CHAPTER THREE - BLOG IN THE SHADOWS
1029 Words
Ariella
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling with a mixture of nerves and thrill.
The glow from my laptop screen is the only light in my room. Everything else is pink—curtains, bedsheets, the fairy lights strung along my wall. A bubblegum sanctuary. The kind of place where nothing bad should ever happen.
But what I write here isn’t soft.
It’s sharp.
It’s dangerous.
PrettyInPink.blog – Draft #77
He’s not who he pretends to be. Everyone sees the boy with the easy grin, the one who flirts and shrugs like life’s a joke. But I see more. I see the hunger behind his eyes. The way his smile strains when I get too close. The way his hands clench like he’s fighting himself. Remington Cole isn’t harmless. He’s fire wrapped in silk. And I want to be burned.
I pause, breath shaking. It’s stupid, I know. Writing about him this way, even under a fake username. But the words spill out of me like blood, and once they’re out, I can’t take them back.
I add one more line.
If he ever touches me, I won’t run. I’ll beg him not to stop.
Click. Publish.
My heart leaps. A rush of adrenaline floods me, same as always. My secret. My truth.
The little notification chimes: Post Published.
And then—almost instantly—another chime.
1 New Comment.
I swallow, open it.
Anonymous: You’re playing a dangerous game, pretty girl.
A shiver races down my spine. It’s not the same commenter from last time. The tone is different. More… invasive.
I slam the laptop shut, pulling my knees to my chest. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Just some random creep on the internet. But still, my stomach twists.
And yet, beneath the fear, there’s another feeling I can’t fight.
Excitement.
Because if Remington ever found this blog… if he ever knew these words were about him… maybe he’d finally stop pretending.
---
Remington
There she is again.
Notebook open. Pen scratching. Lips parted in concentration.
Ariella Kingsley thinks she’s subtle. She thinks the way she tucks her hair behind her ear or chews her lip while she writes goes unnoticed. But I see everything.
And today, in class, it’s unbearable.
I should be paying attention to Mr. Carter’s lecture about Shakespeare. Instead, I’m staring across the room at her, imagining ripping that notebook out of her hands and reading every damn word.
Because I already know.
I’ve been reading her blog for months. Found it by accident at first—a late-night rabbit hole of links and usernames. But once I realized it was her? That sweet, anonymous blogger pouring out her forbidden crush? I couldn’t stop.
And now I’m addicted.
Her words haunt me. She writes about me the way no one else dares to see me. She notices the darkness I bury under fake smiles. She wants it.
But tonight, when I checked the blog, something was different. Comments. More of them. Anonymous ones. Not me. Someone else has found her.
That’s not acceptable.
I glance up now. Her pen pauses, like she feels me watching. Her eyes flick toward mine, wide and startled, before she snaps the notebook shut.
My jaw tightens. She’s hiding from me. Me.
After class, I wait.
She tries to slip out, but I catch her wrist in the hallway.
“Ariella.”
She freezes, eyes darting to where my fingers wrap around her skin. I let go before she can accuse me of anything, but the imprint lingers.
“What were you writing?” I ask.
“Notes.” Her voice is too quick, too defensive.
I smirk, leaning down, close enough that my breath brushes her ear. “You sure about that?”
Her lips part. Her cheeks flush. She doesn’t answer.
Good. Because I already know.
But before I can push further, her phone buzzes in her hand. She glances at the screen—and her face drains of color.
I catch a glimpse before she hides it.
Her blog.
Her words.
On someone else’s phone.
---
Ariella
Panic slams into me.
I shove my phone into my pocket, heart hammering. The notification was from Mia, one of the girls in my English class. Omg Ari is this your blog??
No. No, no, no.
It can’t be.
I force a shaky smile, backing away from Remington before he can see how rattled I am. “Gotta go,” I mumble, rushing down the hall.
My hands shake as I open my phone again. My stomach drops.
Screenshots.
My latest post—If he ever touches me, I won’t run—circulating in a group chat. My username attached.
Oh God.
How? How did they find me?
I duck into the bathroom, lock the stall, press my hands to my face. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. I can’t let anyone see me break. Not now.
This is my worst nightmare. My secret. My obsession. Him. Out in the open.
And the comments keep coming. Notifications piling up. Some laughing. Some mocking. Some filthy.
But one stands out.
Anonymous: He’ll never be yours. But I can be.
I slam the phone shut, chest heaving.
What have I done?
---
Remington
I knew it.
Something’s wrong.
The way Ariella bolted from me just now, the look on her face when she saw her phone—it wasn’t nothing. It was fear.
And when I catch whispers later in the courtyard, guys laughing over something on their screens, I shove through the crowd and snatch a phone out of one of their hands.
And there it is.
Her blog.
Her words.
Her obsession with me.
Exposed.
My blood roars in my ears. Laughter grates against my skin like knives. One of them says her name. Ariella.
I don’t think. I move.
The phone shatters against the pavement. My fist connects with a jaw. Shouts erupt. Chaos.
I don’t care. I don’t care.
All I can see is red. All I can hear is the sound of her words twisted into their filthy jokes.
Someone leaked her secrets. Someone dared to laugh.
And now someone’s going to bleed.
- Writer
