Ink Between Worlds

Tiana The morning mist settles low over the forest, weaving through the trees like a secret trying to be forgotten. Dew clings to every blade of grass, and the scent of wet earth hangs heavy in the air. In our modest cottage deep within Black Hood territory, I stir beneath a patchy quilt. My alarm stopped ringing ages ago. I’ve learned to wake before it, out of habit and necessity. The air inside the cottage is cold, the fire from last night reduced to nothing but pale ashes. I swing my legs off the bed, toes curling as they touch the icy wooden floor. The planks creak under me as I move, careful not to wake my parents. They just got back from the logging yard three hours ago. Another night shift. Another day I’ll face alone. Our cottage, though small and cozy, wears its struggles openly. The curtains are faded. My clothes, folded neatly on a sagging chair, are all mended in multiple places. The small writing desk tucked in the corner of my room is my sanctuary, the only place I can truly breathe. It’s not much, but it’s mine. I pull on my patched jeans and a black sweater with sleeves a bit too long. I tie my hair into a high ponytail, then glance at the clock. 5:07 a.m. I don’t need to leave for another thirty minutes, but I want the extra time to write. I always do. At my desk, my worn leather notebook lies open. The last line I wrote before falling asleep whispers in my mind: "He stepped from the shadows, eyes burning with purpose, a hand outstretched as if he had waited for her all his life." My fingers tremble slightly as I pick up my pen. I love Bradley. The character I created has taken root in my soul, like ivy, wrapping around every inch of my lonely hours. Tall, dark-haired, with eyes that cut through lies and see broken hearts for what they are. Protective. Loyal. Everything no real man has ever been to me. With a deep breath, I let the words flow, my pen scratching rhythmically across the paper: "Bradley never looks away when she cries. He doesn’t pity her; he honors her pain. In the stillness of the forest, he kneels at her side, saying nothing, simply existing beside her until her breathing steadies." I pause, a lump forming in my throat. A knock rattles my bedroom door. "Tia? You leaving soon?" Mama’s voice sounds so tired. "Yes, Mama. I'm just getting ready." "Okay." She says, then, her footsteps retreat. That’s it. That’s all there is between us anymore. We’ve said everything there is to say about tuition, food, and how being an unmated omega limits everything I could ever want. By 5:40, I throw my backpack over my shoulder and step into the cold morning air. My boots crunch over frost-covered earth as I begin my two-hour walk, to the road, through the woods, past the patrol lines, and eventually down cracked sidewalks to Crescent Vale College. No one offers me a ride. No one ever does. Not even our own pack members. I pass the same twisted trees, the same old foxhole, the crooked pine where I carved my initials when I was ten. The forest feels like my only true friend, always quiet, always listening, never judging. When I finally reach the gates of Crescent Vale, the first students are already arriving. Buses line the curb. Shiny sedans idle while betas and alphas step out, their laughter piercing the morning air. I keep my head low, tugging at the sleeves of my sweater. My chest tightens as I approach the entrance. A familiar group of girls stands near the main doors. Their eyes find me immediately. "Look who finally made it," Celeste sneers, her golden hair glinting in the weak sun. "Did the wolves let you out of your cave early today?" I keep walking. Words won’t help. "Does she even have a mate?" "Not with that hair. And that sweater, ugh! Vintage or just pitiful?" Their laughter follows me like brambles snagging on cloth. Inside the library, my sanctuary, I finally breathe. I work here part-time before classes, sorting books and helping the librarian, Mrs. Lane. "Morning, dear," she greets me as I walk in. "Morning." "Back shelves need sorting. We got a box of new fiction in. Your favorite." I nod with a faint smile. "I’ll get to it." The back room smells of old pages and lemon polish. I move through the aisles in silence, fingers grazing book spines. I slip out a fantasy novel and skim a few lines. Stories are where I live. They’re the only place I can be someone. As I shelve books, my mind drifts to Bradley. My notebook waits in my bag, calling to me. I can’t wait to write more. Classes crawl by, Professors barely notice me. A few ask questions, and I pretend not to hear. My classmates glance at me like I’m something under glass. I’ve stopped trying to explain myself. I eat lunch alone beneath the old oak tree behind campus. I open my notebook and write: "Bradley stands in the clearing, sunlight dripping down his shoulders like liquid gold. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t need to. She feels safe." Safe. I ache for it. Later, I clock into my second job at a diner off campus. The uniform itches. The shoes rub blisters onto my heels. But I need the money. I always need it. By the time I get home, the moon is high and my parents are asleep. I eat reheated stew in silence by candlelight. Back in my room, I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep without writing. I pick up my notebook. "He watches her as she sleeps, unseen but ever present, a silent guardian carved from her dreams." Tomorrow I'll give him a voice, for now let me sleep. I curl beneath my quilt and blow out the candle. But before the flame dies, it flickers violently. Something moves outside my window. In the darkness beneath the trees I feel like someone is watching me. Is it Bradley? No! I push the crazy thought away.