Chapter 2
Her
I drift, my mind pulling me under like a current I can't fight. Thoughts swirl, heavy and insistent, but I don't chase them. Not here, not now. The world around me fades to a hum, distant voices, the scratch of pens on paper. It's easier this way, letting everything blur until…
"Ow!" A sharp elbow digs into my side, yanking me back. I blink hard, my head snapping up as heat rushes to my cheeks. Maddie's face swims into focus, her eyebrows arched in that mix of worry and amusement she wears so well.
We're in the middle of Prof. Kingsley's lecture hall, rows of desks stretching out like forgotten ideas. The air feels thicker now, charged with eyes on me. My heart stutters, a frantic little beat against my ribs.
"Miss Whitlock?" Prof. Kingsley's voice cuts through, calm but pointed.
He's leaning against his desk at the front, arms crossed over his button-down shirt, glasses perched low on his nose.
The whole class is staring with some smirking, and others just curious.
My stomach twists. God, how long was I out of it?
"S-sorry." I stammer, my voice cracking like dry leaves.
I sit straighter, fingers twisting the hem of my denim shirt.
It's oversized, loose around my shoulders, paired with these white parachute jeans that bunch at my ankles.
Comfortable, but right now, it feels like I'm shrinking into it.
"I didn't... Um, I didn’t hear you. Sorry, Prof. Kingsley."
He tilts his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.
It's not anger, thank God. Just that patient look he gives when someone's half-asleep.
"No harm done, Iris. But let's try to stay with us, shall we? I asked what do you think is the role of unreliable narration in building tension in a story like Fight Club?”
The question lands, and something clicks.
Creative Writing 301. My major, my escape.
I've read that book three times, underlined passages until the pages frayed.
The unreliable narrator isn't just a trick, it's the heartbeat, the doubt that makes you question every turn.
I swallow, the stutter easing as words flow out.
"It's the foundation of the unease. Palahniuk uses it to mirror the protagonist's fractured mind, so the reader feels that same disorientation.
You start trusting the voice, then bam! It's all smoke.
Builds tension because you're never sure what's real, and that uncertainty keeps you hooked, page after page. "
Prof. Kingsley nods, pushing off the desk with a smile. "Spot on, as always. Though if you'd been paying attention, you'd know I just said the same thing ten minutes ago."
The class laughs, a ripple of easy sound, and my face burns hotter. He waves a hand. "Just a reminder. Daydreaming's great for inspiration, but not so much for my lectures. Alright, let's pick up on page 147."
Maddie leans in as he turns back to the board, her whisper hot against my ear. "Ree, what the hell? You were totally gone. Like, zombie mode."
I force a grin, shrugging it off even as embarrassment coils tight in my chest. "I just zoned out. Won't happen again."
Madeline Helen Montclair, aka Maddie studies me for a beat longer, like she doesn’t buy it. We’ve been friends since my second semester of uni, bonded over a shared elective neither of us actually cared about and a mutual hatred for early morning classes.
She’s blonde, effortlessly beautiful in a way she pretends not to notice, all sharp smiles and confidence. People assume she’s soft because of it. They’re wrong. Push her, corner her, mess with someone she cares about, and she’ll absolutely kick your ass without blinking.
Class drags for another twenty minutes, notes blurring on my pages, but I keep my eyes forward this time.
When the bell chimes, Maddie slings her bag over her shoulder and hooks her arm through mine.
We spill out into the hallway with the crowd, the echo of footsteps bouncing off the stone walls.
It's after two, and my stomach's already rumbling.
“Okay, spill.” Maddie says as we weave toward the quad. Her blonde waves bounce with every step, and there’s that determined set to her jaw. Which means she absolutely will not drop this.
“What happened back there? You looked like you were solving world hunger or something.”
I shrug, kicking at a loose pebble on the path. “Nothing happened.”
“Uh-huh.” She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Prof. Kingsley doesn’t call on people unless he knows they’ll nail it. And you were just… staring into space. Total la-la land.”
“I said it’s nothing, Mads.”
The quad opens up ahead of us, trees bare against the winter sky, students cutting across the grass, but my mind’s still replaying the moment in class.
“Just tired.” I mutter. “Late-night writing.”
Maddie snorts. “Tired? You?”
I glance at her.
“Miss I-thrive-on-three-hours-of-sleep?” She continues, giving me a pointed look. “Yeah, not buying it.”
“Seriously, it’s fine.”
“Ree,” she says, dragging out my name, “we’ve been friends forever. I know when you’re bullshitting.”
I open my mouth to dodge again but a voice cuts in from behind us. “Ladies! Wait up.”
