Hidden Love

The Beginning of The End

LUNA

As soon as Mal’s truck disappears around the bend, swallowed by the familiar row of decaying houses, I take the perfume bottle out of my backpack and spray my entire body with it. I do it automatically, like a reflex ingrained in my bones. Mist across my clothes, my hair, my wrists, my skin—until I can smell nothing except chemical sweetness. It hits the back of my throat, sharp and floral, borderline suffocating, but somehow comforting in its predictability.

I always cover myself with this before leaving and coming home, because my parents’ noses are superhuman-level sensitive to anything and everything. They never actually explain why, of course. They just enforce it, a command disguised as care.

I don’t know what’s in this perfume—something expensive, probably, or weirdly medicinal—but my parents make sure I use it religiously. Always. Without fail. Everywhere.

I mentally remind myself I’m almost out. The bottle shakes thin, a ghost of liquid sloshing. There will be consequences if I forget to tell them. There are always consequences.

When I step through the door, the smell of fresh chicken slams me in the face—savory and oily, like a warm edible blanket.

“Hello, honey!” my mom calls from the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom!” I yell back, trying to balance normalcy, exhaustion, and the tiny fear that something feels… off.

She appears in the entryway, wiping her hands on a towel—the universal sign of Mom-Duty Completed. “Your dad is going to be a bit late today, but we’ll be having dinner at home tonight. Chicken and veggies. Twenty minutes?”

She is radiant, as always, like someone who lives in perfect lighting. Shoulder-length wavy brown hair, bright skin, tall figure, toned like she spends her weekends hiking mountains barefoot. She looks like she could be my older sister, maybe early twenties, senior year in college, not a mother, forty years into her life. Sometimes she looks at me, and I feel like she’s assessing whether I’m turning into a satisfactory reflection. Or whether I’m going off-model.

“I have some huge tests in a few days,” I say, “so I’ll be studying all night.”

Translation: No Mal tonight. No sneaking. No reprieve.

“All right, sweetie.” She walks over and kisses my forehead. Her lips are cool, calm, and clinical. “Make sure to say hi to your father when he gets home, though. You know how he gets.”

We both roll our eyes, a synchronized gesture of mutual survival.

I take the stairs two at a time, rushing into my room—my tiny, queen-bed-sized sanctuary. The space is cramped but full of personality: posters plastered everywhere, messy mural paint, taped-up doodles, tiny rebellions of color. It’s the first room I’ve stayed in longer than a year, and I treat it like a shrine to stability. The best home I know.

I sit at my desk, textbook open, pen in my hand—ready to work—and the front door slams.

Not opens.

Slams.

My body reacts before my brain does. I bolt out of my chair, fly down the stairs, and skid to a stop at the bottom.

“Welcome home, Father,” I say automatically, like a recording.

He steps inside: broad shoulders, gym-built frame, expensive coat, brown eyes carved deep with purple circles underneath. A body that looks powerful and exhausted at the same time. He looks at me, and something in me straightens.

“Hey there, sport. Have a good day?”

He puts his hand on my head and messes with my hair. I laugh even though it feels strange, foreign. He hasn’t done that in… a long time. Not since before the last move. Not since everything broke open again.

A spike of anxiety hits my ribs like a needle. I ignore it. I am an Olympic-level ignorer.

“School’s a bit frustrating right now, but I’m surviving,” I say.

“And you were home at 5:15?”

“On the dot,” my mom calls from the kitchen, cheerful and sharp—like she’s proud of both of us.

“That’s my obedient girl,” he says, almost affectionately, but there’s a stiffness to it, like the affection is earned through compliance.

“Well, don’t work too hard, but you should probably go study.”

Dismissal. Clean and simple. No further emotional investment required.

I sprint back upstairs and collapse face-first on the bed.

I never nap. It’s not in the schedule. It’s not part of the routine. The routine is sacred. The routine keeps everything stable.

But sleep hits me anyway—heavy, uninvited, impossible to fight.

I wake up feeling different. Like something in me has shifted, tilted, cracked a degree to the left while I wasn’t looking.

The air feels crowded, as if something unseen is breathing next to me.

I shake it off. Hallucinations, hypnagogia, whatever. Not new. Not deadly. Probably.

Then I see the time.

6:45.

Shit.

My alarm clock sits silent, traitorous. It didn’t go off. Or I didn’t set it. Maybe I didn’t press the button. Maybe my brain broke. Perhaps the universe hates me.

I move through my morning routine on autopilot, compressed into seconds instead of minutes. Meds, shower, dress, breakfast—except halfway through, I realize I forgot my medication last night.

Panic flares, sharp and biological.

Seven years of three-a-day medication doesn’t just slip your mind. But apparently today, it does.

I swallow breakfast like it’s poison. My stomach protests. My head throbs.

I glance at the clock again.

7:03.

First period starts at 7:30.

The school is a forty-minute walk away.

Do the math. It does not add up.

I grab my perfume bottle, spray myself down at the door, heavy mist again, like I’m pressure-washing myself in scent.

Technically, spraying outside is a violation of the rules.

But I’m already late, already imperfect, already spiraling.

And then I run.

Up the hill.

Left at the corner.

Next right.

Straight dirt road into the woods.

The whole town is bizarrely laid out, practical for no one, aesthetically neutral, but at least predictable enough that I can navigate it without a phone.

Yes, I am seventeen with no phone. And no license. And parents who treat independence like a contagious disease.

Colossal red flags, I know.

But it’s my normal. What else am I supposed to do? Stage a revolution?

The run is brutal. Twenty minutes of my backpack slapping my tailbone like a medieval weapon. Sweat soaks my shirt. My lungs scream. When I reach the school, every nerve feels electrified.

