You don’t remember how you got here.
All you know is that something’s hunting you.

By what, you can’t say — only that you have to run.

The trees blur past, towering evergreens lining both sides of the narrow path, crowding in like a tunnel. There's nowhere to go but straight ahead, which feels ironic… though you can’t remember why. That word — ironic — sticks in your head like it means something more, but the reason slips away before you can catch it.

Your thoughts are cut short by a sound:
Thmp… thmp… thmp…

Padded thuds, heavy and steady. Footsteps that grow louder no matter how fast you run — like something large, something relentless is gaining on you.
The rhythm of it echoes in your chest, like someone knocking—

Knock knock knock.
"Kiddo! Time to get ready for your first day of school!" your mom calls through the door.

Your eyes snap open.
Just a dream.

Groaning, you roll onto your back, dragging your pillow over your face. "I—I’m up, Ma…" you mumble, voice muffled and groggy.

"Good."
You hear the doorknob twist, then your mom cracks the door open just enough to peek through. "I’d recommend getting dressed before you leave your room, kiddo. Don’t wanna scare the neighbors now, would ya?" she teases gently before closing it with a soft click.

Company?
That jolts you. Already?

You grab your phone and squint at the screen:
6:50 AM.

Who the hell visits anyone this early?

You groan again and sit up at the edge of your bed, debating the merits of going back to sleep — but you know better. Not with your mom around. She’s been known to take drastic measures to wake you up, regardless of how much extra work it creates for herself.

You stretch your legs first, then your arms, relishing the satisfying crack in your shoulders as you push yourself up and head to the tall wardrobe in the corner of the room.

The door creaks as you open it. A waist-high mirror on the inside reveals the monster that is your bedhead. It’s truly tragic. But you’ve got guests — which means getting dressed comes before fixing your hair or even peeing.

You glance at the time again. New school. New semester. First impressions count.

And if Maya happens to witness your transformation from yesterday’s fashion disaster into today’s walking redemption?
Well, that’s just a bonus. Totally not the main reason you’re putting in extra effort.

You pull out your favorite pair of black faux leather leggings — soft, comfortable, and flattering on your curves. Then, inspired by Maya’s style, you grab a white t-shirt with a glam skull print, tossing your trademark jacket across the bed for later.

You cross the room to your dresser and grab a pair of absurdly colorful socks (sue you, you like ‘em) and your prized white Doc Martens — the same ones that cost more than you made at your summer job back in Austin.

Careful not to creak the door, you slip into the hallway. As you head toward the bathroom, voices drift from the kitchen.

You hear two unfamiliar voices coming from the kitchen. One is deep and gruff, though still warm. The other is barely more than a mumble, like someone trying to speak with a mouthful of cotton

Curious, but needing to pee more, you continue down the hall and quietly close the bathroom door behind you.

Ten minutes later, you're locked in battle with the nest on your head.
You’ve tamed it — barely — when your mom knocks softly on the door.

"You ready, kiddo?"

"Almost," you call back, reaching for your makeup pouch. Nothing dramatic — just some black eyeliner, a little golden-brown eyeshadow, and a soft dark brown lipstick to round it out.

Another ten minutes gone.

You dart back to your room to grab your rings and jacket, sliding on your accessories as you return to the kitchen. You slip your favorite ring on with ease but pause at the necklace — the clasp always gives you hell.

Which means you're going to need your mom's help.

As you round the corner into the kitchen, you suddenly remember:
Your mom has guests.

And you’re about to walk right into them — new look, new town, brand new day.

You try your best to stop yourself, but it’s too late—bam! You walk straight into one of the new neighbors. There goes your first impression… Thankfully, or maybe not so thankfully, the other mysterious person nearby manages to catch the girl’s fall—but not yours. Luckily, you manage to extend your hand just in time, avoiding smudging your carefully applied makeup, which, honestly, you kind of deserve for being a little reckless.

Before you even get up, you blurt out loudly, “Oh my God… I am so sorry! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Your voice carries genuine concern as you steady yourself and finally look at the unsuspecting victim.

