The classroom buzzed with a quiet, subdued energy—the kind that settled in during the last stretch of the school day, where exhaustion seeped into every corner like a slow-moving fog. The air smelled faintly of old paper and worn-out textbooks, a scent so familiar it wrapped around me like a lullaby I refused to give in to.

I sat in the back, my pen hovering over my notebook, feigning interest as Ms. Daniels dissected The Great Gatsby with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested she'd been waiting all day for this moment. I should've been paying attention. I really should have. But my focus slipped through my grasp like water through cupped hands—impossible to hold for more than a few fleeting seconds.

Predictably, my gaze drifted—to the front of the room.

Jack Carter sat there, golden streaks of afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows, illuminating the sharp angles of his profile. He was relaxed, leaned back in his chair with effortless ease, exuding that same untouchable confidence he always did. And beside him, she laughed—light and melodic, the kind of sound that belonged in a rom-com.

Seriously? Flirting in the middle of class? Is there no sacred ground?

I let out a slow, silent sigh and forced my attention back to my notebook. The words I'd jotted down earlier blurred into an incoherent mess, and my fingers automatically started doodling in the margins—meaningless loops and swirls, a subconscious effort to drown out the irritation bubbling inside me.

Why am I even worried about this? Watching Jack flirt was an endless loop, an inevitable cycle I was stupidly stuck in. This is unhealthy. Maybe I should make an appointment with the school counselor. Get professional tips on how to get over a crush.

Then again... that hair. That ridiculously attractive, unfairly perfect chestnut-brown hair.

I caught myself spiraling and exhaled sharply. Yep. I'm definitely losing it.

A few seats away, Brent Calloway—Jack's ever-present best friend—sat with his usual air of disinterest, nodding along with the lecture just enough to look engaged. Meanwhile, I scrawled nonsense in my notebook, filling the empty spaces with half-hearted notes and mindless doodles, doing anything to distract myself from my own ridiculous thoughts.

Because really—why am I like this? Every time my mind wandered, I ended up daydreaming about Jack. And not even in a cute, rom-com kind of way—more like an involuntary, self-inflicted psychological torment kind of way. Because here's the thing: I knew better. Jack Carter was a walking red flag wrapped in charm, the kind of guy who made falling for him look effortless—right up until the moment he lost interest.

And the worst part? I'd seen it happen before.

Last year, my freshman year, he dated a girl for three months—his longest relationship by far. She was beautiful, popular, the type of girl who fit seamlessly into his world. Then, without so much as a warning, he ended it. No explanation. No second thought. One day, they were together, and the next, she was crying in the hallway while Jack laughed with his friends like nothing had ever happened.

Ever since then, the cycle had repeated. New girl, same ending. Which should be a red flag for me.

That was Jack. A firework—bright, dazzling, and destined to fizzle out the second things got real.

So why was I still here, trapped in the gravity of something I knew was dangerous?

My pen pressed harder against the paper, ink pooling at the tip as if the force alone could shake me out of this ridiculous fixation. I reminded myself: This isn't a love story. This isn't even a crush. It's just—habit. A bad habit of looking at him, of noticing the way he ran a hand through his hair when he was thinking, the way his lips quirked when he was about to say something sarcastic, the way his voice had that just-woke-up rasp first thing in the morning.

God. I needed to get a grip.

Suddenly, Ms. Daniels' voice sliced through my thoughts like a knife.

"Aria, what's your take on Gatsby's pursuit of the American Dream?"

Oh. Oh no.

All eyes turned to me—Jack's, Brent's, the entire class. My brain flatlined.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to sit up straighter even as my heart pounded like it was trying to escape my ribcage. My mind scrambled for something—anything—that wouldn't make me sound like I had just spent the last ten minutes mentally composing a dissertation on Jack Carter's hair.

"Uh..." My voice came out rough, and I cleared my throat. "I guess Gatsby's pursuit of the American Dream is more about chasing an illusion than something real. Like, he's trying to recreate the past instead of living in the present."

Ms. Daniels nodded approvingly, moving on without further interrogation. But I still felt the weight of the stares lingering on me, burning into my skin.

And against my better judgment, my gaze flicked—just for a second—to Jack.

For the briefest moment, his gray-blue eyes met mine.

No smirk. No reaction.

Just a glance.

