What's Happening?
1599 Words
LUNA
I wake up with no pain. No migraine, no hot flashes, nothing crawling behind my eyes. My body exhales like it’s been clenching for years.
It’s been twenty-four hours since my last meds, yet I feel… better? Which makes no sense. I should be violently crashing. Instead, there’s this faint pulse—like a forgotten memory fighting to break free—but when I reach for it, it slips away. Something inside me shifts, subtle and unsettling, like a gear turning without my permission. I don’t want to think about it.
I have three major tests today. I am not emotionally available for mysterious inner metamorphosis.
The clock reads 7:00. I definitely set an alarm. A wave of pure betrayal washes through me. I fly through the morning routine—minus the meds—and I feel weirdly guilty, like I’m skipping church. I grab my bag, fling myself toward the door, and spot my basically empty perfume bottle. Right. I used it all yesterday.
I want to scream, but settle for a dramatic sigh. I toss it in my bag like I’m burying a corpse and sprint.
The hill tries to assassinate me, as usual. My lungs feel like they’re full of knives, but something inside me thrums with excitement. Adrenaline? Hypomania? A death wish? Hard to say.
Five minutes into suffering, an ancient rattling car pulls beside me. The window rolls down. Mal. Of course. Right. He’s supposed to be my ride. My brain is apparently on strike.
“Looking for a ride?” he calls, amused.
“Can’t talk. Busy dying,” I wheeze.
“Just get in. You’re going like three miles an hour.”
“ARE YOU SERIOUSLY CRITICIZING ME FROM INSIDE YOUR WHEELED PRIVILEGE?”
He laughs like a cartoon villain—full chest, unbothered—and I know he’s enjoying this. Mal, destroyer of worlds, smirking in a shitty car. I stomp to the passenger seat, slam the door dramatically, and prepare to complain more, but then—
The car smells incredible. Hot chocolate and pine needles. Comfort and cold nights. But there is no hot chocolate. No pine. Just Mal. Staring at me like I’m a confusing puzzle he didn’t sign up for.
“You… wearing something different?” he asks slowly, eyes flicking away like looking at me hurts.
“No? Did you get a new air freshener? Or betray me by going to our café without me?” I ramble, sniffing myself like a weirdo before remembering the perfume bottle is almost empty. So what is he smelling?
“What scent is your regular perfume?” His breathing hitches, weirdly intense.
“If I stink, just say so. I can fix it." I reach into my bag, desperate for normalcy.
“NO!”
His arm slams down on my lap, pinning the backpack—and me—into the seat. I freeze. He realizes what he just did, recoils, face flushing. I scooch as close to the door as physically possible while silently panicking over the fact that I liked being momentarily pinned down. God, brain, please shut up.
“Okay, psycho, no need to maul me,” I mutter. I expect him to laugh. He doesn’t. He’s silent, and the silence is sharp.
When we get to school, I bail from the car before it fully stops moving. No witnesses, no rumors. Mal tries to say my name, but clamps his mouth shut. He does that a lot today. His voice glitches like his body won't let him talk.
Inside the school, eyes land on me. All of them. Heavy, invasive. High school horror movie vibes. Maybe I smell bad. Or maybe I grew a second head. I pretend not to notice, but my skin prickles.
By the time I reach my locker, I feel like I’m performing anxiety on a stage. I shove materials into my bag like it’s a speed challenge and slink to class.
Trigonometry—beautiful, blessed escape from humanity. Mr. Davis passes out tests. Numbers, angles, certainty. Peace.
Except Mal is missing. He drops me off, then vanishes? Suspicious. My brain spirals with unnecessary theories.
Then he walks in late.
The scent hits me first—sweet, rich, warm. My mouth literally waters. That is not normal behavior around cologne. My body apparently did not get the “be rational” memo.
He doesn’t sit next to me. He doesn’t even look at me. He sits in the front, and Mr. Davis says nothing. No punishment for being late. Nothing.
I stare at the empty seat beside me like it personally betrayed me. I get two questions done before panic kicks in. Thirty minutes left. I rush like a gremlin trying to save its GPA.
