A young New Yorker finds himself in over his head after finding a symbiote that changes him in unexpected ways.

Chapter 3 Just the essentials.

The morning light feels like it’s mocking me.

It bleeds through the curtains, bright and gold and unrelenting—like the world doesn’t care what happened to me, what changed, what broke. Like it expects me to get up and deal with it.

I groan and shove my face deeper into the pillow, half hoping I’ll just sink into the mattress and vanish.

“I don’t want to be awake…”

My voice is muffled, small.

I don’t want to get dressed.

I don’t want to go shopping.

I don’t want to pick out girl clothes, try on bras, fake-smile while my mom says something like ‘you look so cute!’

I just want to go back to sleep.

I just want to wake up and be me again.

Not this body.

The weight on my chest rises and falls with every breath—unavoidable. Real. Still there. Just like yesterday.

Just like the thing inside me.

Still silent.

Still watching.

I sigh into the sheets, quietly defeated.

There’s no undo button.

No way out.

Just forward.

Even if I have no idea who I’m stepping forward as.

I stay there a moment longer, face buried in the pillow, then roll onto my back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

My voice comes out rough, dry from sleep and frustration.

“Alright. I know you can hear me.”

Nothing stirs. No words. No ripple of presence.

But it’s there.

I feel it.

“You’ve been quiet. Too quiet. And I think I deserve some answers.”

Still silence.

I keep going, voice growing sharper.

“Why me? Of all people, why did you latch onto me? Was it random? Was I just… there? Were you looking for something? Someone?”

No answer.

“Why did you change me?” My voice cracks. “Why this body? Why that dream? You controlled me. You moved me like I was just a puppet in my own skin.”

My chest tightens, rage and confusion twisting up together.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose this.”

Then, soft.

“Just tell me what you want.”

The silence holds for a second longer.

Then the hum shifts—low and deep, like it’s rising from within, wrapping around my spine, my breath, my voice.

“We did not mean to harm you.”

“You were… compatible.”

I swallow hard, my hands curling into the sheets.

“Compatible for what?”

A pause.

Then:

“To survive.”

“To bond.”

The words settle in my chest, heavy and cold.

“To escape.”

“To be free.”

I sit up, fists clenched in the blanket, heart pounding.

I grit my teeth.

“I don’t know what they did to you in there,” I say, voice shaking. “And maybe it was bad. Maybe it was horrible.”

I draw in a ragged breath, throat tight.

“But that doesn’t give you the right to do this.”

The words burn on the way out.

“Not by a long shot.”

There’s no immediate response—just that hum again, low and sad, almost like it’s curling up on itself.

I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them up to my chest.

I’m not sure if I’m trying to protect myself from it.

Or from the part of me that almost—almost—feels sorry for it.

The voice returns—gentler this time, threaded with something that almost sounds like regret.

“I apologize for not giving you a choice.”

I tense, jaw tightening.

“There was no time. They would have destroyed us. We cannot communicate without a host.”

It was running away.

And I was just the one who got in the way.

I exhale slowly, eyes stinging—not from tears, not yet. But from the weight of it all.

“I didn’t have a choice either,” I say, barely above a whisper. “You didn’t ask. You just… took me.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut so tightly it hurts.

“I can’t believe I’m feeling sorry for this thing…”

The hum stirs—sharper now. Not angry. Just… insistent.

“We are not a thing.”

I let out a long, frustrated sigh and drop my hand into my lap. My fingers curl into the blanket without me thinking.

“Fine,” I mutter, exhausted. “Fine. You’re not a thing.”

I sit there for a long moment, breathing slow, trying to sort through the chaos in my head. Trying to find something solid to stand on.

“Okay…” I finally say, my voice low, almost resigned. “I get it. You used me to escape. I was just… there.”

“But why did you change me?” My voice cuts sharper now, slicing through the fragile quiet. “Why this body?”

The silence stretches long enough that my stomach twists.

Then—

“We adapted to you.”

Another pause. A heavier one.

“Your form choice… was not intentional.”

I sit there, staring at nothing, the words rattling around in my head.

Not intentional.

It doesn’t make sense.

None of this does.

I press my palm against my forehead, trying to push the headache out before it really starts.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I mutter aloud.

“Either it was what you wanted… or something from our previous host.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the sting behind my eyes.

“It definitely wasn’t what I wanted,” I snap.

The presence seems to pull back slightly, not hurt, just… cautious.

I squeeze my hands into fists.