Then, just as quickly, he turned back to the girl beside him, murmuring something that made her giggle, her head tilting toward him like a scene ripped straight from a teen drama.

And just like that, my stomach twisted. Of course. Why would it be any different?

The bell rang, slicing through the tension, signaling the end of class—and, thank God, the end of my suffering.

Finally. School was over.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd use the weekend to finally, actually get over Jack Carter.

...Yeah. Right.

But my relief was short-lived.

Just as I stood to grab my bag, a blur of motion caught my eye. A water bottle slipped from someone's grip—crash—hitting the floor beside me. The cap popped off, and before I could react, a wave of ice-cold water splashed straight onto my shirt.

I froze.

Panic clawed at my throat, an electric jolt of fear shooting through my body. No, no, no. Not here. Not now.

The water seeped into my clothes, chilling my skin, and I felt it—the unmistakable tingling rush beneath the surface, the shimmer that meant it was happening.

"Oh my God, sorry!" The girl—one of the cheerleaders, of course—barely stifled a giggle as she bent to grab her bottle. Her friends snickered behind her, their amusement burning worse than the water.

I didn't respond. I couldn't. My voice was gone, swallowed by sheer terror. I bolted.

Shoving past desks and dodging bodies, I tore out of the classroom, ignoring the confused murmurs that followed me. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Where? Where can I go?

The girls' bathroom.

I lunged for the door, shoving it open and nearly tripping in my desperation. The room was empty—thank God—but there was no time to celebrate.

I dove into the largest stall, locking it just as the transformation took over. A sharp breath escaped me as I collapsed onto my stomach, my tail shimmering into existence where my legs had been moments ago. Yep. Totally noticeable if someone looked under the stall.

This couldn't keep happening. I'd spent years—years—hiding this part of me, avoiding water like it was a death trap. And yet, one careless accident, one bad moment, and I was seconds away from exposure.

Then, the worst thing happened.

The bathroom door swung open. Voices spilled inside—laughter, footsteps. People.

I clenched my fist, willing the shift—willing myself—to disappear.

The girls kept talking, oblivious to the absolute crisis unfolding in stall three.

"Oh my God, did you see Jack and his new girlfriend after class?"

"Girlfriend? Please. She's got, like, a five-day expiration date."

Laughter echoed against the tiled walls, effortless, sharp.

"Jack always does this," one of them said, followed by the clatter of a makeup bag hitting the sink. "Finds some pretty girl, makes her feel special, and then—poof."

"God, I don't know how they keep falling for it," the other girl laughed.

A cold, bitter feeling twisted in my stomach. It shouldn't have mattered. Jack Carter's love life wasn't my problem. And yet, something curled in my chest—an annoyance I refused to call jealousy.

I exhaled slowly, invisible.

"Ugh, I need to fix my lip gloss before class," one of them groaned. "Do you think Brooke's still mad at me for what I said in English?"

"She's always mad at someone," the other said dryly. "Honestly, I don't even know why you try."

The sound of zippers and rustling bags filled the air. I prayed they'd leave soon.

Then, finally—blessedly—one of them sighed.

"Come on, we're gonna be late."

The door swung open. Footsteps faded.

I waited. Counted the seconds. The moment I was sure they were gone, I let the invisibility drop. No more witnesses. No more close calls.

Focusing, I clenched my fist, channeling heat through my palm. My hydrothermokinesis worked fast, forcing every stubborn droplet of water to evaporate. Steam curled faintly in the air, vanishing before it could slip under the stall door.

Slowly, the shimmer across my skin faded. Scales dissolved. Tail receded. And just like that—I was human again.

I exhaled sharply, pressing my shaking hands to my face. This is getting exhausting.

How many more times could I pull this off before I messed up? Before someone actually saw me? Before I ruined everything?

I straightened, rolling my shoulders, shaking off the exhaustion that clung to me like a second skin. Clothes still dry? Check. Hair still normal? Check. Zero evidence of a supernatural transformation? Double check. Crisis averted. For now.

Unlocking the stall, I stepped out like nothing had happened. Just another normal girl, fixing her definitely normal appearance in the mirror before heading to her completely uneventful next class.

Because no one—not a single person at Oceanview Academy—could ever know the truth.

