If I Were Her

Chapter 10

Iris followed Marissa down the crowded corridor, notebook clutched under her arm. Students streamed past in a constant shuffle, some talking animatedly, others lost in schedules and phones. Marissa walked beside her with a natural ease, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, gesturing at the different classrooms as she talked.

She had shoulder-length chestnut hair that curled slightly at the ends, brushing her collarbone as she moved. Her hazel eyes were bright, quick to catch light, scanning the world like she was cataloging every detail at once. Lean and athletic, she carried herself as if motion itself was effortless, and Iris found the energy oddly comforting. There was a warmth to her smile, a casual openness that didn’t demand conversation but welcomed it if it came.

“I think this building has three labs for our course,” Marissa said, spinning slightly to gesture at the hallway.

“One’s usually open for practice after class, but they fill fast.”

Iris nodded, letting Marissa’s words float around her without forcing herself to speak. The chatter acted like a quiet current she could follow without effort, and she appreciated that the girl didn’t mind when she stayed silent.

Later, Iris noticed a small stack of flyers tacked near the main office. One mentioned volunteer opportunities at the teaching hospital. Impulsively, she tugged gently at Marissa’s sleeve.

“Do you know if students can volunteer there? Like… student nurses?” she asked quietly.

Marissa’s hazel eyes flicked to the board. “Yeah, I think so. You could ask one of the lecturers—they handle the forms.”

Iris nodded and walked toward the lecturer’s office she had met briefly last week. “Excuse me,” she said softly, voice measured. “I wanted to ask about volunteering as a student nurse.”

The lecturer looked up, smiling warmly. “Absolutely. We have spots for student nurses and volunteers. I can give you the forms now; once processed, you’ll be informed of your schedule and assignments.” She handed Iris a clipboard, neatly arranged with papers and instructions. “Take your time filling these out.”

Iris set to work carefully, enjoying the precise steps of the process. She appreciated the control, the structure. Marissa lingered nearby, still chatting about lab stations and professors’ quirks, but she didn’t push, didn’t need Iris to respond. Iris liked that. The girl’s presence was energizing, not demanding.

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Thomas leaned back in a low armchair in the dim apartment, coffee cooling beside him. The faint scent of someone else lingered—familiar perfume, the soft order of someone else’s home. He pressed his palms to his face, trying to suppress the nausea of his own thoughts.

Two weeks after Vivian returned from Los Angeles with only Ava—after Iris had vanished under her watch—he had begun seeing her. His mistress. She had been the one keeping him sane, steady, when everything at home had collapsed into blame, panic, and guilt. And now, sitting here, he hated the situation. Hated what he had done. Hated himself. Hated Vivian, in a controlled, simmering way, for letting the impossible happen under her care.

He forced himself to think of nothing—forced himself to suppress the sharp disgust he felt toward her, toward the circumstances, even toward Iris, who had somehow slipped through the cracks. Every time he thought of it, bile rose in his throat. How could the life he had worked to maintain spiral so completely?

He rubbed his temples, trying to quiet the clamor of guilt, desire, and shame. He knew he couldn’t let this affair intersect with the girls, couldn’t let it infect their lives further. Yet the pull of what had begun as relief—someone to stabilize him when everything collapsed—was undeniable. He pressed his hands over his face again.

The apartment remained silent except for the low hum of the heater, and Thomas stared at nothing, trying to convince himself that he could stop hating everything while remaining tethered to a secret that had no name

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Ethan sat on the edge of his bed, phone forgotten in his lap. A loud, high-pitched scream came from the living room, followed by the harsh rattle of the TV remote. He froze.

He bolted from his room and found his mother hunched forward on the couch, eyes wide, hands gripping the armrests. The TV blared a news report, flashing images of some disaster, the anchors’ urgent voices cutting through the room. She was yelling at the screen, incoherent words spilling out, her trembling hands slapping at the air.

“Mom… it’s okay,” Ethan said, voice shaking as he moved closer. “It’s just the TV. You’re safe.”

She flinched but didn’t stop, her breathing fast and uneven. “They… they’re… they’re killing people! How can they…!” Her words dissolved into sobs, and her body shook.

Ethan felt panic rise like a tide. His chest tightened, stomach twisting. He tried to reach her, to steady the blanket around her shoulders, to anchor her in the room, but she shivered and recoiled from him. His hands trembled as he whispered, “I’ve got you… I’ve got you, it’s okay…”

Before he could do more, the front door slammed. His father strode in, face hard, eyes flicking between Ethan and his mother like he was taking attendance at some failure.

“What is happening in here?” His voice was sharp, cutting, leaving no space for explanation.

Ethan swallowed hard. “She… she just got scared by the news,” he said, voice tight. “I… I was helping…”

His father’s glare landed on him. “Clearly,” he said, distaste dripping from the word. “Unbelievable.”

Ethan’s hands clenched into fists. The weight of responsibility, panic, and fear pressed down on him like a physical force. The TV’s chaotic images, his mother’s trembling, his father’s scorn—it all collided, leaving him dizzy and frayed at the edges.

Exactly how long could he take this?