This place is a thunderstorm of music and an electrifying lightning storm of disco lights.

It's impossible to ignore the last time I've been to a party like this... to any party. The speakers' bass vibrates the floors, light pendants, and even my being. It's in my chest and brain. All the emotions rush in as I purse my lips and make mindful movements through the crowd. I don't know how long I can keep my anxieties at bay. I put my hand over my wrist, forgetting that I'm no longer wearing the charm bracelet. Regardless, I tighten my grip around it.

There aren't any adults in sight, explaining the red SOLO cups, club dancing, and making out against walls. My eyes focus on subjects farther up ahead rather than what's close. Every time someone bumps into me, I flinch, and my heart skips.

I squeeze between bodies to find Delilah. Maybe she didn't come.

The music gets louder—if that's possible—when I enter the room it's coming from, and there're even more people in it. I don't know how there're this many teenagers in Storybrooke. I haven't seen many while I've been here. Is it crazy to think that every teenager in town is present?

"Yo! Turn down the music! Sheriff Swan's already been here once," a guy yells at the kid in charge of the jams.

"That doesn't surprise me," I say to myself.

I head upstairs, where the rest of the party is.

Seriously! How many teens are in Storybrooke? It's absurd. I don't think there are enough adults in town to have produced them all. Unless these kids are from out of town. But that wouldn't be the case based on what Delilah said.

Why am I still believing what she said? She sabotaged my town meeting. She ruined my chances of finding my parents. She sucks as a friend.

I enter the landing on the second floor, which has a large bookcase on two opposing walls. People dance around while some sit on the benches attached to the bookshelf units. A double French door at the back of the room is open wide, leading out to a balcony.

I can recognize that head of blonde hair anywhere.

"You. I need to talk to you," I say tensely.

She turns around. "Bella?" she says with glee. "I thought you weren't coming."

"I wasn't until I found out you sabotaged my meeting."

Delilah's cheery countenance goes away, and her eyes widen. "Who told you?"

"Does it matter? Why the fuck would you do that?"

"I am so, so sorry, but I was only trying to protect you."

"From what? Happiness?"

"Your parents... It's a long story. One I don't think you'd like to hear."

"You ruined my chances of finding them. They could've shown up, but you canceled it!"

She yells back, "Henry's insane for—"

"For what?"

"For—"

"Heads up!" a guy shouts, and a football nails Delilah in the head.

She falls off the balcony.

"Delilah!" I grab her wrist, just below her bracelet. My other hand grips the railing for support.

"Don't let go!" Her eyes flood with tears, and her face flushes bright red.

"I'm not letting you go."

The people below shout and stare up in fright.

My arm strains from her weight and gravity pulling me down. I push against the railing to keep myself from falling over, too.

"Bella, you have to pull me up."

I grunt, trying. "I don't think I can. I'm not strong enough."

"You have to. Please."

My foot slips closer to the edge, and my arm lowers her.

She screams.

"I got you." I try pulling her up with one hand. She's too heavy. "Come on!"

The railing squeaks as it bends forward. I let go of it.

Delilah's other arm shoots up, and I grab it.

"I'm sorry," she cries.

"Stop. Don't you dare apologize right now," I say, the words strangled.

"I don't want to die."

"Who says you're gonna die?"

I arch my back and try to pull her up with both hands. My chest pushes into the railing, straining my muscles. My feet press against the floor to create friction, and my arms feel like they're about to rip off.

I don't know how—maybe through divine intervention—but I lift Delilah enough for her to put a foot on the edge of the balcony. Once she gets her footing, she pushes up and puts her other foot within another gap in the barrier. We hold on to each other while I help her over it. When she's safe, she tightens her arms around me and sobs. I do, too. I almost lost another friend. I do have a friend.

Delilah is my friend.

Who cares why she sabotaged my meeting? She must have a good reason, but I don't care anymore. I don't want to hear it. I just want to hug my friend.

"Thank you," she croaks.

"You're my friend," I say into her hair. Her safe, curly, honey hair.

When we release each other, we wipe our tears and the strands stuck to our faces, smearing streams of mascara across our cheeks. We smile, but then I turn, wanting to give everyone a piece of my mind.

"To all you bystanders, thank you so much for your help. My arms appreciate it."

Delilah gives a throaty little laugh and wraps a soothing arm around my shoulders. "Lasagna at Granny's?"

I put a hand out toward the doors. "Lead the way."

* * *

I close the door to the apartment as quietly as possible to not wake anyone up. And Delilah wasn't kidding when she said Granny's lasagna is the best. It most certainly was. It's nice to have real food for a while. Granny's, Mary Margaret's, the café—chef's kiss.

Before going to my room, I notice something new on the dining table. I turn on a light and find that it's Henry's storybook. I sit and open it up, intrigued by what everyone, including Henry himself, said about it.

It's detailed, like an old antique. He could've gotten this at a thrift store nearby. Or a yard sale. Though, it's too beautiful and enchanting for anyone to throw away.

I scoot in my chair and lean closer to get a better perspective of the pages.

