THE HUNGER THAT WOULDN'T DIE
495 Words
Elara barely made it through the door of her apartment before she collapsed against the wall, chest heaving.
The moment she shut the door, she locked it. Once. Twice. Three times.
Not that it would help.
If Tristan was real—if he was what she thought he was—a locked door wouldn’t keep him out.
Her hands trembled as she flicked on the lights. The familiar sight of her cluttered apartment—unwashed coffee mugs, a half-folded blanket on the couch, her laptop blinking on the desk—should have comforted her.
But it didn’t.
Because something was wrong.
The air felt… charged.
Like someone else had been here.
Her pulse quickened as she took slow, deliberate steps toward the kitchen. The silence was too thick, too unnatural. She grabbed the nearest thing she could use as a weapon—a kitchen knife—before inching forward.
Then, she saw it.
A single black rose resting on the counter.
A drop of red clung to one of its petals.
Blood.
Her stomach twisted.
She hadn’t put that there.
A gust of wind rattled the window, and the lights above flickered.
She whirled around—expecting to see him. Expecting to hear his voice curling through the shadows.
But there was nothing.
Just the whisper of her own breath.
Still, the message was clear.
He had been here.
And he wanted her to know it.
---
Elara didn’t sleep that night.
She paced her apartment until sunrise, mind racing.
Was she losing her mind?
Or had Tristan really been in her home, leaving that black rose as a reminder?
As a warning?
By the time the morning sun cut through the blinds, she had made a decision.
She couldn’t just sit here and wait for answers.
She had to find them herself.
---
The university library was nearly empty when she arrived.
Rows of books stretched into the dim-lit silence, the air thick with the scent of old paper.
Elara moved with purpose, scanning the shelves.
Vampire myths.
Legends of the Blood Moon.
Ancient curses.
She grabbed anything that looked remotely useful and dropped them onto the nearest table.
Then, she started reading.
Page after page of whispered folklore, cryptic texts, and forgotten history.
But one passage made her breath catch.
"The cursed ones are bound by the cycle of the Blood Moon."
"Once marked, they are forever tied—soul to soul, hunger to hunger."
"A thirst that will never die."
Elara’s fingers trembled as she traced the words.
It sounded exactly like what was happening to her.
Like what he had said.
Her stomach clenched as the hunger inside her stirred again, sharper this time.
She was changing.
And there was no stopping it.
A shiver ran down her spine.
Because if the book was right—if she really was marked—
Then she already belonged to him.
No matter how hard she fought it.
No matter how far she ran.
- Writer