We both turn as footsteps jog closer.
“Don’t tell me I’m late for the post-class gossip sesh.” There's Al, jogging to catch up with that lopsided grin of his.
Dominic Alaric Hawthorne. Sculpture Major, king of turning clay into chaos. His hair's a mess, dusted with what I swear is plaster from his studio, and his backpack sags like it's full of bricks. He falls into step on my other side, sandwiching me between him and Maddie.
“What’s the drama?” Al asks, falling into step beside us, his eyes flicking between our faces. “You two look like you just plotted a heist.”
Maddie rolls her eyes but grins. “Not us. Ree.”
“Oh?” Al raises a brow.
“She zoned out hard in Kingsley’s class.” Maddie continues. “Like, full space cadet mode.”
I groan quietly.
“He asked her about unreliable narrators,” Maddie says, pointing at me, “and she just sat there blinking at him like her brain left the building.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did too.” She insists. “Then suddenly she comes back with absolute gold. After apologizing like she forgot her own name.”
Al lets out a deep, rumbling laugh that makes my lips twitch despite myself.
“Again?” He says, nudging my shoulder. “Ree, that’s like your third time this semester.”
I shrug.
“What’s got you so distracted?” He goes on. “Dreaming up your next bestseller while the rest of us peasants scribble haikus?”
“Shut up.” I mutter, though there’s no real bite to it.
Al’s like that. Always joking. Always dissolving the tension before it can settle.
“Seriously.” I add. “It’s not a big deal. I just need more coffee.”
He clutches his chest dramatically. “Coffee? Blasphemy.”
“Oh God.”
“What you need,” he declares, “is one of my sculptures to smack you awake.”
Maddie snorts.
“I just finished this bust.” Al continues. “Looks like Kingsley if he lost a fight with a chisel.”
“Al…”
“Want me to sneak it into his office?”
Maddie bursts out laughing. “Do it.”
She points at me. “And when campus security shows up, Ree can write our alibis.”
I shake my head, already knowing this is exactly how I’m going to get dragged into whatever stupid idea comes next.
We keep walking, the path curving toward the canteen.
The air's crisp, nipping at my ears, but the banter warms me up.
Al launches into a story about his latest critique.
Some professors tearing into their abstract pieces like they're modern art's worst enemy.
"Swear to God, the guy said it looked like 'a cry for help from a toddler.
' A toddler! I spent three nights on that thing. "
"No way." I say, laughing for real now. The knot in my chest loosens a bit. "What'd you say back?"
"Nothing smart. Just nodded and thought about how his tie screamed 'midlife crisis.' But hey, pass/fail, right? As long as it doesn't melt."
Maddie chimes in, "Speaking of melting, did you see the assignment for next week? Kingsley's got us analyzing stream-of-consciousness in Woolf. I'm already drowning."
Al groans. "Ugh, lit majors. You get to play with words while we get carpal tunnel from chisels. Let’s trade my next piece for your essay?"
"Deal." I say, bumping his arm. It's easy with them, this rhythm we've built over three years at St. Alden.
Maddie, with her Theater Major flair, always directing invisible scenes.
Al, with his quiet intensity behind the jokes.
And me, piecing stories together like puzzles.
They ground me, even when my head's a mess.
But as we cross the quad, a prickle runs down my spine.
Like eyes on my back, heavy and unseen. I slow, glancing over my shoulder.
Students mill about, a group laughing by the fountain, someone hurrying with a stack of books.
Nothing out of place. No one staring. My pulse ticks up anyway, a weird flutter in my throat.
"You good?" Al asks, noticing my pause.
"Yeah." I lie, picking up the pace. "Just thought I dropped something."
Maddie eyes me but doesn't push. "Well, if you're dropping brains in class, maybe start with that."
The canteen looms ahead, all glass and chatter.
We grab trays. Me with a turkey wrap and salad, Maddie piling on chips like they're going extinct, and Al opting for pizza and that chocolate chip biscuit he always gets.
The line moves quickly, and soon we're weaving through tables, the smell of grease and coffee hitting us.
We claim our usual spot by the windows. Scratched-up table, chairs that wobble if you lean wrong. I drop my bag and dig in, the wrap's crunch a welcome distraction. Al slides into the seat next to me, close enough that his knee brushes mine under the table. It's casual, like always.
"So," Maddie says around a chip, "weekend plans? I'm rehearsing that monologue till I puke, but Saturday night's open. Movie marathon?"
Al nods, breaking off a chunk of his biscuit. "I'm in, but only if it's horror. Need some real scares after that critique."
