voices weaving together as they reminisce about campus life—their favorite professors, the pubs they used to haunt, stories I’ve heard a dozen times before.
John and Michael bicker over nothing in particular, marinara streaking their cheeks as they shovel forkfuls of spaghetti into their mouths.
I twirl my own pasta slowly, smiling when I’m meant to, letting their joy fill the space around me even as a quiet hollowness lingers beneath it.
On the walk home, I fall a few steps behind my parents, keeping pace instead with my brothers.
I don’t know what makes me ask it—the words slip out before I can stop them.
“Do you ever wish we could go back to Neverland?”
They exchange a glance.
“Sometimes,” John admits. “But I wouldn’t want to worry everyone again. So, I don’t think I’d go back if given the choice.”
Michael shrugs. “Yeah… I’d miss my friends too much. And mum.”
I nod as though I agree, but inside, the question gnaws. Would I miss them too much? My friends? My parents? John and Michael?
I know what the correct answer is. How I should feel about leaving them behind.
I press my lips together, the honest answer rising, unwelcome: I don’t think missing them would stop me. I don’t think worrying them would, either.
Shame floods me—swift and biting.
How selfish of me, really.