Anam Cara: (n. Gaelic) A person with whom you can share your deepest thoughts, feelings, and dreams with; your soul friend.

I barely remembered falling asleep last night. The next thing I knew, my phone was ringing incessantly.

Groaning, I reached for it on my bedside table.

"Hello?" I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep.

"Harley!" It was Jonathan. His frantic tone jolted me awake.

"Jon?! What's wrong?"

"Are you by a TV?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Turn on the news."

Panic surged through me as I fumbled for the remote. I switched on the TV and quickly scrolled to the news channel.

"Do you see it?" he asked urgently.

"Oh my god."

My heart dropped as the screen filled with breaking news: another disappearance. This time, it was someone I knew. Miranda Hutchins.

Miranda Hutchins was a familiar face in my life, but not one I welcomed.

We had a long, complicated history. She made it her mission to bully me.

But now, as I thought about her family, I felt a pang of sympathy. They were facing the torment of not knowing where she was.

I couldn't imagine the horror of losing sight of your child, even for a moment. That gripping panic would consume anyone. To feel that way for days on end? It must be unbearable.

Then, a strange thought hit me. I didn't remember seeing Miranda at all yesterday. She had always been there, lurking, ready to ruin my day. But now, she was gone.

And it wasn't just yesterday. She hadn't been at school for three days.

"She was reported missing yesterday. Nobody's seen her in three days."

"I was about to say. I've been torment-free for three days, which is a miracle in itself. But if nobody's seen her in three days, why was she only reported missing yesterday?"

"Her parents probably thought she was with Jackson."

Jackson was the star of our school. He was the co-captain of the basketball team, charming, and everyone loved him.

Miranda was stunning and the center of attention. Boys would do anything to get her notice.

Together, they seemed flawless, a picture-perfect couple. But their relationship was a rollercoaster.

Their on-again, off-again relationship was the talk of the town. They would break up, make up, and break up again, each time more dramatic than the last.

Though, when it came to makeups—passionate, heated, and often public.

Their dynamics were volatile. One moment they were laughing, basking in their shared jokes. Next, they were throwing heated words like daggers. The pulls and pushes of their connection were intense, almost magnetic. Townsfolk watched in awe, drawn in by the drama.

"I don't want to jump the gun, but something about this doesn't feel right."

We lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone. My mom's bakery was the heart of the community. Gossip flew around like the aroma of fresh bread. People shared stories as they sipped coffee, and if you didn't know something, you quickly learned it.

Every corner had its own tale. Every whispered conversation felt significant. Someone had to know something about Miranda.

This wasn't just about her being missing. It was about the fear that gripped our small town. The kind of fear that changed lives. The kind that made you question what you thought you knew.

"Well, Jackson did say they were supposed to meet at your mom's bakery, but she didn't show up. He waited for two and a half hours before he left."

I did remember seeing him sitting by himself in my mom's bakery a couple of days ago.

Though I was an extreme introvert, I had developed a knack for reading people. At least, most of them.

Jackson was the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. He believed in love, even when it hurt. Each time they split, it was like a piece of him chipped away. I wondered how many times he could go through this.

"Why does he keep putting himself through this?" I asked.

"You know him. Hopeful. Maybe he thought this time would be different."

Hope could be a dangerous thing. I thought of Jackson again, waiting in that bakery. He must have felt a mix of excitement and dread, pacing back and forth in his mind. What if this meeting was the moment everything changed?

But then, he sat there alone. Two and a half hours.

Just then, my cat, Stevie Wonder, decided to join me, jumping on my bed.

I still think back to the moment my life shifted forever—the day I met him. A stunning black tabby Maine Coon, his fur felt like soft clouds, and his eyes resembled the vibrant leaves of willow trees.

He sensed when I felt overwhelmed and would jump onto my lap, purring softly, which helped calm my nerves.