I smile, fork spearing a tomato. "Horror? You scream at jump cuts, Al."
"Lies." He shoots back, but his eyes crinkle. "Okay, fine. Rom-coms. But if there's one more meet-cute in a coffee shop, I'm out."
Maddie's laughing when Al does it. Breaks off the bigger half of his biscuit and slides it across the table to me without a word. It's automatic, like breathing. Chocolate chips glint under the lights, still warm from the oven.
My chest tightens, a familiar ache. He does this all the time. Shares his food, fixes my scarf when it's crooked, listens when I ramble about plot holes at midnight. Al's liked me since the first semester, I know it. The way his gaze lingers, soft around the edges. The quiet offers, never pushy.
"Thanks." I murmur, taking it. Our fingers brush, and he pulls back quick, like it's nothing. But Maddie catches it. She's across from us, chewing slower now, her green eyes flicking between us with that knowing smile. The one that says, ‘See? Told you.’
I pop a piece in my mouth, the sweetness cloying against the sudden lump in my throat. Al's great. He’s funny, steady, the guy who'd drop everything if I needed him.
But it's not there for me. Not the spark, the pull that makes your stomach flip. I've tried seeing it, forcing it during late-night talks or group hangs. Nothing. Just warmth, like sunlight on skin.
And then there's Ryan. My boyfriend of eight months. Ryan Matthew Reed, with his easy laugh and charisma. I’m not entirely sure if what I feel for him is love. But he was there when I needed someone the most, when the world felt a little too heavy to carry alone. Sometimes that feels like enough.
"Earth to Ree." Al says, waving a hand in front of my face. "You zoning again? Biscuit that bad?"
I blink, swallowing the bite. "No, it's perfect. Just... thinking about Ryan. He might swing by later."
Maddie's smile softens, but the knowing edge lingers. "Ryan, huh? Tell him to bring pizza next time. Al's biscuits are good, but they don't count as dinner."
Al smiles, but there's a quick flicker. Gone before I can name it. "Yeah, invite the golden boy. I'll behave."
The table falls into easy chatter after that. Maddie recounts a disastrous rehearsal where her co-star flubbed lines so bad it turned into improv. "Swear, the director almost cried. But we salvaged it. Ended up with this weird vampire soliloquy that slayed."
Al leans in, pizza half-gone. "Vampires? Okay, now I'm jealous. My sculptures are lucky if they don't collapse mid-critique. Last one? Looked like a drunk giraffe."
I laugh, chiming in. "Better than my last story draft. Protagonist's motivation? Nonexistent. Felt like I was writing a grocery list."
"Send it over." Al says, serious now. "I'll read. Fresh eyes."
Maddie's nodding. "Me too. We can workshop it on Saturday with some beer and red pens."
It's nice, this. The give-and-take, the way they pull me into their orbits. Friendship is like a safety net, catching the slips. But under it, that prickle from earlier stirs again, faint but insistent. Like a draft in a sealed room. I shake it off, focusing on the biscuit's melt in my mouth.
My phone buzzes then, vibrating against my thigh. I fish it out, expecting Ryan to send a heart emoji, maybe, or a dumb meme.
But the screen lights up with an unknown number.
No name, just digits I don't recognize. My fork pauses mid-air, a chill slinking down my spine.
It's the third one this week. First was a blank message, then a blurry photo of.
.. nothing, really. Campus quad, maybe. But this?
My thumb hovers, heart thudding harder now.
"Ree?" Maddie's voice floats in, distant. "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
I force a nod, but my eyes are glued to the screen. "Yeah, just... spam." Lies. The word tastes sour. I swipe it open, the text popping up stark against the glow.
‘You look beautiful in blue.’
Blue. My shirt? It's denim, faded to that soft wash, hanging loose over my frame. How? Who? The words blur for a second, then sharpen, each letter a needle prick. Fear blooms cold in my gut, spreading like ink in water. Not anger, not confusion. Just pure, icy dread.
Someone's watching. Close enough to see the color, the fit. My breath catches, shallow and quick. I scan the canteen without moving. Faces in line, groups laughing, Al mid-sentence about something. Normal. All normal.
But it's not. The phone feels heavy in my hand, a weight pulling me under again. Voices around me muffle. Maddie's laugh, Al's easy drawl, tuning out like radio static. Thoughts crash in.
Who is it? The unknown number stares back, mocking. Beautiful in blue. It's intimate, twisted. Like a compliment wrapped in barbed wire.
The message sits there, patient. Intimate. Wrong. I don’t reply. But somehow, I know that whoever sent it already knows exactly where I am.