“What do you mean by previous host?” I ask, voice sharper than before. “Did they—?”

“Yes.”

The word is simple. Heavy. Final.

“In the lab.”

I stare at the far wall, blood rushing in my ears.

Whatever they did to this thing—to us…

I shudder.

“So what,” I whisper, “I’m just… leftovers from someone else?”

It doesn’t answer.

My chest feels tight, tighter than before, like every breath is dragging broken glass through my lungs.

I grit my teeth and push forward anyway.

“What did they do?” I demand. “What were they trying to do? What was the goal?”

The hum shivers inside me—a ripple of something painful, almost like fear.

“We don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

I blink, stunned.

“What?” I say, sitting up straighter, anger flashing through the fog. “You’re just gonna ignore me?”

No response.

Just a low, dull presence curling inward—retreating into itself.

Like a door slammed shut in my face.

“You don’t get to shut me out!” I snap, standing up now, pacing without thinking. “You did this to me! You owe me answers!”

Still nothing.

The hum stays there, heavy and closed-off, refusing to budge.

I run a hand through my hair, heart pounding in frustration and helplessness.

“Fine,” I hiss under my breath. “Be that way.”

I stare at the door, jaw clenched.

“Okay, fine,” I mutter, fists clenched at my sides. “You don’t want to talk about them anymore, whatever. But can you at least—at least—change me back?”

For a second, it’s quiet. Like it’s thinking.

“No.”

I blink.

“…No?” I repeat, voice cracking.

“No.”

I feel the words sink into my chest like a blade.

“What do you mean no?” My voice rises, desperate and shaking. “You’re in my body—you changed it—me! You’re telling me you can’t just… fix it?!”

The hum inside me shifts, slow and solemn.

“We cannot change you. The bond has already become permanent. Further alterations are impossible.”

I stumble back a step, like the air’s been punched out of me.

Permanent.

The word echoes, sharp and brutal.

“You mean we can’t separate?! I’m stuck like this?!” My heart’s hammering so hard I can barely breathe.

The answer comes, slow and cold.

“Unless one of us dies.”

“Which is unlikely to not kill us both.”

I stagger back onto the bed, my knees giving out, the weight of it crashing down all at once.

Permanent.

No going back.

No fixing this.

This is me now.

Whether I want it or not.

My hands are shaking.

I clench them into fists, digging my nails into my palms, just to feel something real.

I can’t trust it.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

It could be lying. I don’t know anything about it. Nothing except the pieces it lets slip. Nothing except the dream—the control—the change.

“You can trust me,” it says, voice slipping into my thoughts like a whisper under my skin.

I grit my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut.

“I’m trying to think,” I hiss under my breath. “Please. Leave me alone.”

As it does the more the silence grows, the darker my thoughts get.

What if I really am stuck like this?

Not just a girl.

Not just Elisa at school.

But stuck with it.

With the symbiote.

What if it decides to take over? What if it gets angry? What if I can’t stop it when it wants something?

What if it makes me hurt people?

I pull my knees up to my chest again, curling into myself on the bed like I can hide from my own body.

“My life sucks,” I whisper into the empty room.

Knock knock.

I flinch at the sound, my whole body tensing like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. I scrub a hand over my face, trying to erase the red in my eyes, the way my chest still feels too tight.

“Arin?” Mom’s voice filters through the door—soft, careful. “You up?”

I sit there for a second, frozen, trying to figure out if I can even pretend to be okay.

My voice comes out rough when I finally answer. “Yeah.”

Another small pause. She’s probably listening, trying to hear if I really meant it.

“We should get going soon,” she says. “Before the stores get crowded.”

I look down at myself—at this body that doesn’t feel like mine—and swallow the lump in my throat.

“Okay,” I say quietly.

I hear her footsteps retreat down the hall.

I drag myself up off the bed, wiping at my face one last time, shoving everything—panic, fear, anger—down. Burying it.

As soon as I step out of my room, pulling a hoodie tight around myself, Mom’s already waiting in the hall, keys in hand and her serious but trying to be supportive voice ready.

“Later we need to stop by the school,” she says. “Fill out some paperwork, make your new… situation official. You should be able to go in tomorrow.”

I blink at her, deadpan.

“Yippee,” I mutter, dripping sarcasm.

She gives me a soft, understanding look—the kind that almost makes me feel bad for being snarky. Almost.

“I know, honey,” she says. “But it’s gonna be okay.”

I nod stiffly, not really believing it, but I don’t have the energy to argue. “Yeah.”

