Stars collide

The glass mansion

Kiana’s pov

My alarm blares for the second time, shaking me from a dream I can’t quite remember. I move to hit the snooze button, but something stops me. A sudden, sharp awareness ripples through me, like a whisper in the back of my mind. Get up. I sigh and roll out of bed. I’m already late—and it’s my first day of school.

“Ugh,” I groan, stretching. Another year of high school.

Whoever invented school deserves to rot. I’m immediately imagining all the ways I’d make them pay for this torture. It’s not like high school is terrible—I shouldn’t even complain. My life is perfect. Or it’s supposed to be. But lately, it’s just the same routine, the same people, the same… itch.

I pull on the outfit I’d picked last night—a purple sundress with red hues to match my fiery hair. Standing in front of my mirror, I smooth the fabric and fluff my curls. My hair cascades down my back like silk, catching the morning light. “Perfect,” I murmur, but my stomach twists.

“Family hairloom,” Mom always says, her voice smug and proud, like it’s some grand legacy. Every woman in our family inherits this long, crimson hair. It’s beautiful, sure, but sometimes it feels like a heavy crown. My green eyes, ringed with flecks of gold, catch my gaze in the mirror. They feel… feral today. Almost glowing.

Downstairs smells like vanilla pancakes, syrup, and strawberries. My favorite.

“Morning, Mom,” I say, stepping into the kitchen.

She’s at the counter, wrapped in her velvet robe. Her waist-length hair gleams, catching the light just like mine. It’s a constant reminder that I look exactly like her. Except her eyes. Her eyes are duller now, their once-bright fire dimmed. “Morning, Kiana,” she says, giving me the same once-over she gives every day.

“Hmm. You’re wearing that to school?”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended.

She tilts her head, studying me like she’s searching for something I can’t see. “It’s… fine,” she says at last, but her tone feels like a warning.

I let out a relieved sigh and grab a plate. “Thanks, Stefan,” I say to our chef.

“First day of school needs a good breakfast,” he says with a warm smile.

As I sit down, Mom clears her throat. “Your father won’t be home until next week,” she says abruptly.

I pause mid-bite and glance up. She avoids my gaze, but I can hear the undercurrent in her voice. It’s sharp, like claws scraping stone.

“Why?”

“He’s… busy.” She waves off the question, but there’s something in the way she grips her coffee mug that makes my chest ache.

Dad’s always busy. Always gone. Always running his empire.

It's been that way for as long as I can remember.

He owns several companies, from retail shopping to construction and food production. I guess that's a lot to keep a man busy. I've never had a problem with his schedule. I secretly like it when it's just one parent present. Both my parents, together, always cause tension. Mom can't stand how long dad stays away from the family, and he can't stand her complaints. Mom inherited the family business after her dad died. I remember when I was little she'd work a lot too, but Dad convinced her to hand over the company to him. He promised he'd manage it while she took care of the family and be the lady of the house. Every time they're together there's one problem with the company or the other. Mom thinks he isn't managing her company properly, he'd insist she's only being paranoid.

I've heard stories of my mom, from her teenage and college years. She was happy and free-spirited, strong-willed and confident. I wonder what changed, what's made her so unhappy. Most days she wouldn't get out of her room, only bottles of wine go in and come out empty. Other days she'd spend shopping in the mall till it was dark, and the driver had to get her because she was too drunk to drive. I miss my mom. I miss when she'd spend the day with me in my room sorting out my outfits and planning our next vacation together. I knew there was something wrong, she wasn't always like this and deep down I knew my dad had something to do with it, but I couldn't confront him about it. I couldn't do anything about it but watch my mom being unhappy and sad. It killed me. I hated myself for not doing more. For not walking into my mom’s room and pulling her out of bed. For not asking her if she was okay when she stared blankly at her wine glass, as if the answer to her pain was at the bottom of the bottle. But I also hated my dad for putting her in this position. I hated how he could come and go as he pleased, acting like he didn’t notice the pieces of her breaking every time he left.