The hallways were already half-empty by the time I stepped out of the bathroom, the lingering scent of cheap vanilla perfume still clinging to the air—a telltale sign the cheerleaders had been there not too long ago.

I adjusted my backpack strap, keeping my head down as I slipped into the crowd of stragglers heading toward their cars or sticking around for after-school extracurriculars. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, my body running on the last dregs of adrenaline. But on the outside? I looked completely fine.

Like I hadn't just barely escaped turning into an actual mermaid in the middle of a high school bathroom.

Like I hadn't just spent the last ten minutes hiding in a stall, holding my breath, staying invisible while the other girls fixed their appearances.

Like this was just another totally normal day in the life of Aria Morales.

I breathed in. Keep moving. Act normal.

By the time I reached my locker, the rush of panic had dulled to a slow, heavy ache behind my ribs. I was fine. I was fine. Except for the part where I was one bad timing away from exposing everything I'd spent my whole life trying to hide.

I spun my locker combination, tugging the door open just as a burst of laughter rang out a few feet away.

Jack stood by his locker—with her. The blonde girl whose name I still hadn't bothered to learn. She laughed at something he said, tilting her head just enough for her hair to catch the light. She was effortlessly pretty, the kind of girl who fit into Jack Carter's world—like a perfect puzzle piece that slotted right into place.

I shouldn't care. I shouldn't even be looking. But somewhere, deep in the most pathetic part of my brain, that familiar, ridiculous tug still existed. That stupid, completely pointless ache in my chest.

I slammed my locker shut. Hard.

The sound echoed down the hall, but no one noticed. Because no one ever did.

I forced myself to take a breath, shaking off the tangled mess of emotions curling inside me. It didn't matter. It never did. Just another school day. Just another moment where Jack Carter barely registered my existence.

Move on.

Tugging my bag over my shoulder, I turned on my heel and headed toward the parking lot.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pavement as students streamed out of the building, their voices blending into an indistinct hum. Some lingered by their cars, laughing, making plans. Others hopped into rides, heading off to practice, part-time jobs, weekend plans.

I had none of those things.

Sliding into my car—a gray 2020 Honda Accord parked near the edge of the lot—I let out a breath, relishing the quiet. No more voices. No more crowded hallways. No more Jack.

I started the engine, the low hum filling the space as I gripped the steering wheel, finally letting my shoulders relax. But before I could shift into reverse, my phone buzzed against the console.

A message. The screen lit up, syncing with my car's Bluetooth.

Mom: We'll be out late. Don't wait up.

I exhaled through my nose, not even bothering to respond.

No surprise there.

They were probably still at work, buried in endless projects, stuck in a cycle of meetings and late-night dinners that didn't include me. At this point, I didn't even expect anything different.

I pulled out of the parking lot, the familiar streets of Sunset Point stretching ahead. The drive home was second nature—turn left, merge onto the road leading to our gated community.

By the time I pulled into the driveway, the house loomed in front of me.

A sleek, modern structure with a black exterior, metal roof, and sharp, symmetrical design. A central entrance framed by a large gabled porch with wooden beams and stone pillars gave it a rustic yet contemporary appeal. Two stone chimneys rose on either side, adding to the grandeur. A wraparound porch, supported by wooden posts, provided ample covered outdoor space. The second story featured dormer windows that enhanced the architectural style. Large glass doors and windows contributed to a sleek, modern aesthetic while complementing the house's traditional elements.

Stepping inside, the silence wrapped around me like a too-tight blanket.

Everything was exactly as I had left it that morning. The pristine kitchen. The spotless living room. The expensive furniture that no one actually used.

The only thing out of place was the note taped to the fridge.

Dinner's in the fridge. Make sure to do your chores. Love, Mom.

I stared at it for a second before peeling it off, crumpling the paper in my fist, and tossing it into the trash.

Love, Mom. Right.

Shaking my head, I grabbed a bottle of water and headed upstairs.

My room was the only space in the house that actually felt like mine.

The moment I stepped inside, my whole body exhaled.

Soft neutrals—beige, white, and blush pink—made up the cozy, modern aesthetic. My daybed, framed in black metal, was dressed in crisp white bedding and adorned with decorative pillows in pastel shades. A textured pink throw blanket was draped over the side.

A floating wooden shelf above the bed held fairy lights with hanging ornaments, casting a warm glow. The walls were painted a soft, warm beige, complementing the overall aesthetic.