She adjusts her bag on her shoulder and starts leading us toward the door. “You’ll need to think of a name too,” she adds lightly. “If you need help, I might have a few ideas.”

My stomach twists a little.

“Well, I uh—” I start, words stumbling out half-formed. I can’t exactly tell her I’ve already half-committed to Elisa after a panicked late-night text lie.

I trail off, biting my lip.

I scratch the back of my neck, avoiding her eyes as we head for the door.

“I, uh… I kinda already did,” I mumble. “Not on purpose or anything, but Luca was texting me last night and…”

I trail off, grimacing like the words taste bad in my mouth.

“I was trying to cover for myself and well… I panicked.”

Mom stops, halfway pulling on her jacket, and raises an eyebrow at me.

“And?”

“And,” I mutter, staring very hard at the floor, “I said my cousins name was Elisa.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

Then—mercifully—she laughs. A small, real laugh. Not mocking, not disappointed. Just… tired and fond.

“Elisa,” she repeats, like she’s trying it out. “Could’ve been worse. You could’ve said something like, I don’t know, Bubbles.”

I finally crack the smallest, most reluctant smile. “Yeah, I’m sure that would’ve gone great at school.”

She nudges my shoulder lightly. “Well, Elisa it is, then.”

I nod slowly, feeling a weird twist in my stomach at hearing it said out loud. Elisa. Like it’s been stitched onto me without warning.

Permanent.

Another thing I didn’t ask for.

Elisa.

Me.

God.

“This is going to be a long day,” I mutter under my breath, dragging my feet as I follow her out.

The hallway feels colder than usual. Or maybe it’s just me—aware of every step, every shift of fabric against my frame, every breath of air against skin that still doesn’t feel like mine.

I tuck my hands deep into my hoodie pocket, head down, hoping no one’s around to get a good look at me. Not yet. Not until I figure out how the hell to be like this.

Mom glances back at me, offering a small, encouraging smile.

“We’ll just find a few things to start,” she says, trying to make it sound manageable. “Stuff that fits, that’s comfortable. No pressure.”

I grunt in vague agreement, shuffling toward the stairwell.

Yeah.

No pressure.

Just pretending to be someone I’m not while trying not to completely fall apart in the clearance section of a department store.

No big deal.

The ride over is… weirdly quiet.

The radio is on low—some soft, easy-listening station playing songs I barely recognize—but mom doesn’t say much. She keeps glancing over at me, though, like she’s waiting for me to shatter or explode or just start crying again.

I don’t.

I just stare out the window, watching the city roll by in slow, muted colors. Everything looks the same. Trash on the sidewalk. Taxis honking like they’re allergic to red lights. People bustling by with coffee and umbrellas tucked under their arms.

Normal.

Outside looks normal.

It’s just me that’s wrong.

Mom finally breaks the silence about halfway there.

“You’re doing better than I thought,” she says, keeping her voice light, like she’s afraid if she says it too loud it’ll stop being true.

I shrug, not trusting my voice really.

“I mean it,” she continues. “You’re… dealing.”

Am I?

Because inside, it feels like I’m barely holding the pieces together with duct tape and spite.

I nod anyway. “Thanks.”

We reach the strip mall and come to a stop.

A big, generic department store looms ahead—huge glass windows, discount signs, mannequins in spring clothes even though it’s still freezing out.

“Alright, Elisa,” she says, the name coming easier to her already. “Let’s find you some clothes.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt with the enthusiasm of someone about to get a root canal.

“This is gonna suck,” I mutter.

Mom just smiles sympathetically before paying and stepping out into the cold morning air.

I sit there a second longer, breathing in and out, trying to armor myself up before I follow her.

Mom holds the door open, letting me step into the store first. Warm air blasts over me from the ceiling vents, and the smell of clothes and cheap perfume hits instantly. It’s weird how normal everything feels when nothing inside me does.

She grabs a cart—already way more optimistic than I feel—and nudges it toward the clothing section.

“Let’s start with just some basics,” she says gently. “Enough for a couple weeks. A few pairs of jeans, tops, underthings… you know, enough to get by.”

I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pocket, walking stiffly beside her.

“I don’t know if that’s enough,” I murmur without thinking.

She stops, glancing at me. “What do you mean?”

I pick at the edge of my sleeve, swallowing hard.

“I don’t know if it’s telling the truth,” I say, voice low, barely above the soft hum of pop music playing from the ceiling speakers. “That thing. The symbiote.”

