LAYLA

CHAPTER 5

The sharp scent of cut grass hung in the air as I walked toward the football field. Shouts echoed across the space—loud, careless, overlapping—like none of it mattered.

I sat on the bleachers, the metal cold even through my uniform skirt, and fixed my eyes on the field. Waiting for Luke. It didn’t take long.

He spotted me mid-stride, slowing for half a second before jogging over, dragging a hand across his damp forehead. "Sup."

I stood before he even reached me. "We’re leaving. Now." I turned, already stepping down from the bleachers.

Behind me, he exhaled sharply. "Come on, we still have practice." There was frustration in his voice, but I didn’t turn around to look at him. Either he followed me or he didn’t. I wasn’t about to argue.

Footsteps sounded behind me—then stopped. A different voice cut in. "Don't worry I'd drop him off." I glanced back. It was Marcus, he had thrown an arm around Luke’s shoulders, already steering him away like the decision had been made for him. He looked at me and smirked winking at me. My eyes rolled before I could stop them. I turned and walked off. Fast.

My chest felt tight, irritation sitting heavy under my skin. I didn’t even know why I was angry, which only made it worse.

By the time I reached the car park, I was already done with everything.

Simon leaned against a black Porsche, one ankle crossed over the other, like he had nowhere else to be. "Are you ready?" he asked, straightening.

"Right behind you," I muttered, heading for my car. The drive was quiet. Too quiet. When we pulled into the driveway, I slowed without meaning to.

The house was… big.

Bigger than Jonathan’s. Bigger than anything I was used to.

The kind of place that didn’t feel lived in—just owned. I parked and stayed there for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel.

Simon knocked lightly on my window. I nodded without looking at him. "I’m coming." I whispered. He nodded, turned and headed inside, leaving me alone with the silence.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Something felt off.

I didn’t know what—but it sat heavy in my chest.

I reached for my backpack, fingers moving without much thought as I dug through it. When I found what I was looking for, I hesitated for half a second… then didn’t.

It was the weed Jonathan had given or gifted to me. I took a little, then inhaled, holding it for a moment before letting it out.

A moment later, I leaned back in my seat, staring up through the windshield. The world softened at the edges. My shoulders loosened. My thoughts slowed—just enough to feel manageable.

"Okay…" I murmured to myself. "You’re fine." I stayed there until the tightness in my chest eased. Then I got out. The front door was heavier than I expected.

It creaked softly as I pushed it open and stepped inside.

The air smelled faintly of polish—clean, controlled.

Too controlled.

I glanced around the hallway, taking it in. High ceilings. Wide space. Everything placed exactly where it should be.

I’d never been inside Simon’s house before. I’d only ever seen the gates.

I moved forward slowly, my footsteps quieter than I expected against the floor.

The house didn’t feel empty—but it didn’t feel welcoming either.

I followed the faint sound of voices until the hallway opened into a living room.

Simon stood there. He turned the moment I stepped in, like he’d been expecting me. "Oh," he said, a small smile forming. "I thought you ditched me."

A smile pulled at my lips before I could stop it.

"I would’ve," I said lightly, "but I don’t feel like repeating senior year."

The words came out easier than they should have.

He let out a quiet chuckle. "Fair enough. Sit." He gestured toward the couch before heading upstairs without another word. I dropped into the seat, exhaling slowly as I leaned back. The room was… nice. Too nice.

Everything matched. Everything polished. Nothing out of place. It made me restless. I needed something. A drink. Air. Anything.

I pushed myself up.

That’s when I saw it.

A book.

Sitting alone on a shelf like it didn’t belong with the rest of the room. I stepped closer, tilting my head slightly before reaching for it.

It was lighter than I expected. Pink.

Definitely not Simon’s.

I turned it over in my hands, thumb brushing along the edge. The cover was worn—just slightly. Used.

A journal.

I flipped it over, like I might find something—anything—that explained why it felt… important. "Simone doesn’t like people touching her stuff." The voice came from behind me.

Close. Too close.

I turned quickly, the journal still in my hands.

And then I laughed when I saw who it was, I couldn’t help it.

It was him.

The same guy from the bar.

The same guy from the hallway.

He stood there, watching me, his expression unreadable.

His mouth was moving—he was saying something—but the words didn’t reach me.

Everything felt… distant. Muted. I feel like the weed was showing effects now. Suddenly, everything was funny.

Really funny.

A laugh slipped out. Then another.

I tried to stop, but it only made it worse. Voices started overlapping.

"What’s wrong with her?"

"What did you do to her?"

"Who is she?"

"Why is she holding my journal?"

The noise kept building, stacking on top of itself until it felt like it was pressing into my skull. My grip on the journal loosened. The room tilted slightly.

I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Do you have… vodka?"

"What?" someone said.

And then— Everything went dark.

---

A voice echoed somewhere in my mind.

Water is to be drank. Food is to be eaten. Flowers are beautiful. Diamond is cool. Over and over. Like it was stuck.

I opened my eyes slowly.

A chandelier hung above me, light spilling softly across the ceiling. I frowned. When did Mom get that?

I pushed myself up. The room wasn’t mine. That realization hit fast.

I looked down—clothes still on.

A breath left me in relief.

I swung my legs off the bed and stood, the floor cool beneath my feet. My head still felt… off, but clearer than before.

I crossed the room and opened the door.

The hallway stretched out in front of me—quiet, unfamiliar.

I moved down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the railing.

Voices reached me before I saw them. When I stepped into the living room, everything went still. Simon looked up first. "Layla… you’re up."

Others turned.

Too many faces.

Too many eyes.

"You were laughing," Simon added carefully. "Then you passed out."

"You asked for vodka," an older man said from across the room.

I glanced at him, then back at Simon. "What time is it?"

"What—why?" He asked.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even know why I asked. All I knew was— I needed to leave.

"I’m sorry we couldn’t work on the book," I said quickly, already stepping back. "But I have to go." I turned before anyone could stop me.

"Wait—" Simon’s voice sharpened. "You’re not going to explain? Layla, were you high? Did you take something before coming here?"

I stopped. Turned. "I don’t owe you an explanation," I said, my voice flat. "And even if I did—it’s none of your business."

Silence fell.

Thick.

A girl stepped forward, positioning herself slightly in front of Simon. "You don’t speak to him like that." I looked at her.

Same features. Same eyes, she should be Simone.

I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingers briefly against my temple. "I really need to leave," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. Then I looked at Simon again. "I’m not okay right now," I said, more honestly this time. "Can you give me a lift?"

His expression shifted immediately. "Of course," he said. "I’ll have someone bring your car." He grabbed his keys without hesitation.

I turned toward the others. "I’m sorry… if I caused any problems. I’m just not feeling great today."

"It’s fine, darling," a woman said gently. His mom, probably.

I nodded once, then followed Simon out. The night air hit differently. Cooler. Sharper.

I slid into the passenger seat of his car, leaning my head back for a moment as the door shut. As the engine started, my thoughts drifted. Back to him, the guy from the bar. The way he kept showing up, the way he looked at me. I stared ahead, unfocused. I couldn’t shake the feeling it was like something had already started— And I was just now noticing.