I've flipped to a page with Snow White and Prince Charming hugging each other on their wedding day, but their eyes are full of worry. I pull the book closer to me while I scan the words and inspect the image. The figures in the drawing look like people I know.

The same black hair and pale skin on the woman.

The same dark blonde hair on the man.

I know them.

They're in this apartment.

Mary Margaret and David.

No... way. Coincidence?

I flip a few pages and land on one with the Evil Queen, standing in front of a vault.

I'd recognize that scowl anywhere.

Regina.

Time disappears, and I swipe a hand across my forehead. I scratch my nose. Then, my chin, and then my cheeks. Everything tingles and itches. My body shifts around in my seat, and not one position is comfortable.

I continue flipping pages as my breathing and swallowing accelerate.

There are pictures of Red Riding Hood—Ruby, Grumpy—Leroy, Jiminy Cricket—who I saw around town a few times walking his Dalmatian, and many others, like Belle and Granny.

I turn and turn, almost ripping a page or two.

Then, I stop.

I hover my face over the page, my hands on either side of the book.

This can't be.

It's a girl with two ginger braids, wearing a magenta cloak, a black corset, and a blue skirt with a huge smile on her face.

My stomach knots up, and my chest becomes tight. My breathing grows more unsteady, and I almost jump from my chair to puke in the toilet.

My head shakes.

I don't believe this.

The world spins.

My body wants to faint, but it stiffens instead.

"That's me."

A force of bright energy shoots from the book, knocking me hard off the chair, which comes crashing down with me. The power sends me sliding across the floor, and my back slams into the cast iron loft stairs.

David, Mary Margaret, and Emma rush over in their pajamas.

"What's going on?" Emma says to her parents at the bottom of the steps.

"Bella?" Mary Margaret says, gaping down at me sprawled on the floor.

I prop myself up on my elbows. Henry stands in front of the bathroom, staring at me.

I get on my feet, still breath-taken. "Did you see that? What the hell was that?"

"You believed. For a split-second, you believed." He's bouncing with joy.

"What are you talking about?" David asks, concerned.

"Bella was going through my book and believed. It shot magic at her."

"Seriously, Henry? Are you sure this place isn't haunted? Maybe it was a ghost," I say.

"So, you didn't believe in magic, but you believe in the paranormal?"

"'Cause that's real."

"Do you remember anything?" Mary Margaret says, her face searching mine.

"No. Quit asking." I pick up the chair with difficulty from my injury. "It's getting old," I say, strained.

"You're almost there. It's already happening," Henry says.

"For someone kidnapped and held hostage in another realm, you sure are lively."

"What did you say?" he asks, teasing.

"What do you mean?"

"You believe Pan kidnapped me and brought me to Neverland?"

"No, but it's what you all keep saying. That doesn't mean I believe it."

"Whatever, Bella."

"Wait a second. Aren't you grounded?"

"I am. But it's Emma's turn to look after me, so I get to sleep here."

"It's true. Even though Regina isn't much of a fan of that idea," Emma says, stepping off the stairs.

"He can still be here if he's grounded?" I ask.

"Yeah. Night." Henry walks by me and goes up the stairs.

"Are you okay?" Emma says, her voice laced with concern.

"I'm fine. I didn't mean to wake you all up. I don't know what happened."

"Were you out all night?" Emma folds her arms.

"I might have been," I say, shrugging.

"Where?" She wears the same expression she had when she put me in jail—the same one she has when she scolds Henry and argues with Regina.

"At a party with Delilah."

"That one?"

"Unless you happen to know other teenage parties in the vicinity."

"I hate those parties. I'm always called to quiet 'em down." She drops her arms.

"I'll go next time. I don't mind telling a couple of kids to quiet it down," David says, oblivious to what he's agreeing to.

"It's not just a couple of kids. You'd be surprised."

"I was," I say with a soft laugh.

"No offense, but you'd be too shell-shocked to tell them anything other than 'Have fun.'"

I smile and turn to Mary Margaret and David. "Good night, guys."

"Good night," Mary Margaret says, guiding David by the arm back to their bed below the loft.

"I could tell kids to keep it down," he tells her on the way.

"I know."

Emma and I look at each other for a couple of seconds before it starts to get awkward. I break the eye contact, and she's still staring at me when I look back.

"Yes?" I say.

"You didn't drink, did you?" she asks with a straight, downturned face.

"Of course not," I say, offended by the accusation. "I never have."

"Smoke weed?"

"No. I've never done that, either."

It seems as though she wants to interrogate me further, but she says, "Good night."

"Thanks. You, too."

She goes up to the loft, and I turn off the light.

Instead of going to my room, I ease myself on a chair that's a reasonable distance from Henry's book. I'm sure there's a scientific explanation for what happened, though it's probably too scientific for me to comprehend. It could've been an angry ghost. Maybe I sat on him. Or it could've been an earthquake... that only I experienced. Or the chair was unstable and tipped over. See? There are a bunch of reasons that could explain what happened to me. There's no such thing as magic.

I eye the book and wonder why Henry didn't take it up to the loft with him. He always brings it with him. Did he expect me to look through it again? Like I would really do that!

I stare at it a little more... I need help.