When I first saw him, he was a tiny kitten, abandoned and fighting for survival. He had survived by drinking from forest creeks, showing his resourcefulness. The vets were unsure if he would make it, but I saw something in him that said he wouldn't be so easily defeated.

When my parents surprised me with the news that I could adopt him, I was ecstatic. They had read about how Maine Coons are gentle and thought he would be a great companion for their anxious daughter.

I named him Stevie Wonder because, like the singer, he navigated the world without sight. In those early weeks, his eyes were shut due to a lingering infection, yet he would turn his head toward sounds, as if he sensed the world around him.

As for me, I'd often felt like I was navigating life with my eyes closed too. My brain seemed to process things differently, and it was not just my anxiety.

Concerned about my struggles, my parents took me to see a doctor. The doctor believed I showed symptoms commonly associated with autism.

I'd read about autism in girls, and so much of it resonated with me. But without a formal diagnosis, I felt stuck in limbo. The doctor suggested we see a specialist. But life threw us curveballs. First, my great-grandpa passed away. Then my grandpa, my mom's dad, was diagnosed with cancer.

Before we knew it, the thought of another appointment got buried under everything else. Even after my dad's death, the idea of revisiting the autism diagnosis remained just that—an idea. Instead, I started researching on my own, finding comfort in the stories of other girls facing similar challenges.

Claiming the autistic identity felt like trying to break through a locked door. It was as if I needed permission to accept who I am. This gatekeeping was exhausting, and most of it was by neurotypical people.

Neurotypical people who thought they knew everything because they've seen a movie or tv show or know someone with autism. But, what they often overlooked; autism isn't one-size-fits-all. Each person's experience varied, yet they were all valid.

Then there are the anti-vaxxers. They treat autism like it's a plague. They don't see it for what it is: a part of who you are. Just like having blue eyes or a talent for music. It's not a curse. It's simply another way of seeing the world.

It's frustrating. Their misconceptions spread lies that endanger everyone. They cling to outdated beliefs about vaccines causing autism, even though that study has been disproven. Correlation does not equal causation.

In the midst of this chaos, I found my strength. I continued to learn and grow. I realized that my journey mattered, even without a label.

I may be navigating without a diagnosis, but my identity is still valid. My understanding of myself is just as important as any expert's opinion.

But Stevie didn't care about all that. He was just there for me, offering love and comfort when I feel lost or overwhelmed. And that's all that matters.

"It doesn't seem healthy," I said, petting Stevie who was purring happily on my bed. "If they can't fix things after so many attempts, maybe it's time to move on. But who am I to judge? I'm single and might end up living in a house full of cats."

"Don't do that," he replied sharply.

"Do what?" I asked, puzzled.

"Talk down about yourself. You are one of the kindest, most genuine, and beautiful people I know. You know who you are, and you make no apologies for it. That's why I call you my Luna. You both have this incredible ability to ignore what others think. You've been my defender since we were kids, and I appreciate that."

"I know..."

"Do you remember the time you punched Barry Bridges?" he chuckled. "You defended me after he pushed me off the swing."

I laughed too. "Yes! He was so annoying, always following me around the playground. I had to do something."

That moment was a turning point for me. I wasn't just the shy kid anymore.

At that moment, I realized something. I had always been strong for others, but I often forgot to be strong for myself. I needed to believe in my worth just as fiercely as I believed in those I cared about.

Life wasn't about perfection. It's about the connections we make and the courage to stand up for what matters.

"I'm coming to pick you up. I'll be there in ten."

"Alright."

I hung up and reached for my favorite biker jacket. My dad had given it to me for my thirteenth birthday, our last one together. I held it close, breathing in the rich scent of leather. Running my fingers over it, I admired my initials on the back. They were uneven and stood out against the black, giving it a rugged charm. It felt like me—bold and free-spirited.

On my desk chair, I spotted my black cami top and cargo pants. I gave them a quick sniff. They were fresh, no sweat or dirt—just a hint of brown sugar, one of my favorite scents. Perfect choice.Yeah, I was going all out with the black today. What can I say? It's my favorite colour.