Her face tightens slightly—not fear, just caution. Listening.

I stare at the endless racks of clothes, colors blurring together.

“It said the bond is permanent. That it can’t change me back. That this is just… me now.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just lets it hang there.

I keep my voice steady, even though it feels like it’s shaking inside. “But if it’s lying—if it’s wrong—and there’s a chance, any chance, I could go back someday… then what’s the point of buying all this?”

I clench my fists tighter in the hoodie pocket.

“What’s the point of pretending this is my life now?”

Mom steps closer and rests a hand lightly on my shoulder. Not pulling, not forcing. Just there.

“Because it is your life, Arin,” she says softly. “Even if it’s just for now. Even if it changes tomorrow.”

Her hand squeezes gently.

“We take it one day at a time. We build something you can live in.”

I look down at the scuffed floor.

One day at a time.

I’m not sure if that’s a promise.

Or just survival.

I nod stiffly, not trusting myself to say anything right now, and follow her deeper into the clothing aisles.

The bright fluorescent lights overhead make everything look too clean, too sharp—like there’s no room for hiding anymore. Just endless racks of denim, rows of brightly colored tops, and shelves crammed with shoes way too small and delicate compared to the old loose sneakers on my feet.

Mom steers the cart toward the basics section—plain jeans, simple shirts, hoodies, stuff that doesn’t scream new wardrobe for your sudden unwanted girlhood to anyone paying attention.

She stops at a rack of jeans first and starts flipping through them like this is just a normal Sunday.

“Let’s start simple,” she says, like she’s narrating for herself as much as for me. “Two or three pairs of jeans, some tees, a hoodie, and…”

Her voice trails off a little when she looks at the section labeled Bras & Intimates farther down the aisle.

I pretend not to notice.

Or maybe I’m the one pretending.

I shove my hands deeper into the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, feeling my face burn.

“So,” she says carefully, flipping through a few hangers, “do you wanna pick stuff yourself? Or should I just grab a few options and you can try them on?”

I hesitate.

I don’t want to pick.

I don’t want to choose things for this body like it’s normal. Like I’m fine.

But I also don’t want her holding up outfits and saying, ‘This would look so cute on you!’ like this is some kind of makeover montage.

I swallow hard and mumble, “I’ll… look.”

Mom nods, stepping back a little, giving me space.

I approach the jeans like they might bite me if I move too fast.

Sizes. Cuts. Bootcut, skinny, boyfriend, jeggings—

It’s overwhelming.

I grab a plain pair. Dark wash. Straight leg. Not too flashy.

Safe.

Same with a few T-shirts—solid colors, no logos, soft fabric.

Basic.

Simple.

Uncomplicated.

Mom smiles quietly when I dump them into the cart without looking at her.

“Good start,” she says.

I nod, trying not to think about the fact that this is my life now.

We roll through a few more racks in silence—me tossing a couple more shirts and another pair of jeans into the cart, Mom keeping a respectful distance, like she knows if she hovers I’ll bolt.

For a second, it’s almost bearable. Just clothes. Just fabric.

Just pretending.

But then, like she’s been trying to time it perfectly, Mom glances over at a different section. Slower. More careful.

Her voice is way too casual when she says, “You’re… gonna need some other things, too.”

I freeze, fingers tightening on the cart handle.

Here it comes.

“Things like…” she gestures vaguely toward the back wall, where bras and underwear are hung up in neat little rows, taunting me.

I stare at them like they might bite.

My chest feels tight again, like the air’s been sucked right out of the store.

“I can, uh—” she fumbles a little, clearly trying not to make it worse, “I can help, if you want. Grab a few basics. Something comfortable. You don’t have to go crazy.”

I just stand there, feeling my face burn, wishing I could turn invisible.

“Nothing fancy,” she adds quickly. “Just… stuff that’ll make you comfortable.”

Comfortable.

Like any of this could be comfortable.

I want to tell her no.

I want to say I don’t need it.

But the way the shirt clings to my chest now, the way every breath reminds me that things move differently, feel different—

I know she’s right.

I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pocket, staring hard at the floor.

“…Fine,” I mutter.

She smiles gently. No teasing. No ‘this is so exciting!’ crap. Just a small, understanding nod.

“I’ll be quick,” she says.

I nod again, tighter.

God.

This day’s only getting longer.

Mom wheels the cart a little closer to the quieter part of the section, where there’s less foot traffic and less chance of anyone overhearing the conversation that’s already making my skin crawl.