She blinks up at you with deep brown eyes flecked with amber, warm and observant. Her dark brown hair tumbles in soft, natural waves around a face framed by gentle cheekbones and pale, almost porcelain skin that seems kissed by the morning light. She wears simple, well-fitted jeans and a layered shirt, paired with boots that somehow make her look effortlessly grounded yet quietly striking. There’s an unassuming beauty to her, one that’s easy to overlook but impossible to forget once noticed.

“It’s… not the first time I’ve landed butt-first on the floor, so really—nothing to worry about,” the girl says with a warm, slightly self-deprecating smile. There’s an ease to her, like she’s used to brushing off awkward moments with grace rather than embarrassment.

Before you can even open your mouth to apologize again, that familiar gruff voice from earlier cuts in, slightly awkward but clearly trying to soften the mood.

“I, uh… can confirm that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to make you feel better—even though you’re the one who barreled into her.

The unexpected kindness tugs at that ever-present guilt you carry, making you pause. Then, as your eyes follow the voice, you take in the man behind it: broad-shouldered, weathered from years of small-town law enforcement, with a police-issued mustache and a watchful gaze that misses nothing. His demeanor is quiet, a little stiff, but not unfriendly—like someone who’s spent more time listening than speaking. Dressed in a flannel shirt and worn jeans, he radiates a dependable, grounded energy.

Before the silence turns awkward, your mom jumps in with a teasing smile, “That’s one way to make a first impression, kiddo.” You swear you hear the big guy trying to hide a chuckle… Traitor.

Giving her the best glare you can muster, you turn back to the girl you just almost ran over.

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask again, more for yourself — maybe to ease the guilt swirling inside. The girl, clearly touched by your sincerity, just nods with gentle smile

Sticking out your hand, you say, “I’m Elodie. And you?”

You hold it there for a moment, wondering if you’re being too forward. Despite her clear hesitation, she takes a deep breath, then clumsily but gently clasps your hand for a quick shake.

“Um… Bella,” she replies with the same warm smile from before.

Though the handshake is a little awkward, you can tell right away that you and Bella are going to be good friends.

 “Well, that went better than I thought,” your mom mutters, more to herself. You look at her with an exaggerated look of hurt, still awkwardly holding Bella’s hand like she’s there to support you. You say, “Hey! I’m not that bad. I mean, I made friends with Jacob and Maya yesterday.”

Before your mom can respond, Bella asks out of curiosity, “You know Jacob?”

Your mom signals to the gruff guy to come get his coffee as you answer, “Well… ‘know’ isn’t quite right. We just met yesterday. But yeah, his dad rented this place to us,” — you tilt your head, gesturing around — “this house. What about you? Do you know Jacob and Maya well?

You gently add, “And… would you mind helping me put my necklace on, please?” showing her the loose clasp, hoping she won’t mind too much given her earlier hesitation with the handshake.

That same hesitant look crosses her face again, but before you can backtrack, she takes a deep breath and nods—as if she’s preparing for a battle.

You move your hair aside to give her easier access. She gently wraps the necklace around your neck and starts fidgeting with the clasp, struggling a bit.

As she works, she says softly, “I guess it’s kind of the same for me. I’ve known Jacob longer, but I spent most of my life back home in Phoenix. As for Maya… I met her yesterday, too. Honestly, she seemed a tad too snarky for my taste.”

You turn and give her a warm smile. “Thanks! I love a good accessory, but god, necklaces are such a pain.”

She steps a little closer, squinting at the pendant. “I’m not really into fashion, if I’m honest,” she admits, before smiling softly at the gleaming red rose. “But it’s a beautiful piece.”

 “Well, if you ever want to borrow it, just ask,” you offer with a soft smile.

Before you can say more, your mom calls from the kitchen, “Kiddo, come drink your hot cocoa. You don’t want to be late.”

You glance at Bella and, almost instinctively, reach to gently grab her arm — but then you catch the hesitation in her eyes and stop yourself. Offering a sheepish smile, you say, “Sorry about that… me and my ma, we can be a bit touchy.”

Bella seems to appreciate the apology, visibly relaxing.