I stumble into class just as the bell rings.

Mal sits in his seat, smug as a cat who knows you tripped on the carpet and refuses to help you up.

“Long night, huh?” he whispers.

“Forgot to set my alarm.”

He gasps theatrically.

“Ms. Lenning, that is so not like you.”

The teacher passes out review packets. He doesn’t notice or care that we are having a full conversation in the back row. I don’t know if he’s oblivious or just done with his job.

Mal leans in. “I think this is the sweatiest I’ve ever seen you. Are you holding back in gym?”

I glare daggers at him. He grins like he knows he deserves them.

Then the pain hits.

It starts behind my eyes—migraine pressure, blooming like a bruise expanding outward.

I have to take my medications three times a day. I don’t remember what actually happened when I was ten—just fragments, hallucinations, doctors, fear—but my parents never talk about it.

They just hand me a pill organizer and say, “Take them. Always.”

Silver first. Then three other pills. No questions allowed.

If I miss a dose, the symptoms begin:

Headaches.

Temperature swings.

Muscle and bone pain.

And something worse after that—something I’ve never stayed awake long enough to witness.

I dig through my backpack, grab Tylenol, and swallow four dry. No water. Just grit and desperation.

Mal stares at me, brow creased. He’s never seen me do this. I’ve never missed a dose since meeting him. I’m too good at hiding my weirdness.

The teacher’s voice becomes background noise—muffled, echoing, indistinct. The words drift in and out of my hearing like radio static.

I fight to focus. I fail.

The bell eventually rings, shrill enough to stab directly into the center of my migraine.

Mal notices. He always notices.

He picks up my backpack without asking and guides me toward the hallway, his hand on my arm, gentle but firm.

Normally, I would refuse help. Or joke. Or snap.

But right now, I am barely held together by sweat and willpower.

And the weirdest part?

His touch helps.

The pain dulls slightly.

The dizziness lessens.

The world stops blurring.

Which shouldn’t happen.

Nothing about him should affect my physical symptoms, and yet something about him is grounding.

My brain whispers: strange.

My heart whispers: dangerous.

My body whispers: stay close.

I shove all of it down.

We reach my locker. Mal unloads everything except my physics book.

“What else do you need, Luna?” he asks. His voice is soft. Too soft.

“Is my pill organizer in there?”

He looks confused. “Pill organizer? Didn’t you just take, like, a ton of Tylenol? Did it not work?”

“I don’t want to get into it,” I snap, immediately cringing inside. “Just look for it.”

Without argument, he digs through my bag.

“Nope,” he says.

My body goes cold—freeze phase.

“What do you mean ‘nope’?”

“I mean, it’s not here.”

He keeps searching pockets, lining, hidden zippers, but I know what’s coming.

I grab my backpack, flip it upside down, and dump everything.

Paper, pens, perfume, textbooks, trash, crumbs—everything spills out across the floor.

No pill organizer.

No pills.

No safety net.

How could you be so stupid, Luna?

I breathe, steadying myself.

It’s okay.

It’s one day.

You’ve survived worse.

Maybe.

I slam my locker shut hard enough to make Mal flinch, grab my textbook, and force myself through the day.

Two more review packets.

Two more classes.

Two more hours of pretending my body isn’t breaking.

Mal tries to check in with me—subtle glances, soft questions, silent offerings—but I can’t explain.

I can’t risk explaining.

The last time I had symptoms like this, we moved. Overnight. No warning. No goodbye.

This time, I will not trigger an evacuation.

By the end of the day, the symptoms escalate. Hot flash again—this time intense, boiling under my skin, specifically when Mal is near. Like proximity sets off some internal alarm system.

When he steps away, I freeze. When he steps close, I overheat.

No medical logic fits that.

Human bodies don’t work like thermostats connected to one boy.

Right?

Yet Mal reads me expertly—handing me my water bottle, refilling it without being asked, walking next to me without questions. He is unusually gentle today. No jokes. No poking. Just a steady presence.

I want to thank him.

I want to tell him everything.

I want to collapse into him and let him hold the weight.

The thoughts terrify me.

As we walk to his truck, my body is near-collapse, muscles shaking, nerves screaming. He carries my bag again, helps me into the seat, and buckles me in like I’m fragile.

I want to protest, to maintain some dignity.

But I can’t.

I curl forward, forehead against my knees, arms over my head, as the pain spikes.

He sits beside me in silence.

No music.

No talking.

Just silence.

And in the silence, I fall asleep.

-----

A gentle shake pulls me back to consciousness.

“Hey, Luna. It’s time.”

His voice is soft enough to undo me.

We’re at the drop-off spot.

I slept the whole drive.

I check my watch.

5:05 PM.

Panic flares again—less physical, more existential.

“Mal, I am SO sorry! I’ll make it up to you, I promise—”

“Lu,” he says, quiet, steady, warm, “there’s no need. You needed it. But you gotta go so you don’t get in trouble, okay?”

There is something behind his eyes—fear, confusion, protectiveness—that I don’t know how to name.

Is he worried about me? Really worried?

I nod, too tired to unpack that possibility.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, okay?” he says.

I nod again. Speech is too heavy.

I step out, shut the door, and listen to him drive away.

Each step toward my house feels like walking uphill in a hurricane. The symptoms return full-force, as if sleep paused them only temporarily.

Pain wraps around my body like barbed wire.

I drop my backpack at the door, spray myself again in a rapid, frantic mist, and slip inside.

The house is empty.

Thank god.

I run upstairs—if you can call it running when your bones feel electrified—and collapse onto my bed.

My body twists, curls, trembles.

I fall asleep not because I want to, but because there is no fight left in me.

The darkness takes over,

and everything inside me hurts

on the way down.