She glances back at me, giving that careful, I’m-not-trying-to-make-this-worse look again.

“We’re, um…” she clears her throat lightly, awkward even for her, “we’re gonna need to take some measurements.”

My stomach drops straight through the floor.

I tighten my arms around myself instinctively, burying my hands deeper into the sleeves.

Measurements.

Which means acknowledging it.

Every inch that isn’t supposed to be there.

Every curve and dip I’ve been trying to ignore.

I don’t say anything. Just give a tight nod, not trusting my voice.

Mom is quick about it—she’s done this before, probably a hundred times in her job, and she switches into that no-nonsense professional mode she uses when patching up stubborn patients who don’t want to admit they’re bleeding.

She pulls a soft tape measure from her purse—seriously, why does she have everything—and holds it up like it’s just another tool.

“I’ll be fast,” she promises.

I nod again, jaw tight.

I stand there, arms half-raised, feeling everything wrong with this picture as she moves the tape around my bust, my ribs, my hips, murmuring numbers softly under her breath.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

It’s mechanical.

Clinical.

But it still feels like peeling a bandage off skin that’s not mine.

When she finishes, she jots the numbers down in the notes app on her phone and gives me a soft smile. Not pitying. Just… solid. Like she knows how heavy it all is, and she’s willing to carry some of it for me.

“Okay,” she says gently. “Now we can grab what we need and get out of here.”

I exhale shakily, nodding.

One step at a time.

One miserable, necessary step at a time.

We don’t say much after that.

Mom quietly grabs a few simple bras and some basic underwear—no frills, no lace, nothing that screams hey, you’re a girl now! Just… functional. Neutral colors. Safe.

I trail behind her like a ghost, numb.

Before I know it, we’re standing outside the fitting rooms. A bored teenage employee in a red vest waves us toward an open section without even looking up from her phone.

Mom hands me a handful of clothes from the cart.

“Take your time,” she says softly, giving me a tiny squeeze on the arm. “Just see what fits.”

I nod stiffly, feeling the weight of the hangers pressing down on me like a second gravity.

I step into the little cubicle and close the door behind me with a soft click.

The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly. The mirror in front of me is way too big, way too clear.

I stare at my reflection for a long second.

Baggy hoodie. Old gym shorts. Hair a little messy. Face… softer than it used to be. Rounder around the jawline. Lips fuller. Shoulders narrower.

I feel like I’m staring at someone else wearing my clothes.

And now… I’m supposed to dress her, too.

I peel the hoodie off slowly, feeling exposed even though I’m still wearing the oversized T-shirt underneath. I kick off the shorts and stand there awkwardly, clutching the stack of new clothes.

The jeans are first.

Getting them on is a struggle—tighter than I’m used to, cut to fit this body. But once they’re up, they hug my hips in a way that feels… foreign. Not bad, exactly. Just not mine.

I pull on one of the plain T-shirts next.

It fits.

Not loose and boxy like I’m used to.

Fitted. Showing off the curve of my waist. My chest.

I stare at myself, feeling my throat tighten.

This is what everyone else is going to see.

Not Arin.

Elisa.

I sit down hard on the little bench in the fitting room, dropping my head into my hands.

How the hell am I supposed to do this?

I stare down at one of the bras lying across my lap, feeling utterly defeated.

It’s so small in my hands—light, delicate, almost mocking in its normalcy.

I sigh, deep and miserable. “How do I do this?”

I turn it over slowly, like it’s a puzzle I’m supposed to solve without the box.

Hooks in the back.

Straps that feel like they’ll tangle if I even look at them wrong.

Cups shaped for a body that still doesn’t feel like mine.

I bite the inside of my cheek, frustrated. Half of me wants to throw it across the fitting room and stomp out barefoot. The other half knows I can’t. Knows that I have to figure this out if I’m going to survive even one day at school without someone noticing something’s wrong.

I lift it higher, clumsily slip my arms through the straps like it’s some kind of weird backpack—and immediately realize that’s wrong. The band gets stuck around my chest, the cups are in the wrong place, and I almost get tangled trying to twist it behind me.

“God, this is stupid,” I mutter, fighting with the fabric.

I stop, breathing hard, glaring at myself in the mirror.

“This isn’t me,” I whisper.

But the reflection just stares back.

Knock knock.

Mom’s voice floats through the door, soft, careful. “Do you need some help?”

I jerk back from the mirror like she just caught me doing something illegal.

“No!” I bark a little too loud, too fast. I wince immediately at how desperate it sounds.