Not wanting to leave the silence hanging, you ask, “Want to head into the kitchen with me? So… um, we can keep talking, if you don’t mind.” You give her a small, shy smile.

She responds with a soft nod, and together you both head to the kitchen.

As you sip your hot chocolate — while Bella does the same, her hands slightly shaky — your mom teases, “Before you came in and bumped into poor Bella…” she glances at you, then turns to Bella, “Sorry about that, honey.”

Your mom then turns back to the gruff guy, whom you still don’t know. “Chief Swan, he—”

Before she finishes, Chief Swan cuts in with a soft grin, “Charlie is just fine.”

“Well, Charlie came by today, not only to give me my official uniform,” she says, pointing to her dark navy police uniform matching Charlie’s, “but also to show me the ropes, since we’re new here and all.”

She smiles at the officer, who seems a tad flustered for a guy his size.

“But as you and Bella were chatting, he also told me that he and Bella came here with her new van, so she could do the same for you,” she says, as Bella hear your mom saying that she  glances at you, hoping you wouldn’t mind. But considering how well you already got along, you don’t.

With a soft smirk, you say, “Sure,” before gently setting your cup on the table.

“Let’s go, girl,” you say with an over-enthusiastic grin — for someone going to school, anyway. For some reason, the soft-spoken girl just smiles back and nods.

As Bella turns to say goodbye to her dad, you realize you left your jacket on the floor from when you bumped into her. You grab it and fluff it a bit to get any dirt off.

Before you can turn to leave, a gentle yet strong hand stops you. Turning around, it’s your mom, waiting for her expected goodbye hug and “I love you.” Despite the company, you’re in too good a mood to refuse.

You hug her back softly and whisper, “Have a good day at work, and I love you.”

She responds warmly, “Me too, kiddo.”

As you leave the house with Bella in tow, you hear Charlie say, “Drive safe,” as you close the door behind you.

The first thing you notice as you step off the porch is the faded red Chevy pickup truck parked in the drive. Its boxy frame and vintage curves mark it clearly as something from the ‘50s. The paint’s chipped in places, dulled by years of wear, but it still carries a kind of charm — especially when you catch the faint, wistful look in Bella’s eyes as she unlocks the doors with the tiny remote dangling from her keychain. It’s obvious the truck means something to her.

You both climb in, the door groaning slightly as it closes behind you. The engine rumbles to life with a stubborn growl. Bella’s quiet for a beat before casting a sideways glance your way.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she says with an air of innocence that’s almost suspicious. Her eyes flick toward the front yard. “Who does that death machine belong to?”

You follow her gaze — right to your motorbike still sitting out front. Crap. You’d meant to move it to the garage last night.

You can’t help the grin that slips onto your face. “That death machine? Yeah, that’d be mine.”

Bella’s lips tug into a crooked smile as she shifts into gear. “Yeah, I kinda figured. It matches your whole badass biker look.”

There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but it’s soft, good-natured. As she pulls out onto the road, you glance over, still smiling.

“If you ever want a ride,” you offer lightly, “I mean, I do kinda owe you.”

Bella doesn’t miss a beat. “Um… no thank you.” She glances at you, eyes wide, then back at the road. “I mean — I appreciate the offer. Really. And if there’s, like, an emergency and I’m totally without a car, maybe I’d take you up on it. But otherwise… I’d rather not. Like, at all. No offense.”

It takes you a moment to register the full extent of her response — and then you burst out laughing.

Bella glances at you with raised brows. “What’s so funny?”

You try to reply, but you’re practically wheezing. It’s not even what she said, exactly — you’ve met people who wouldn’t go near a bike even if it meant being late to their own wedding. It’s how she said it. That careful tightrope walk of declining while trying so hard not to hurt your feelings.

When you finally manage to catch your breath, you wave a hand, still chuckling. “Sorry — I wasn’t laughing at you. I swear. You just… caught me off guard.”

She tilts her head slightly, curious. “Is it that weird for someone to say no?”

“Oh, not at all. I’ve met plenty of people who would rather walk barefoot over glass than get on a bike. It’s just…” You glance over at her. “It was how considerate you were about saying no. Like, full diplomatic mode.”