To the left of my bed, a white study desk with drawers paired with a modern chair that had wooden legs. My vlogging camera, laptop, a white lamp, and neatly arranged stationery sat atop it. A large window with gray curtains allowed natural light to brighten the space.

A plush, intricately designed area rug in beige and cream tones covered part of the wooden floor. A white, perforated light fixture hung from the ceiling, casting a soft, ambient glow.

I tossed my backpack onto my bed, not even bothering to unzip it. Homework could wait.

Right now, I needed something else.

Grabbing my camera, I plopped onto my bed, pulling my knees up as I flipped the screen to face me.

The lens reflected a different version of me—one that wasn't weighed down by the invisible weight of being Aria Morales at Oceanview Academy.

The girl in my vlogs was confident. Loud. Expressive. Bold.

And the best part? She wasn't real.

Not in the way that mattered.

I hit record.

"Hey, it's Aria. Just here vlogging about my day!"

The second I spoke, my voice shifted—brighter, lighter, like flipping a switch.

No one would have guessed that just an hour ago, I had been spiraling in the school hallway. That I had almost exposed everything in a public bathroom. That I had spent the entire day feeling like I was on the outside looking in.

But in front of the camera? None of that existed.

I chatted about my day, gave little updates, talked about nothing and everything at the same time. I even rambled about a new makeup brand I'd been eyeing, despite the fact that I spent most of my time hiding behind oversized glasses and graphic tees.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

Still, it felt good—almost freeing—to exist like this, even if it was just for myself.

Because no one else would ever see these vlogs.

I wasn't an influencer. I wasn't chasing likes or followers. I was just a girl with a camera, capturing moments no one else would ever know about.

After finishing the video, I exhaled and turned off the camera, watching the screen go dark.

And just like that, the version of me I'd created—the one who was vibrant, confident, expressive—disappeared.

Silence settled around me again, heavy and suffocating.

I stared at the camera in my hands, thumb hovering over the playback button.

But I didn't press it.

I never did.

The vlogs weren't for rewatching.

They weren't for anyone but me.

With a quiet sigh, I reached for my laptop, plugging in the camera and transferring the footage to my thumb drive—my secret collection of videos no one would ever see. A whole archive of moments, locked away.

When the file finished transferring, I ejected the drive and tucked it into the small, decorative box on my nightstand.

Safe. Untouched. Unseen.

Just like me.

Leaning back against my pillows, I grabbed my phone and scrolled through notifications without really seeing them.

Instagram.

I hesitated. I knew I shouldn't check. I knew exactly what I'd find, and yet... that didn't stop me from tapping the app.

The bright, colorful tiles of people's curated lives flooded my screen, a carefully constructed world where everyone looked effortlessly happy, thriving, put-together.

I scrolled past makeup tutorials, aesthetic study setups, and outfit inspiration posts, my feed an algorithmic mix of the things I actually cared about—and the things I pretended not to.

Then, I saw it.

Jack Carter's latest story.

I knew I should skip it.

I tapped anyway.

A photo filled my screen—Jack and the blonde girl from school, their faces close, her head resting against his shoulder. His easy, lopsided grin was on full display, the kind that made it seem like nothing in the world could ever touch him.

The caption?

"Friday night plans: secured. 😉"

I felt it—the familiar, stupid, useless pang in my chest.

I shouldn't care. I don't care. I refuse to care.

But the tiny, bitter voice in my head whispered the truth.

She fits. You don't.

Tearing my gaze away, I clicked out of the app, tossing my phone onto the bed like it had personally offended me. This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. Jack Carter didn't know I existed, and even if he did, what would it change?

I shoved my glasses up the bridge of my nose, rubbing the heel of my palm against my temple. I needed to sleep. Or better yet—I needed to stop letting a guy who barely knew my name live rent-free in my head.

I took off my glasses, put it on my nightstand, rolling onto my side, I reached over to switch off the lamp. Darkness settled over my room, soft and familiar, the only thing that ever felt constant in my life.

I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. Tomorrow would be better. It had to be.

<>

A/N: Chapter 2 is now edited and I had to get rid of some parts and put add ins. Yep, I am editing this book as well while with three books that need updating. Phew, what am I doing to myself? Oh my gosh!