But what could I do? What could I possibly say to either of them that wouldn’t make things worse? If I told Dad, he’d deny it or brush me off. If I told Mom, I’d only remind her of how much she’s hurting.

So, I stayed silent. Maybe I was just like Dad—ignoring everything, hoping it would fix itself. The thought made me sick.

I never showed her or anyone I cared so much. I couldn't even comfort her when she needed it, I just couldn't accept my family was falling apart, it was far from perfect. I wanted to live in denial, maybe ignoring it would make everything go away. So that's what I did. Acted perfect, like everything was fine.

I shove down the bitterness rising in my throat and focus on my pancakes. I won’t let it ruin my day.

“Kiana,” Mom says as she stands, her voice softer now. “You should get going. You’re already late.”

I nod, grabbing my lunch. “You look nice today,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Thanks,” I mumble, but she’s already walking away, her robe trailing behind her like shadows.

The driveway is bathed in sunlight, my sleek gray convertible gleaming like it just rolled out of the dealership, Dad gave me last year. It gleams in the driveway, perfect and untouchable. Just like the facade we all wear.

I slide into the driver’s seat and glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

My green-gold eyes catch the light, and for a second, they seem… wrong. Too sharp. Too wild.

I shake my head and grip the steering wheel. “I’m perfect. I’m beautiful. I’m Kiana,” I whisper, repeating the mantra that keeps the cracks in my life from showing.

But it feels hollow.

As I drive through the winding roads, the forest looms on either side, tall and ancient. The breeze carries the scent of pine and damp earth, and something stirs in my chest—a pull, deep and primal, like the woods are calling me.

My fingers tighten on the wheel as I pass the trees. For a split second, I swear I see movement—something dark and fast, darting between the trunks.

I shake it off. Just my imagination.

But lately, it’s been harder to shake things off.

The dreams started a few months ago. Dreams of running barefoot under the moonlight, my body moving effortlessly through the woods, the wind rushing past me. I can hear the howls—mine and others, blending into a haunting melody.

When I wake up, my muscles ache like I’ve actually been running. And sometimes, I wake with dirt under my nails and leaves tangled in my hair.

As I pull into the school parking lot, I try to shove the dreams—and the strange feeling that’s been growing inside me—into the back of my mind. But it’s getting harder to ignore.

Distracted by my thoughts, I don’t see the motorcycle cutting across the lot until it’s nearly too late. My tires screech as I slam the brakes, heart leaping into my throat.

The bike swerves smoothly into the parking space I was eyeing, its rider clearly unfazed by the near collision. No apology, no acknowledgment—nothing. Just casual indifference, like they owned the place.

Annoyance flares in me, but it fizzles out the moment the girl on the back of the bike turns to look at me.

She’s striking—eerily so. Her black hair whips around her like it has a life of its own, glossy and wild, catching the morning sunlight in flashes of silver. No helmet, no concern, just calm, effortless defiance.

And her eyes—dark, piercing, and cold—lock onto mine like she’s looking right through me. For a moment, I feel pinned, like prey caught in the gaze of a predator. My chest tightens, and I grip the steering wheel tighter.

She doesn’t say anything. She just stares, and it’s unsettling how much that silent gaze unnerves me. There’s something about her—a stillness, a presence—that feels otherworldly.

The rider, a broad-shouldered guy with a sharp jawline and an air of smugness, doesn’t even glance back as he parks the bike and swings off. He stretches lazily, like he has all the time in the world, before striding toward the school. The girl follows, her movements graceful and deliberate, like she’s gliding instead of walking.

Something about them feels… wrong. Not in an obvious way—just something I can’t put my finger on. Like the way the air feels heavier as they pass, or the way the world seems to quiet around them.

I shake my head, trying to snap out of it. I can’t imagine they let people like this in my school, obviously these two didn’t care about anything. I already knew they’d be trouble.