Bella raises an eyebrow but her expression softens. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me. Least I could do is return it.”

Her words are genuine. Simple, but sincere — and they hit you harder than expected.

Something flickers in your chest. A memory. A pang. You look out the window, voice quiet. “You’d be surprised how many people would rather push you down than help you get back up.”

Bella pulls up at a red light. For a second, there’s just silence. You’re about to apologize for the sudden gloom when you feel a light pressure on your shoulder. You turn and find Bella watching you with a hesitant but steady gaze.

“Look, Elodie…” she says, then hesitates. Her eyes flick to your shoulder like it’s somehow responsible for making things harder. Then she lets out a breath and gently rests her hand there. “I know we just met, and… honestly, if the roles were reversed, I’d probably keep it to myself too. But I’m here. If you ever wanna talk.”

And what hits you hardest isn’t the offer — it’s how she offers it. You know physical affection isn’t her comfort zone, but here she is, reaching out anyway. Remembering your tendencies. Making the effort for you.

That kind of kindness is rare.

So you tell her.

The whole story.

About being gay. About how coming out in your hometown turned almost everyone against you and your mom. How it forced your hand — forced her hand — to leave everything behind. How the sting of that choice hasn’t faded, even now.

By the time you finish, the truck is pulling into the school parking lot. Neither of you says anything right away.

But something’s shifted.

Despite the fact that a small part of you is terrified—terrified she’ll judge you or start pulling away, afraid you might “try something”—there’s also a quiet relief settling in your chest. You’ve never been ashamed of being gay. Not once. No matter how many people tried to shame you, you held your head high. So the fact that you could share that with someone—even if it goes badly—feels like letting go of a weight you didn’t even realize you’d been carrying.

What makes your stomach knot tighter is the silence. Bella hasn’t said a word.

The truck is off. No hum from the engine, no music. Just the sound of the rain tapping against the roof as she stares straight ahead, eyes distant. It’s hard to tell if she’s thinking or just shutting down. A full minute passes. Then another.

Eventually, you shift toward the door, figuring it might be better to give her space. But the second your hand touches the handle, Bella blurts, “Wait!”

You freeze and glance back. Her face catches you off guard—not fear or discomfort, but something more complicated. Frustration, maybe. But not directed at you.

She draws in a breath, like she’s finally come to a decision. “Look, Elodie,” she starts, voice low but steady. “Honestly? I couldn’t give a damn who you’re into. And I don’t mean that in a cold way—I mean, who the heck am I to judge someone over something so… stupid?”

She runs a hand through her hair, visibly struggling to articulate herself. “I just… people are cruel for no reason. And it pisses me off.” Her brows furrow, and there’s real anger in her voice now, but none of it feels directed at you. “Like, who the hell do they think they are, treating someone like crap just for existing?”

You can’t help it. Your chest tightens, and before you think it through, you launch forward and wrap her in a bear hug.

Bella freezes, clearly unsure what to do—but then awkwardly pats your back, her hand stiff but sincere.

That’s when it hits you. She hates physical touch. You back off like you’ve touched lava.

“Oh my god—I’m sorry! I know you hate touchy stuff, I didn’t mean to—” Your voice cracks a little. “It’s just... the only person who’s ever said anything like that to me was my mom. Everyone else—my so-called friends, even my family—they couldn’t even look me in the eye after I told them.”

Your throat tightens. Your eyes burn. You try to hold it in.

But then, unexpectedly, Bella leans in and pulls you into a hug of her own. It’s awkward—definitely not her forte—but she does it anyway. Puts aside her discomfort, just for you, once again.

You squeeze her back, gently this time, overwhelmed. Not wanting to prolong her discomfort here, you gently ease away, mascara running, eyeliner probably smudged to hell, and whisper, “Thank you.”

Bella gives you a warm smile. Not awkward. Not forced. Just soft and honest.

She glances at your face, takes in the tear-streaked makeup, and smirks lightly. “So much for your ‘badass biker chick’ look.”

You both chuckle through the tension. She nods toward the glove compartment. “I think I’ve got tissues and wipes in there.”

Thankfully, she does.

