MOONLIT BOND

Chapter One – Emily’s Lonely Life "Why do you even bother showing up, Emily? Nobody wants you here." The words slice through the classroom air sharper than the edge of a knife. I freeze halfway through the doorway, clutching my worn-out backpack strap as though it might hold me together. Laughter erupts from the corner where three girls lean against each other, their glossy hair swinging like banners of superiority. I lower my gaze, heat crawling up my cheeks. My throat tightens, but I push forward, each step heavy, each breath louder than I want it to be. The classroom smells of chalk and cheap perfume, and for some reason, even the sunlight streaming through the windows feels hostile—like it belongs to them, not me. I slide into my seat near the back. The chair creaks, and I wince. Someone snickers. "Look, she’s hiding again," another voice whispers loudly enough for the whole room to hear. I don’t answer. I never do. Answering only makes it worse. Instead, I open my notebook and stare at the blank page as if it might protect me. The paper blurs, my vision swimming, but I force myself not to blink too much. Tears here would be blood in the water. The teacher’s voice starts, a dull hum about history, but I barely hear it. The whispers keep circling. Pathetic. Weird. Freak. My name is never spoken in kindness—only as a punchline. At lunch, I carry my tray through the cafeteria, my stomach already tied in knots. I don’t bother trying to sit with anyone. I learned that lesson the hard way. Instead, I head for the corner table near the windows. Alone. Always alone. Halfway there, a boy sticks his foot out. My tray tilts, and cold milk splashes across my shirt as I stumble forward. The cafeteria erupts in laughter. The sound crashes over me like a tidal wave, drowning me in humiliation. "Oops," the boy says with a fake smile, not even pretending it was an accident. I mutter an apology, though I’ve done nothing wrong, and kneel to wipe the mess with trembling hands. My palms sting as I scrub the floor with napkins, my knees pressing hard into the tile. The laughter fades into whispers again, but the sting stays. When I finally sit down with what’s left of my food, my appetite is gone. I push peas around on my plate, my chest hollow. The window reflects my face back at me—pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, hair falling like a curtain to shield me. I almost don’t recognize the girl staring back. That’s the thing about being invisible. After a while, you start disappearing even from yourself. Classes blur together. I doodle in the margins of my notebooks, half-listening, half-drifting somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I belong. By the time the final bell rings, my body feels like it’s been dragged across gravel. The hallways are chaos, lockers slamming, kids laughing and shouting plans for the weekend. I clutch my books close and weave through them like a ghost. No one bumps into me by mistake; they do it on purpose. "Watch it, loser," someone sneers as my shoulder collides with a locker. I don’t look back. I just keep moving. Always moving, always escaping. Outside, the cool air greets me, and I inhale deeply. For a moment, it feels like freedom. The sky is streaked with fading orange, and the shadows of trees stretch long across the school grounds. I walk faster, eager to get home before the silence of my empty house swallows me whole. But as I step onto the quiet street leading to my neighborhood, I can’t shake the words that cling to me like burrs. Nobody wants you here. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t belong here at all. The street to my house is quiet, too quiet. A row of small homes lines the road, their lights glowing warm and yellow. I imagine families inside—mothers setting dinner on the table, fathers asking how the day went, kids laughing over silly jokes. I walk slower as I near my house, wishing I could linger in that imagined warmth. But when I open my front door, the silence greets me like a familiar enemy. No one is home. Of course not. Mom works double shifts at the diner. Dad—well, Dad left years ago, so his absence doesn’t surprise me anymore. Still, the house feels emptier than it should. My footsteps echo as I step inside, and the air is stale, like no one’s breathed here all day. I toss my bag onto the couch and head to the kitchen. There’s no note, no dinner waiting, just an old apple in the fruit bowl and a box of cereal on the counter. I grab the cereal and eat straight from the box, sitting at the table with the overhead light buzzing faintly. The quiet presses against me. Too heavy. Too loud. Sometimes, I turn on the TV just to fill the space, but tonight I don’t bother. Instead, I open my notebook. The one that isn’t for school. The pages are filled with scribbles—tiny drawings of forests, full moons, creatures with sharp teeth and glowing eyes. Stories I’ve made up. Worlds where I’m not the weak, invisible girl, but someone else entirely. Someone strong. Someone who matters. I run my finger over the ink lines. A wolf, sketched in a moment of restless daydreaming, stares back at me with fierce golden eyes. Strange. I don’t even remember drawing those eyes. A shiver runs down my spine, but I push it away. It’s just a drawing. Just me pretending I belong somewhere else. The clock ticks. Hours pass. My eyelids grow heavy, but sleep feels dangerous. Sleep means dreams, and my dreams are never peaceful. They’ve been stranger lately—wolves in the shadows, voices whispering my name, the moon pulling at me like a magnet. I rub my temples and close the notebook. It’s nothing. Just my brain making things up again. But even as I lie down on the couch and pull a blanket over myself, I can’t shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, is watching me. The next morning is the same as always—gray light through the window, the sound of my alarm drilling into my skull, the ache in my chest before the day even begins. I drag myself through my routine: shower, jeans, hoodie, backpack. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looks tired, hollow-eyed. I avoid staring too long. At school, the cycle repeats. Whispers. Laughter. Shoves in the hallway. I shrink smaller and smaller, but it’s never small enough. By the third class, I feel the weight of it pressing down on me so hard I can barely breathe. The teacher’s voice drones on, but my eyes drift to the window. Outside, the forest stretches beyond the football field—tall, dark trees swaying in the wind. For some reason, I can’t look away. It feels like the forest is calling to me. A girl across the room notices me staring and smirks. "What are you looking at, freak? Planning to run off into the woods and live with the wolves?" The class erupts in laughter. Heat burns my face, and I drop my gaze to the desk, wishing I could sink through it and vanish. The teacher clears her throat but doesn’t say anything to stop them. She never does. No one ever does. When the bell rings, I bolt from the room, my pulse hammering. I need air. I need space. I head for the back of the school, where the edge of the forest waits. The trees sway gently, shadows flickering between their trunks. It’s cooler here, quieter. The sounds of students fade behind me, replaced by the rustle of leaves. I take a step closer. Then another. The forest feels alive, like it’s breathing. Like it’s waiting. And then— A snap. A sharp c***k of a branch breaking deep inside. I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs. My eyes search the shadows, but I see nothing. Still, the feeling crawls up my spine, prickling every hair on my arms. Someone’s there. Watching. The sound lingers, echoing in my chest long after it fades from the trees. My grip tightens on the strap of my backpack, knuckles white. I tell myself it’s nothing—just a squirrel. But my instincts scream otherwise I should leave. I know I should. But my feet stall. Something in me—something I can’t explain—pulls me closer instead of pushing me away. "Emily!" The voice snaps me out of my trance. It’s sharp, mocking. I turn. The three girls from my class stand near the edge of the building, their arms folded, smirks carved across their faces. "Figures," one of them says. "She’d rather hang out with trees than people." "Maybe she’s waiting for her wolf friends," another sneers, howling in exaggerated tones. Laughter. Always laughter. My throat tightens, but I refuse to let them see me cry. Not here. Not now. I spin around and march toward the school, keeping my head down, fists clenched at my sides. They keep laughing behind me, but I block them out. I focus on the rhythm of my steps. One after another. Keep moving. Don’t break. By the time the final bell rings, my insides feel scraped raw. The bus ride home is a blur of noise I don’t hear. My forehead rests against the cool glass of the window, and all I see are trees rushing past, their dark silhouettes blurring into each other. When I step off the bus, the air feels heavier than usual. The sun is already dipping low, the sky washed in streaks of purple and gold. I walk quickly, the chill sinking into my skin. Home is no better than school. Empty, silent. I kick my shoes off, dump my bag, and flop onto the couch. My chest aches like it always does after days like this—like someone hollowed me out and left me with nothing but echoes. I want to scream. I want to disappear. But instead, I grab my notebook again. My hand moves without thinking, sketching lines across the page. Trees. A clearing. A shadow with glowing eyes. When I pause to look at it, my breath stutters. It’s too real. Too sharp. The eyes burn golden, even though I’ve only drawn them in pen. I slam the notebook shut, heart pounding. My skin prickles like those eyes are still watching me, even now. The room is too quiet. Too still. I push off the couch and pace, chewing my lip until I taste copper. "You’re losing it," I whisper to myself. "You’re imagining things." But then— Another sound. Not from the house. From outside. A low rustle. The scrape of claws against wood. I freeze. My heart stops, then races twice as fast. Slowly, I creep toward the window. My fingers tremble as I lift the curtain just a fraction. The yard lies in shadow, the tall grass swaying gently in the breeze. For a moment, nothing moves. My lungs ache from holding my breath. Then—there. A flash of movement near the tree line. Dark. Broad. Wrong. The figure lingers for half a second, glowing eyes locking with mine through the glass. Golden. Alive. Watching me. I stumble back, the curtain falling shut. My pulse hammers in my ears. I want to scream, but the sound lodges in my throat. The house feels too small now, too fragile, like paper walls between me and whatever waits outside. And for the first time, the thought doesn’t scare me as much as it should. Deep down, buried beneath the fear, is something else. Recognition. Like I’ve seen those eyes before. Like they’ve been waiting for me all along.