And why wouldn't it be? Black is such a happy colour.

Some might think it's gloomy, but for me, black radiates confidence and a bit of mystery.

The metal chains on my pants jingled like tiny bells as I dashed over to my gothic vanity in the corner. I grabbed my snake bite piercings and slipped them onto my lips. I ran a brush through my curly auburn hair, a gift from my dad, and gave myself a quick once over in the mirror. Jonathan would be here any moment.

As I dashed down the steps, the enticing aroma of sizzling bacon and maple wafted through the cozy kitchen. My mother was at the stove, her back to me, flipping pancakes like a pro.

"I can't stay for breakfast today. I love you!" I called out, snatching two slices of buttered toast from the table and cramming them into my mouth. My eyes darted around for my bag.

Just as I was about to bolt out the door, her voice halted me. "Wait!"

I turned around to see my reflection staring back at me—hazel eyes mirroring hazel eyes, chestnut brown hair wild like my own auburn tresses.

Then I noticed something off. She wasn't dressed for work. The bakery usually opened early, catering to morning rushes. People loved to swing by for a muffin or a sweet before heading off to their busy days. I often swung by there on my way to school.

Today, my mother's usually polished look was gone. Her hair, normally sleek in a ponytail or loose curls, framed her face in wild curls.

Despite our similar features—our light olive skin and tall frames—our differences were clear.

People often commented on how alike we looked, but they never noticed the deeper contrasts. My mother radiated warmth and joy, lighting up every room with her laughter.

While she thrived in social settings, I found comfort in books and daydreams.

It struck me how the world saw us. My mom was the sun, shining bright. I was more like a shadow, content to observe.

But that didn't mean I didn't care. I loved her warmth, even if it sometimes felt overwhelming. Our differences made our bond unique.

"What's wrong, Mom?"

She came closer, cradling my face in her hands. "Please be careful, sweetheart. You and Jonathan promise you'll be careful."

Ah, now it made sense. She must have heard about Miranda going missing on the news this morning.

"We promise, Mom. Nothing will happen to us. We have almost every class together. You don't need to worry," I reassured her. It was true; Jonathan and I were hardly apart.

"I know, but with Miranda's situation, I can't help but worry about you both."

Seeing her disheveled appearance made me feel a pang of guilt. How could I have been so wrapped up in my own life that I didn't notice she was struggling?

I reached out and smoothed her messy hair. She gave me a tired but thankful smile before pulling me into a strong hug.

As the morning sun peeked through the curtains, it warmed the cozy kitchen. Three quick knocks sounded before the front door swung open.

"Hey!" It was Jonathan.

"Hey Jon," I greeted him, returning his grin.

My mom chimed in, "Hello, Jonathan," as he stepped into the kitchen. Then her tone shifted. "Now Jonathan, I've already told Harley, but I need to tell you too. Make sure you stick together. Watch over my baby."

"Of course, Mrs. Masterson," Jonathan said. "I wouldn't let anything happen to Harley. She's my best friend. I'd do anything to protect her."

"You see, mom, we'll be fine," I added, trying to lift her worries.

"I know, sweetheart. But it's my job to worry about your safety," she replied softly.

"I wish my mom cared like that," Jonathan whispered, a hint of sadness in his voice. His family wasn't as warm as mine. His parents were distant, leaving him wanting the comfort he found at our place.

My mom had offered him a place to stay many times, but he always said no. He didn't want to feel like a burden.

Sometimes, I saw his struggles beneath his cheerful face—a wish for family love that he didn't get at home. He didn't say it out loud, but I could feel his need for acceptance, and I did my best to provide it.

With a gentle kiss on our foreheads, my mom sent us on our way.

The walk to school was short—about fifteen minutes. It gave us a chance to hang out before class. We shared every class except the first period. So, I wanted to savour our time together before we split up.