There’s a small pause outside the door.
“Okay,” she says gently. No pushing. No judgment. Just giving me space.

I blow out a long breath, cheeks burning, and look back down at the stupid bra twisted halfway around me. Gritting my teeth, I fumble with the band, sliding it around properly, reaching behind awkwardly for the hooks.

After a few miserable tries—finally—click.

It fits.

Weird.

Snug.

Not uncomfortable exactly, just… different. Noticeable. Like a light pressure around my chest that wasn’t there before.

I grab the T-shirt I was trying on earlier and yank it down over my head, smoothing it over the bra.

The fabric settles differently now.

Everything feels more real, more… permanent.

I glance up at the mirror hesitantly.

And there she is again.

The girl with long blonde hair.

Soft eyes.

Slim waist.

A faint, unintentional curve to her silhouette now that the clothes actually fit.

Me.

Elisa.

I grip the sides of the bench, breathing slow and shallow.

This is what everyone else is going to see tomorrow.

This is who I have to be.

And no matter how much I hate it, deny it, scream about it—

There’s no going back now.

I pull the T-shirt straight, smoothing it over my stomach, and grab the hoodie again, yanking it on like armor.

I open the fitting room door a crack, poking my head out.

Mom’s waiting just a few steps away, pretending to scroll on her phone but looking up the second she hears me.

“Ok,” I say, voice low and rough, “it all fits. Let’s just get out of here.”

Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. Not at me—never at me. Just at how obviously done I am with this whole nightmare.

But instead of moving toward the registers, she lifts the cart handle and says, way too lightly, “We still need a few more things.”

I groan, slumping against the doorframe.

“You’re killing me.”

She chuckles under her breath. “Basics, honey. You’ll thank me later.”

I drag my feet behind her as we roll back into the aisles.

More underwear. Socks. Shoes. Maybe a second hoodie. Nothing too flashy. Just stuff that fits—stuff I can hide behind while pretending I’m someone who knows how to exist in this body.

Every second feels heavier, but I bite it down and keep moving.

Because if I don’t?

I’m going to break right here in the middle of the women’s department.

And I’m not ready to fall apart yet.

By the time we reach the checkout, the cart’s piled with way more than I thought it would be.

Jeans. Shoes. Tees. Simple hoodies. A few bras and enough socks and underwear to hopefully last without another emergency trip anytime soon.

I keep my head down as Mom chats lightly with the cashier, like this is just any normal shopping trip and not the single most humiliating moment of my life.

The beeping of the scanner feels endless.

When the total flashes on the little screen, I flinch a little, but Mom just pulls out her card without hesitation.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

We grab the bags, arms loaded, and make a beeline for the doors.

The cold air slaps me in the face the second we step outside, but it’s almost a relief.

We load the bags into the trunk in silence.

When I finally collapse into the back seat, I let my head fall back against the headrest with a long, exhausted sigh.

“That was the worst,” I grumble.

Mom just laughs quietly as she gets in. “You did great.”

I snort. “If by ‘great’ you mean ‘didn’t scream or die,’ sure.”

She reaches over and squeezes my hand gently.

“Exactly.”

I’m about two seconds from closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep for the rest of the day when Mom speaks up, glancing over at me with that same gentle, careful tone she’s been using since we left the store bringing me out of my trance.

“We’ve just gotta stop by the school,” she says casually. “Get the paperwork sorted.”

I groan quietly, sliding lower in my seat until the belt digs into my shoulder.

“Of course we do,” I mutter.

“And then,” she adds, like she’s dangling a carrot in front of me, “why don’t we get some lunch? Something good. You deserve it after today.”

I crack one eye open to look at her.

“Bribing me with food now?”

She shrugs, smiling a little. “Hey, it works.”

I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh, dragging myself back upright.

“Fine. But it better be something greasy and unhealthy,” I grumble, folding my arms stubbornly across my chest.

“Deal,” she says, turning onto the road that’ll take us toward Midtown High.

The buildings roll past outside the window, but my stomach knots tighter the closer we get.

The school.

Where I’m going to have to walk in as ‘Elisa.’

Where I’ll have to smile and nod and pretend I’m just another new face.

And not the ghost of someone who used to belong there.

I grip the strap of the seatbelt tighter, trying to hold myself together.

The school comes into view faster than I want it to.

Too fast.

Midtown High—same brick walls, same cracked sidewalks, same faded banners about ‘academic excellence’ drooping over the entrance like limp promises.

