Wolves don’t cry
532 Words
The bruises bloom purple by morning.
They trace down my spine like a map to hell. I stare at them in the mirror, angling my body just enough to catch the light, and I wonder how many times I’ve looked at myself and not recognized the girl staring back.
I cover them, of course. Hoodie, jeans, sleeves pulled so far down they hide my hands. That’s the trick: stay covered, stay quiet, stay invisible. If no one sees the truth, then no one has to care about it.
Not that they would.
At school, no one asks questions. Not the teachers, not the students, not the counselors. I’m just Ivy Monroe—awkward, quiet, strange. The girl who never shifts. The girl without a wolf.
There’s a cruel sort of comfort in their ignorance.
“Still haven’t shifted?” someone murmurs near my locker, loud enough to hurt, quiet enough to deny. I don’t turn around. I don’t give them the satisfaction. But the words sink into my skin like splinters.
The worst part? They’re not wrong.
I’m seventeen. I should’ve shifted years ago. Every full moon is another reminder that I’m not like them. That something inside me is broken. Or gone.
And if your wolf doesn’t show by eighteen... it never will.
That’s what they say. That’s what he tells me every time he slams the door and mutters about how I’m a waste of space.
But lately—something’s been different. There’s a pressure under my skin, like something coiled too tight. A thrum in my veins that doesn’t feel like fear, or pain, or numbness.
It feels alive.
That night, I dream again.
It’s always the same place. A vast void lit by silver stars and a forest that isn’t real but feels more like home than any place I’ve ever known. The trees are tall, ancient, dripping in moonlight. And he’s there—always.
Watching.
I can never see his face. Just his eyes. Silver, molten, terrifying. Not because they promise harm—but because they promise change.
He doesn’t speak. But I feel him.
Like gravity.
Tonight, something’s different. He steps forward, and the shadows cling to him like a second skin. He lifts his hand—just barely—and I feel it like a pull in my chest, like a whisper against my ribs.
I don’t move.
But my soul does.
It reaches for him.
And for the briefest second, I swear I hear something in my head. A growl. Low, guttural, ancient.
Mine.
I wake up gasping.
My hands shake. My chest rises and falls like I’ve run miles, and I swear the air around me feels heavier—thicker. Like the dream followed me back.
I scramble out of bed and stumble to the window, half-expecting to see him standing in the shadows.
There’s nothing. Just the quiet, just the cold. Just the familiar hum of loneliness.
But I’m not alone. Not really.
Something’s changing.
My wolf—if she’s real—she’s waking up.
And whoever he is... he’s real too.
I can feel it.
He’s coming for me.
And when he does, I won’t be the same girl he finds.
- Writer
