THE ALPHA MY MATE

“Lydia!” I stopped walking. The sound of my name behind me made my fingers tighten around the book in my hands. I didn’t turn around. I already knew who it was. “Are you deaf?” A few people laughed. I slowly closed my book and held it against my chest. “She’s probably hiding in her little fantasy world again,” another voice said. More laughter followed. I stared at the cover for another second before finally looking up. Kimberly stood a few steps away, surrounded by her friends. She had that familiar smile on her face—the kind that always meant trouble for me. “Come on, Lydia,” she said. “Don’t just sit there staring at us.” “I wasn’t.” “Then what were you doing?” “Reading.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course.” Her friends laughed again. I lowered my gaze. It was easier that way. I had learned a long time ago that people usually lost interest when you stopped giving them something to fight against. At least, that was what I told myself. For most of my life, I had been the girl people could push around. The girl who never fought back. The girl who apologized even when someone else was wrong. The girl who disappeared into books because the people inside them were easier to understand than the people outside them. I didn’t know when I had become that girl. Maybe I had always been her. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” I lifted my eyes. Kimberly stepped closer. “You really think you’re better than everyone because you read all day?” “No.” “Then why do you always act like you’re too good to speak?” I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Kimberly laughed. “Exactly.” She reached for the book in my hands. I instinctively pulled it closer. “Give it to me.” “No.” The word escaped before I could stop it. Kimberly’s smile vanished. “What did you say?” My pulse quickened, but I held her gaze. “I said no.” For a moment, neither of us moved. It was the first time I had ever said it to her. Maybe that was why the silence felt so heavy. Then Kimberly snatched the book from my hands. I reached for it. She lifted it above her head. “Give it back.” “Come and take it.” Her friends laughed. Heat crawled up my neck. I hated this place. I hated the way fear could take over my body before I even had time to think. But this time, I stepped forward. Kimberly shoved me. My back slammed against the wall. Pain shot through my shoulder, and the book slipped from her hand, hitting the floor. Someone laughed. “She’s going to cry,” someone whispered. I wasn’t. I refused to give them that. I bent down and picked up my book. The cover was torn along the edge. I ran my thumb over the damage. For some reason, that hurt more than the shove. Maybe because this book had never laughed at me. It had never judged me. It had never made me feel like I was too much or not enough. “You’re pathetic,” Kimberly muttered. Then she walked away. Her friends followed. I remained where I was for a moment, holding the damaged book against my chest. Alone. Again. I looked down at the torn cover. “Sorry,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure whether I was apologizing to the book or to myself. I slipped the book into my bag and forced myself to walk away. I didn’t look back. I had learned that looking back only made it harder to pretend things didn’t hurt. By the time I reached home, the sun was already disappearing beyond the rooftops. I opened the front door quietly. The house was silent. Too silent. “Mom?” No answer. I stepped inside. “Mom?” Still nothing. I placed my bag on the chair and walked toward the kitchen. Empty. I checked her bedroom. Empty. The bathroom. Empty. A strange uneasiness settled in my stomach. My mother never left without telling me. At least, she never had before. I returned to the living room. That was when I noticed it. A small envelope sat on the table. My name was written across it. LYDIA. I stared at it. Something about the envelope made me hesitate. My mother’s handwriting was unmistakable. But why had she left me a letter? And why had she left it like this? I picked it up. It felt heavier than it should have. My fingers worked carefully beneath the flap. Inside was a single sheet of paper. I unfolded it. Three words were written across the page. GO BACK HOME. I frowned. “What does that mean?” I read it again. There was no explanation. No address. No signature. Nothing. Just those three words. I rushed to my mother’s room. Her wardrobe was half empty. I pulled open the drawers. Most of her clothes were gone. My breath caught. “No.” I checked the bathroom again. Her toiletries were gone. The kitchen. Her favorite cup was missing from its usual place. I opened the cabinet. Nothing. I checked the small shelf where she kept her things. Empty. My breathing became uneven. She hadn’t just gone out. She had packed. She had planned to leave. And she had done it without telling me. I returned to the living room, still clutching the letter. She had left. She had actually left me. I sank onto the floor. For years, my mother had been the only person I had. Even when she was distant. Even when she refused to answer questions about my father. Even when I asked why we never visited the place she called home. She was still my mother. She was the person who had stayed when everyone else seemed to forget I existed. And now she was gone. I stared at the words on the paper. GO BACK HOME. But where was home? I had never known. My mother had always avoided talking about where she came from. Whenever I asked, she changed the subject. Sometimes I wondered if there was a reason. Tonight, for the first time, I wished I had pushed harder for an answer. I turned the paper over. Nothing. I held it closer to the light. Still nothing. Just three words that somehow felt like a warning. That night, sleep refused to come easily. The letter remained beside me on the bed. I kept reading the same three words until my eyes grew heavy. Eventually, exhaustion pulled me under. Then I dreamed. I was standing in a forest. I didn’t know how I had gotten there. The trees towered above me, their branches twisting together and blocking out most of the sky. The air was cold. Too cold. Somewhere in the darkness, something was breathing. Slowly. Heavily. I turned around. Nothing. “Lydia.” I stopped breathing. Someone had called my name. “Lydia…” The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. I looked toward the trees. A faint golden light appeared between them. I took one step forward. Then another. The light grew brighter. Something moved inside it. Two eyes opened. Golden eyes. They watched me from the darkness. I tried to scream. No sound came out. The creature stepped forward. I still couldn’t see its face clearly, but I could feel its presence. Ancient. Powerful. And strangely familiar. Something inside me recognized it. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know why. But I knew I had seen those eyes before. Then it spoke. “You should never have returned.” I woke with a scream caught in my throat. My room was dark. My chest rose and fell rapidly as I pushed myself upright. I looked around. Nothing. Just my room. Just the pale moonlight spilling through the window. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. “It was a dream.” I said it aloud, as if hearing the words might make them true. “It was just a dream.” I reached for the glass of water beside my bed. My hand was still trembling. I took a sip and tried to calm myself. Then I noticed something. My bedroom window was open. I was certain I had closed it. Slowly, I got out of bed. Cold air brushed against my skin as I approached the window. Then I stopped. Something was written across the glass. I stared at it. My blood ran cold. The words hadn’t been there before. Four words. Written as if someone had traced them from the other side. SHE KNOWS YOU’RE COMING. I stepped backward. My eyes remained fixed on the message. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. Who was she? And how did she know I was coming? My mother’s letter suddenly felt heavier in my hand. GO BACK HOME. The dream flashed through my mind again. The golden eyes. The forest. The voice. You should never have returned. I looked at the message on the glass once more. For the first time that night, I stopped thinking about whether my mother had abandoned me. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe… she had been running from something.