The school hallway had never felt this long.
Aira walked like a shadow, quiet and unnoticed—just like always. But today, her heart wasn't steady. It pounded like war drums inside her chest.
She kept her head down. Eyes away. Steps silent.
The noise around her—students laughing, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against the tiles—was nothing but static. None of it mattered. Not when her secret was dangling by a thread, in the hands of someone like him.
She reached her locker. Twisted the combination. It clicked open.
Then, a voice behind her.
"You didn't reply to my message."
Her spine stiffened.
She didn't have to turn around to know who it was. His voice was unmistakable—low, smooth, just a little too calm.
Revan.
Slowly, she shut her locker door and faced him.
He leaned against the metal, arms crossed. His school uniform was slightly messy, tie loosened, like he didn't care how perfect he looked. Like he knew he didn't have to try.
His eyes were locked on her—not in a way that felt charming.
In a way that felt dangerous.
"You're mistaken," she said, voice small. "I don't know what you're talking about."
A slow smile curved on his lips. Not friendly. Not warm.
Predatory.
"Don't lie, Aira," he said. "You're a good writer, but you're a terrible actress."
Her breath caught.
He knew. No more guessing. No more pretending.
Still, she fought back. "What do you want from me?"
Revan stepped closer, invading the space she tried to protect. The hallway suddenly felt too narrow, too loud. Yet all she could hear was her heartbeat, thudding like a warning.
"I want answers," he said. "You think I don't recognize my own story?"
Her eyes widened.
"What?"
He leaned in, his voice now just above a whisper. "One of your stories—it's about me, isn't it?"
Aira froze.
It was. One of her viral fictions—about a broken boy with a perfect smile, hiding something darker behind the light. It was supposed to be fantasy. No one was supposed to know.
But somehow, he did.
"I need to know why," he said. "Why you wrote that about me."
"I didn't mean to—" she whispered.
"You wrote me too well to be innocent," he interrupted.
She stepped back. "I never used your name. No one else knows."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
Revan paused, his expression unreadable. For the first time, he looked... uncertain.
"I read your words," he said. "And I saw myself in them. But also... I saw you."
Silence.
The moment stretched. Aira didn't know what to say. She had written from pain, from memories she buried deep, from feelings no one was supposed to see.
He had seen them.
"I'm not here to expose you," Revan said. "But you and I—we have unfinished stories. Don't we?"
Then he walked away, leaving her with nothing but questions.
And one terrifying realization:
She wasn't just the observer anymore.
She was part of the plot.