While you clean yourself up, Bella sits patiently, drumming lightly on the steering wheel. You talk about first day jitters, the terrible weather, and the strangeness of new places.

Once your face is back to semi-presentable and your confidence restored with the help of a little backup eyeliner, the two of you step out of the truck and head toward the front office together—to pick up your schedules and start whatever the hell this new chapter is going to be.

By the time we step out of the gloomy front office, schedules in hand, the bell has already rung. Great. Late to our very first class. So much for making a decent first impression.

Glancing down at your schedule, you ask, “What’s your first class?”

Bella checks hers again just to be sure. “English, with a Mr. Varner.”

“Thank God,” you breathe, some of the tension slipping from your shoulders. “At least we won’t be alone when we get chewed out for being late.”

Bella shoots you a look, her tone dry. “Well, they do say two heads are better than one.”

You snort. “Yeah. Especially when both are about to roll.”

You cross the lot toward the first cluster of buildings past the office. “So where is English?”

“Building Three,” Bella recites, already spotting it up ahead.

The classroom’s just a few steps away now — and judging by the silence inside, class has already started. Of course, Bella has zero intention of knocking. She hovers beside you like someone refusing to ring the doorbell of a haunted house.

Guess that means it’s my turn to take the bullet.

You knock.

A muffled voice calls, “Come in.”

You and Bella exchange a final look — the kind people give each other before walking to their own execution — and then, bracing yourself, you push the door open.

Mr. Varner looks up from where he’s scribbling something on the whiteboard as the door creaks open. The moment his eyes land on the two of you, you can see Bella tense beside you—the slight shake of the schedule in her hand giving her away.

Hoping to soften the blow before he has a chance to chew you both out, you mutter, “Sorry we’re late, Teach.”

He doesn’t look particularly thrilled at the nickname—his expression tightens just a bit—but he exhales through his nose, not dramatically, just enough to register his mild annoyance.

“Schedules, I’m guessing?” he asks, holding out a hand.

Without waiting for a full explanation, he takes both your schedules and gives them a quick once-over before nodding.

“Ms. Swan. Ms. Matthews,” he says with a firm but not unkind tone, “considering it’s your first day, I’m willing to look the other way this time. But don’t make a habit of it, alright?”

You both nod quickly, the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding finally releasing.

“Good,” he says. “Miss Swan, front row. Miss Matthews, take the empty seat in the back. Quietly.”

You and Bella exchange a brief glance—half encouragement, half silent farewell—before starting toward your assigned spots.

But just as you take a few steps, something stops you in your tracks.

Something—no, someone—roots you to the floor like you’ve stepped into a snare you never saw coming.

She’s sitting near the very back, angled slightly in her seat, studying her nails with the kind of disinterest that looks deliberate. Like she’s waiting out the rest of the world until it becomes interesting again.

And for a moment, everything in your brain just… stops.

She’s beautiful. Not just in the way certain girls are, unfair and untouchable—but in this razor-sharp, otherworldly kind of way. Her skin is pale, almost luminous under the cold overhead lights, as if they were made to highlight her and nothing else. Golden-blonde hair falls in perfect waves over one shoulder, glossy and unbothered, like she woke up styled by a magazine shoot. Even the way she’s slouched—bored, elegant, entirely unaware—makes the chair look lucky to be holding her.

You’ve never seen anyone like her.

And suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of everything about yourself—your posture, your walk, the cling of your shirt, the way your boots scuff against the floor. You try to move, to breathe, but there’s this quiet pressure in your chest, this strange, magnetic pull stretching from deep beneath your ribs, like some invisible thread tethering you to her without permission.

She hasn’t even looked at you.
God, you hope she doesn’t—not now. Not when your mouth’s gone dry and your heart’s pounding like it’s trying to knock its way out. You probably look like a deer mid-blink. Or mid-cringe.

Bella glances back at you, puzzled, nudging your arm. You force a shaky breath through your nose and try to move forward, but your legs feel like they belong to someone else. Someone deeply uncool.

You don’t believe in love at first sight.

But this?
This feels like something worse.
Like being chosen by a storm.