Alyssa ♔
_______________

I shouldn't have messaged him.

Things are complicated enough without me cryptically contacting Max out of the blue, but I couldn't help it. This week has been one of my hardest. Between school, work, and consoling my mother through heartbreak, there hasn't been a second to think, let alone remember that Dad didn't just leave Mom, but me too.

Now, I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, having to be brave for the both of us, but tonight, it got to be too much. I found myself in bed, the darkness enveloping me as I strained my ears for any hint of footsteps outside, and I reached for my phone without thinking.

Maybe that makes me an idiot. Perhaps I'll wake up tomorrow and say what was I thinking, but right now, I don't care. If there is one person that can make me feel safe right now, it's Max. It's always been Max.

My phone lights up on the bedside table. A message appears, and my heart jumps like it always does when I see his name on my screen. Even after all this time, he's the only one who can make me feel that way.

Uber canceled on me. Be there as soon as I can.

I reply and put my phone down. It's this side of Max I miss the most. No hesitation, no questions. The second he thought I needed him, he dropped everything for me. That's why, despite everything, I still love him; I just don't know what to do about it.

I sigh and hook my slip behind my head, staring ahead. On the wall opposite is the only valuable possession still in this house – a vintage angel painting bought at auction for four hundred thousand dollars. My mother had hidden it in the guest room last week, and when I'd stumbled upon it while checking the house, she'd looked away sheepishly.

"I wanted to hold something back for you in case you needed it," she said quietly. "College tuition, or your own place, or whatever."

I'd just stared at her, surprised she'd choose my future over self-preservation. While the painting's worth didn't make up the total amount owed to Justin's Dad, handing it over would have helped her to sleep better at night, but she didn't.

"I'm sorry," she said when I said nothing. "I know none of this is your fault, yet you suffer the consequences more than any of us." She looked away, eyes darkened with the same hint of guilt I'd seen all week. She clearly thought she'd ruined our lives by giving all our things away; I think she saved them.

After that, I'd moved the painting into my room, as though it being here somehow made it safer. I could watch over it, keep it away if Justin's dad broke in as payback. And strangely enough, waking up to it watching over me offers me some semblance of safety. 

I turn to the window, waiting for the comforting sound of Max's car. My breath hitches at every creak, every rustle, each sound amplified in the quiet of our empty house. I check the security cameras for the fiftieth time, the ones out front and back, before realizing I'm being stupid.

This is what guys like Justin and his dad want. They want us scared of every shadow, wondering if tonight's the night they exact their revenge, and I'm sick of it. I didn't stand up to Justin just to be controlled by his dad, and I didn't turn my life upside down so I could spend it afraid. I'm no longer the old Alyssa. No longer that girl too comfortable in her sadness to try changing her future. I'm stronger.

As if I need reminding further, I reach under my bed and retrieve my scrapbook. I'm not too proud to admit I had an unhealthy scrapbooking obsession last year. Armed with the Polaroid camera my dad bought me for my birthday, I took thousands of what I thought were artsy photos – courtesy of my retro phase – and stuck them in a rose-scented scrapbook to showcase the perfect teenage life.

The only problem is that not a single photo in this scrapbook is real. Every outfit and location was carefully selected – sometimes days in advance – to fit the perfect Alyssa aesthetic. To make life seem better. In a way, I was so depressed with my home life that scrapbooking became my way of controlling the narrative and convincing myself everything was perfect. I was perfect.

That's why it's hard to revisit them. I look at these pictures, the girl on the back of Justin's Jeep, her arm around his shoulder, smiling up at him, and my heart breaks for her. I know she was straining to put on that smile, that she had practiced the angle for the photo well in advance to capture her best side. I know she took this shot six times before being satisfied with the result.

Other shots show beach trips or drives to Palm Springs. Some of them are even of Marnie and me smiling or laughing directly into the camera, pretending to be candid and happy when it was the opposite, which shows how deceiving a picture can be.

I flick through more pages. Sometimes, in all the chaos, I forget how far I've come since the girl in this scrapbook, and looking at these pictures makes me feel so much better. If the past version of me could make it here, to this present, then the present me can make it to the future. I know it.

When I reach the end, I put down the scrapbook and close my eyes, working on breathing as I think of Saturday's fight. Part of me doesn't feel ready, like maybe I'm just fooling myself, but Maddie says that's normal, so I'm choosing to believe her. I'm choosing to believe in myself.

I'm still staring out the window, waiting for Max, when a faint clank sounds from the direction of the kitchen. I sit up in bed, angling my ear toward the door. Nothing else follows, no voices or footsteps, just my heavy-set breathing.

Self-preservation screams at me to stay where I am, but I don't. With a shaky exhale, I slide out of bed, and my bare feet touch the cool floor. The floorboards groan slightly in protest as I stand, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. I move cautiously, feeling my way through the darkness.

My steps are measured and soft, the echoes barely audible against the emptiness. I gently open the door to my mother's room. She's sound asleep, her hair spread across the pillow in the dim room, her chest rising and falling quietly in the stillness. Carefully, I close the door again, not wanting to startle her.

I tiptoe down the stairs toward the kitchen. My hand finds the doorknob, and with a slow turn, I push the door open. The room is cloaked in shadows, with only a strip of moonlight across the marble tiles to offer light. My breath hitches as I scan the room, listening for the faintest rustle. If someone is here, turning on the lights would alert them to my presence, and that's the last thing I want.

I wait for another moment. Satisfied that there's no immediate threat, I move through the kitchen and check each room on the ground floor. I venture further, the hallway leading to the study and the pantry. Every empty space reminds me how much life has changed, but it's a good thing despite the fact that I'm creeping around. This house never felt like home, even with all the furniture and paintings. Its starkness now is almost a relief.

I slip through the patio door and into the night air. The moon casts a silvery glow, casting eerie shadows that dance on the ground. My breath mingles with the soft rustle of leaves, quick, timed beats. If I were watching a horror, I'd be rolling my eyes at how stupid I'm being for investigating strange noises, but this isn't a horror; this is my life, and I refuse to let monsters control me – especially ones as entitled as Justin and his dad.

As I circle back, my pulse quickens. The house looms in front of me, a specter in the night. I slip back inside, closing the door behind me with a gentle click. Maybe I'm just projecting. I could be so scared about my fight that my brain has conjured some other fear to focus on. Maybe I'm being paranoid.

I start to leave the kitchen and head for the hallway when instinct makes me pause. Turning back, a sense of unease prickles at my neck. The air seems charged with something unfamiliar. I pivot slowly, my breath catching in my throat as I gaze upon a towering figure at the end of the hallway.

Fear coils in my chest as my eyes lock onto the imposing figure before me. It's as if the shadows themselves have taken form, casting an eerie silhouette that towers above me. I stumble back, my pulse pounding in my temples. It's Max. It's got to be Max. But even as I think it, I know from the twisting gut feeling in my stomach that it's a lie. It's not Max.

In one smooth motion, the figure raises his arm, the gun in his hand gleaming under the moonlight. And under the hood raised over his eyes, I catch sight of his face.

A/N

Comment a heart if you're ready for the next chapter! ❤️

P.S. I was recently lucky enough to partner with Crocs for their new writing contest and would super appreciate it if you could head to my profile and read/comment on the story I wrote. It's a teen romance called 'Say Something' and features shy girl Hallie trapped in a basement with her handsome quarterback crush 👀