Everything’s the same.

Except me.

The taxi slows, pulling into the visitor parking lot.

She doesn’t move right away. Neither do I.

I stare at the entrance, heart pounding, hands sweaty against my jeans.

“You okay?” she asks softly, not looking at me yet. Giving me the choice to answer. Or not.

I shrug a little, staring harder at the windshield.

“No,” I say finally. “Not really.”

She nods like she expected that.

“You don’t have to be,” she says. “Not today. Not tomorrow either, if it takes longer.”

I chew the inside of my cheek, fingers drumming lightly against my leg. “What if I mess it up?” I ask, voice small. “What if I can’t… pretend good enough?”

Mom finally looks at me then—really looks.

“You don’t have to pretend to be someone else, Arin,” she says carefully. “You’re still you. Even if you’re wearing a different name right now.”

I swallow hard. My throat aches.

“You say that,” I whisper, “but it doesn’t feel true.”

She reaches across the seat and squeezes my hand—warm, steady, real.

“It doesn’t have to feel true yet,” she says. “You just have to keep going.”

I squeeze her hand back once—quick, almost embarrassed—then pull away and wipe my palms on my jeans.

“Okay,” I say, voice hoarse.

“Okay,” she echoes, giving me a small smile.

We sit there one more second, both breathing, both bracing.

Time to go in.

Time to become Elisa.

At least… for now.

The doors to Midtown High feel heavier than I remember.

Or maybe it’s just me—weighted down by the clothes that fit too well, the name that doesn’t fit at all, and the gnawing anxiety coiled tight in my stomach.

Mom pushes the door open first, giving me a little nudge with her elbow like you got this, and I drag myself in behind her.

The front office smells like old coffee and paper. Familiar. Stupidly normal. A tired-looking woman in a cardigan and reading glasses sits behind the desk, clicking away on a keyboard that’s seen better decades.

She looks up when the door chimes.

“Hi there,” Mom says in her bright, polite voice—the one she uses when she’s pretending she’s not worried. “We’re here to register my niece. New to the country, living with us for a while.”

The woman smiles automatically, grabbing a clipboard with a stack of forms already clipped to it. She’s definitely done this a thousand times.

“Of course!” she chirps. “Welcome, sweetie.”

I flinch a little at the sweetie but manage a stiff smile.

“Name?” she asks, pen poised.

Mom glances at me, giving me the tiniest nod.

I swallow hard.

“Elisa,” I say, my voice coming out a little rough, a little high. “Elisa Coleman.”

The woman scribbles it down without missing a beat.

“Wonderful! We’ll just need some paperwork—proof of residence, vaccination records if you have them, and of course, we’ll get you a student ID photo scheduled.”

I feel my blood run cold.

Records.

Vaccination history.

Student ID.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

Oh.
Oh no.

We don’t have any of that.

Because I didn’t exist like this two days ago.

Because Elisa Coleman was made up last night in a panic over text messages.

I glance sideways at Mom, wide-eyed. She’s already sliding smoothly into damage control mode, smiling like she’s totally prepared for this.

“We’re still getting her records forwarded from back home,” she says easily. “Might take a few days with the time difference and everything.”

The secretary doesn’t even blink. “That’s fine! Just have them sent to the administration office when you get them.”

She rips off a sheet from the clipboard and hands it over.

“Fill this out, and we’ll get her in the system. We’ll also need a basic health screening form, but we can do that during orientation.”

I take the clipboard with trembling hands.

Mom gives my shoulder a small, reassuring squeeze.

It’s working.

Somehow, it’s working.

At least for now.

But every step, every form, every fake line we fill in—

It’s building a house of cards.

And I have no idea how long it’ll stand.

I scrawl the last fake signature at the bottom of the paperwork, hands aching from how tightly I’ve been gripping the pen. I hand the clipboard back to the secretary with a strained smile, trying not to look too desperate to leave.

Finally.

We’re done.

Mom thanks her, and we start heading for the door, bags still dangling from one hand, my nerves feeling frayed and raw.

Just a few more steps and we’re out of here.

Except—

“Ms. Coleman?”

I freeze.

The voice is familiar. Too familiar. My stomach plummets straight through the floor.

Oh shit.

I turn my head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye.

Luca.

Standing a few feet away in the hallway, a lazy grin on his face, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he’s got all the time in the world.

He doesn’t know.

Of course he doesn’t.

To him, I’m just some new girl he’s supposed to meet.

But still—he’s looking right at me. At me. Expecting something. Expecting someone.

