Chapter 2: Diary Drippings
1158 Words
Caleb's voice yanked me back like a lifeline—sleep-thick, laced with that worry he saves for when I space out mid-conversation. "What broke? Are you good?"
I swept the shards hastily with a cardboard box flap, palms stinging from a nick I didn't feel 'til blood welled warm. "Lamp. Tripped in the dark. Go back to sleep." The lie tasted like tin foil on my tongue, sharp and cheap. He mumbled something sweet about "careful, love," then the sheets rustled. Snore resumed, steady as a metronome.
I bolted the bedroom door—ridiculous, it's our room, our life—but the click felt like armor. Curled on the couch with his phone clutched like a live wire, battery ticking down to 47%. No passcode (trust, he'd said once, eyes soft over takeout Thai). Folder open: Dates etched like fresh tattoos on skin. Park pic: July 14, 2015. My sixteenth summer, the one where everything tasted too sweet and stuck wrong.
You taste like summer, the old text echoed unbidden from some blocked corner of my brain. I'd buried that deep—deleted the Snap, blocked the unknown, blamed it on teen hormones and too many slasher flicks with Lena. But here it was, a glowing accusation on his screen. Caleb's device. His glow worming into my gut.
Dawn clawed through the blinds in gray slivers when my phone buzzed—my phone, charging innocently on the coffee table like it hadn't betrayed me yet. Lena.
Bride-zilla Voss! Spill the deets: How's the eternal flame? Pics or it didn't happen.
Fingers shaky on the keys: Weird dream. Call? Can't sleep.
Her FaceTime rang instantly, cutting the quiet. A pixelated face filled the screen—bedhead wild as a storm, tattoo of a wrench peeking from her tank strap, grease smudge on her cheek from whatever late-night fix she'd chased. "Mia Voss. Say it three times fast."
I forced a grin, the kind that pulls at your cheeks but doesn't reach your eyes. "Mia Voss. Mia Voss. Feels like a stage name." It did—sweet still, from last night, but foreign now, like trying on someone else's skin.
She squealed anyway, all mechanical energy and zero filter. "Details, woman! The bathroom bit—iconic. Did he drop to one knee on the pee-scented tile? Spill or I hack your Ring cam for blackmail."
Words tumbled out in a rush then: The texts. The pics are scrolling like a highlight reel of my worst days. The hoodie in the reflection is a ghost from the park. She went still, her face drained of fun, like oil from a pan. Mechanic-mode kicked in—eyes narrowing, voice dropping to that true-crime pod tone she loves. "Send screenshots. Now. All of 'em."
While it zipped across the ether, I paced the kitchenette to the window, peeking through slats like a bad noir flick. Street below empty, November fog chewing at the lampposts, turning cars to smudges. Caleb's phone went dark in my pocket. Silent, for now.
Lena's verdict crackled through: "This is creep city, Mia. Full quarantine—change numbers, wipe devices, sleep with a bat. But... his phone? That's intimate gaslight territory."
"It's not—" I stopped, throat tight. Is it? Tinder had been fireworks—quiet dates in dive bars, his laugh rare but real, the way he'd remember my vanilla order without asking. But the little things he knew? My favorite bench on the east path, the hives that bloomed from strawberry stress. "Coincidences. Has to be."
"Or red flags stitched right into the sheets, babe." She softened, leaning into the cam like a hug. "Crash at mine today. We'll play detective—laptop sweeps, the works."
I almost said yes. I almost packed a go-bag right there. But a groan drifted from the hall—Caleb stirring, bedsprings creaking. "Mia?"
"Coming," I called, pocketing his phone like contraband. Lena's eye-roll emoji pinged as I hung up. Call if he sprouts horns. Or a tail.
He was up when I slipped back in—boxers slung low on his hips, hair tousled like he'd wrestled dreams, brewing coffee in the tiny machine that spits like an angry cat. "Rough night?" Mug extended, steam curling lazily, black and strong, just how I take it.
I sipped, the burn grounding me. His hand brushed mine as he passed—warm, callused from keyboards and the occasional gym grip. "Just... wedding jitters echoing, I guess. Echo chamber in my head."
He pulled me to his chest then, chin resting on my curls, heartbeat steady under my ear. "We're good, Mia. Better than good." A kiss to my temple, lingering soft, cedar cologne mixing with the brew. Sweet lingered too, almost enough to smother the buzz in my veins.
We ate breakfast cross-legged on the mattress—cereal bowls balanced precariously, his knee bumping mine accidentally on purpose, laughs spilling over soggy flakes when I snorted milk. Normal. Us. The kind of morning that makes you forget fogged windows and phantom texts. Until Mom's text lit my screen: Proud of you, kiddo. A new nest needs feathers—come raid the attic? Boxes from your wild days.
Attic. Evelyn's hoarder lair—dust-choked with relics from when I was all sharp edges and bad choices. Diaries? Polaroids? Clues buried like landmines?
Afternoon blurred in a haze of unpacking: Caleb's indie folk playlist humming low, his off-key hum joining in on the choruses. He hung our print (glass swept, frame duct-taped hasty), arm snaking around my waist as he stepped back to admire. "Our empire starts here."
Lena swung by at dusk—six-pack of cheap beer swinging from her fist, "housewarming" scrawled on a pizza box. Hugs crushed tight, her whisper hot in my ear: "Scan his browser later. I brought tools." Caleb charmed her easily—tacos round two from the corner spot, stories swapped over lime wedges. She thawed, almost, trading barbs about his "nerd scars" and my "bridezilla glow."
Night fell sticky-thick, fairy lights winking like conspirators. Caleb crashed early—early code shift tomorrow, he said, forehead kiss sealing it. I waited 'til his breaths evened deep, then crept to the hall closet where Mom's "gift" box waited like Pandora's box. Yellowed journals, rubber-banded tight, edges frayed from years of neglect.
Page one: Me at fifteen, doodles of birds escaping cages, ink bleeding where tears hit. Deeper in: Sixteen. A strawberry stain bloomed faintly on the margin, like a bruise.
Dear Shadow, it scrawled, handwriting loopy and desperate, smudged like fresh tears. Watch me today. Park at 3. I need eyes that don't hurt like the ones at home.
Geo-coords scribbled below, sloppy. My old Snap handle was underlined twice.
I'd begged someone to see me. Invited the watch like a prayer to a devil I didn't know.
But whose eyes had answered first?
The bedroom door creaked then, slow and deliberate.
Caleb's silhouette filled the frame.
- Writer