When the bell rings, I launch myself out the door, ignoring Mal calling after me—then abruptly shutting himself up, again, like there’s a muzzle on his voice.
I barely make it to my locker before someone slams me into it. Dylan. Of course. Humanity’s gift.
“Looking good today, Lulu.” He purrs. He has never touched me before. The invasion is shocking.
“That’s not my name,” I grit, trying to shove him off. Useless. He presses his nose to my neck and inhales. I want to scream.
“Oh, come on. You should’ve told us you were one of us,” he says, like we’re having a pleasant conversation. “No wonder you hang around Mr. No-Life. Can I get a piece too?”
I stare, confused and disgusted. "I don’t know what you’re—"
He grabs my chin, forces eye contact. His eyes are darker than I remember—almost black—and something predatory lurks there. Fear crawls under my skin.
“Babe, you’re not going anywhere—”
“DYLAN. Off. Now.”
Mal’s voice cracks through the hallway like thunder. Everyone freezes. Including me. He stands in the doorway, and the air seems to shift around him.
Dylan backs away, slowly, glaring. Mal walks toward me, steady, lethal. Everyone watches. Too much attention. Too many eyes. Too much fear. I bolt.
The hallway becomes a tunnel. I sprint, and he chases. I hear his footsteps accelerating, closing in. Panic shoves my legs forward faster than they’ve ever moved. Something electric lights up inside me—fast, strong, animal.
I make it to the girls’ bathroom, fling it open, and dump my bag upside down. The perfume bottle drops. Mal barges in behind me, a silent, heavy presence looming.
I spray it like I’m performing an exorcism, getting use out of the last drops. Spray, spray, spray.
He coughs. Then goes eerily quiet.
I look up—and see him angry for the first time ever. And he is terrifying. And somehow even more attractive. Which is horribly inconvenient.
He kneels beside me, eyes locked on mine, and reaches for the bottle. Our fingers touch. Sparks shoot through me, literal tingles. Something deep and unfamiliar inside me purrs in response, like a creature waking up.
He takes the bottle, sniffs it, and grimaces.
“What does this smell like to you?” His voice is low, careful. I am too mesmerized to speak. Words? Never heard of them.
“Let me rephrase: how long have you been hiding?”
That snaps me back.
“Hiding? Why would I be hiding?”
He gives me a look like I’m the world’s dumbest genius. I hate it.
“This smells like nothing. Why wear it?” he asks.
I smell it. He’s right. It smells like nothing. And suddenly—he smells like nothing too. No pine. No chocolate. Just absence.
“I’ve always worn it,” I murmur. I never tell people this. Too strange. Too vulnerable. But he’s staring like he wants honesty more than air. The words spill out.
“My parents are extremely sensitive to scent, so they made me a scentless perfume. I just… wear it. Since my accident.”
A gasp ripples through the bathroom stalls and the crowd outside, listening through the open door. They’re listening. Heat floods my chest—rage, humiliation, something primal. I snap.
“NONE OF THIS CONCERNS YOU! GET LOST!”
They stare like I’m an animal in a cage. I hate it. Tears threaten.
“Leave,” Mal says quietly. Everyone obeys. Immediately. Like puppets.
The bell rings, but neither of us moves. I want to run. His eyes keep me pinned in place.
“I have a test,” I say flatly, kneeling to collect my scattered things. “I’d love one small piece of normal today.”
He grabs my wrist. Gentle, but firm. Sparks again. Heat curling low in my stomach. What is happening to me?
“No. We need to talk.”
“Well, I can’t talk to someone acting insane.”
“ME?!” He looks genuinely offended. His grip tightens—not painfully, but enough that I feel a jolt of pleasure I refuse to acknowledge. My brain supplies the worst commentary possible: more, yes, harder—WHAT? Shut up!
“First, you were terrifying yesterday,” he says, voice low, restrained. “Then today you’re exploding. I’ve been trying to be patient. I have limits.”
I scoff. He growls. Actually growls. Something inside me responds—hot, alive, hungry. I don’t understand it, but my body does.
His fingers tighten again, sending electricity spiraling through me. Pleasure, fear, something else entirely. I don’t know if I want to fight him or pull him closer.
What is happening to me?
- Writer