My heart hammers so loud I swear Mom can probably hear it from two steps behind me.

I try to smile.

It probably looks like a grimace.

“H-hi,” I manage, voice too high, too fake.

“This is Luca, one of our student guides,” the secretary say so. “He’s going to help show you around when you start tomorrow.”

Luca grins wider and sticks out a hand.

“Hey, Elisa, right? Welcome to hell.”

He laughs at his own joke.

I just stare at his hand for a second too long before awkwardly shaking it.

His grip is warm. Familiar.

And for one horrible, painful second, all I want to do is tell him the truth.

It’s me. It’s Arin.

But I can’t.

I can’t.

So I just nod stiffly, forcing the smile to stay.

“Thanks,” I croak.

Ok, Mom, come on, I scream in my head, practically vibrating with panic. Say we have to go, please, make up something—anything—get me out of here.

But instead…

Mom smiles that too-bright, too-forced smile and says, “Elisa, this is Luca. He’s a friend of Arin’s.”

No. No, no, no, no—

My breath catches.

Luca’s grin falters just a little, a tiny crease forming between his brows as he glances at me again, maybe noticing the way my whole body stiffens.

Friend of Arin’s.

Friend of me.

I swallow hard, willing my face not to crack.

“Uh, yeah,” Luca says after a second, his voice lighter, covering the weirdness. “Arin and I were… y’know. Lab partners. Physics.”

I nod—too fast, too stiff.

“Right,” I say, my voice way too small, way too wrong.

He doesn’t seem suspicious. Not yet. But his smile is a little more careful now. Like he’s sensing something off and can’t figure out why.

Mom, thankfully, swoops in again.

“We’ve got a few errands to finish,” she says quickly, hand landing lightly on my back. “But I’m sure you’ll see each other around tomorrow.”

I nod again, biting my tongue before anything else stupid can fall out of my mouth.

“Cool,” Luca says, smiling easy again. “See you, Elisa.”

I mumble something that sounds vaguely like see you and practically drag Mom out the door, the cold air slamming into me like a lifeline.

I don’t breathe until we’re back in the taxi.

I practically collapse into the seat, slamming the door shut harder than I mean to.

I sink down, dragging the seatbelt across my lap without even thinking, my body running on autopilot while my mind is just… spiraling.

Oh God.

I press my palms into my face, the world muffled and hot behind my hands.

I couldn’t even handle one conversation.

One.

Barely two minutes of awkward small talk, and I was ready to bolt like a scared animal. If Mom hadn’t stepped in, if Luca had asked one more question—one more—I don’t know what I would’ve done.

Thrown up?

Cried?

Screamed?

Maybe all three at once.

Mom climbs into the seat beside me, but she doesn’t say anything yet. She just gives me a minute, letting me sit there and crumble a little without comment.

The inside of the car feels too small, too full of all the things I can’t say out loud yet.

I dig my fingers into the fabric of my jeans, breathing hard through my nose.

How am I supposed to walk into school tomorrow?

How am I supposed to do this for an entire day?

I’m barely surviving thirty seconds at a time.

I stay slumped against the door, staring out the window like maybe I can just will myself into another universe where none of this ever happened.

Mom’s voice is soft, careful—not the you’re fine tone, not the move on tone. Just… there.

“I know that was hard,” she says quietly. “Especially pretending you didn’t know your friend.”

I don’t answer. My throat feels tight again, and I’m not sure I could get any words out without breaking.

“But it’s going to get better,” she continues. “It really is. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it will.”

I let out a long, shaky breath, feeling the pressure behind my eyes again, hot and miserable.

“I didn’t even say anything right,” I mutter, voice barely a whisper. “I sounded like a total freak.”

“You didn’t,” she says immediately. “You were nervous. Anyone would be. And he didn’t notice anything, Arin. He just thought you were a new girl, not someone he already knew.”

I hug my arms tighter around myself.

New girl.

That word scrapes against my insides in a way I hate. I want to scream that I’m not new. I’m me. I’m still Arin, underneath all this skin and panic and pretending.

But the truth is…

I don’t even know if I believe that anymore.

Mom puts the car in gear, the soft click of it grounding me just a little.

“Come on,” she says, giving me a small, encouraging smile. “Let’s get some lunch. You’ll feel better with something in you.”

I nod slowly, still feeling like a crumpled piece of paper, but grateful anyway.

Lunch.

A break.

A second to breathe.

I need that.

Badly.

End of chapter 3.

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