Today, we were a bit late due to the chat with my mom. When we arrived at Willow Creek Institute, the bell rang almost right away. We hugged at the door and then went our separate ways. He went to computer science. I headed to biology.

The clock felt like it was moving at a snail's pace. I kept glancing at it, hoping it would speed up.

It didn't.

I turned my attention to the board, quickly copying the teacher's notes and adding my own thoughts in the margins.

RINGGGGG!

Finally, the bell rang, signaling the end of period one. Perfect timing, too. I had just finished copying the board.

Gathering my things, I hurried through the crowded hallway to meet Jon in PE.

Once there, I changed as fast as I could and dashed out of the locker room, stepping straight into the gym.

There was Jon, along with a few other kids from our class. I jogged over and we started chatting about our crime weekend plans.

This week, we were excited to watch a documentary on one of the world's biggest mysteries—still unsolved after all this time.

Jon and I liked to make it a game. We would guess who we thought committed the crime.

Would it be a suspect the police had already found? Or someone completely unknown?

The fun part? We were always so closely matched that it was hard to declare a winner. Many of these cases were old, some dating back decades. We knew there was no real prize at stake, just bragging rights.

What mattered most was our time together. Those weekends were our escape from everything else. Just us, solving mysteries, and laughing over our wild theories. It was the perfect way to bond.

Our chat ended suddenly when a loud whistle pierced the air. Oh no. I thought I had hidden that thing. Our Phys Ed teacher, Mr. Bruile, had a serious love for his whistle. I mean, he treated it like it was a prized possession. He blew it for everything: warm-ups, stretches, even when we were just standing around.

So, Jon and I decided to stash it after one class. We should have known he'd just get another one.

"Gather around, kids!"

We formed a semicircle in front of him.

"Okay. Today we..."

I zoned out. I only snapped back to reality when someone tapped my shoulder.

"You coming?" Jon asked, looking eager.

"Wait... what are we doing?" I replied.

"Running laps! Then we get a free period."

"Free period?!" I couldn't believe it. Those were rare, especially with Mr. Bruile. They usually only happened when we had a supply teacher.

"Yep! I thought we could use that time to start our English project."

I nodded, excited. "That sounds great!"

After we ran our ten laps around the gym, we plopped down on the bleachers and got to work on our assignment.

"Why don't we write this like a novel?" Jon suggested.

I had the same idea last night. Great minds think alike, right?

"That's what I was thinking too. It'll set us apart." I liked bending the rules to make assignments unique and engaging.

Jon flipped through a stack of papers he had pulled from his bag. "Here's what I found."

It was a list of murders and disappearances in our town over the past century. The number was shocking. One detail caught my attention: the surname Haggerty kept appearing. It seemed to point to one family, spanning generations.

It made me wonder if Mr. Haggerty was related. That surname wasn't common like Smith or Williams.

As I scanned the papers, I noticed a pattern. Fathers and sons from the Haggerty line had all been suspects at one time or another in these cases.

Yet, nothing was ever proven.

"This is so weird," I said, flipping through one of the articles. It talked about Lewis Haggerty, a man thought to run a "religious compound." In simpler terms, a cult.

The articles claimed they lived beyond "The Forbidden Forest." The name came from Harry Potter, but this place was darker. It was where girls and young women vanished, sometimes turning up dead.

"I know," Jon said, nodding. "You've probably noticed, but do you think these people could be linked to our teacher, Mr. Haggerty?"

"That was my first thought. This could be his great-grandfather, great-uncles, or even cousins. Who knows?"

"Exactly. We need to dig deeper. Let's call it what it is: a cult. They might be involved in something serious, and it'd be awesome to prove it."

"Do you really think two high schoolers can uncover what experienced detectives couldn't?"

Jon shrugged, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "We've been solving mysteries our whole lives. Not just in our marathons, but real cases too. Remember that time we pieced together who stole Mrs. Thompson's cat?"

I laughed, remembering how we turned the neighborhood upside down trying to solve that.

"You're such a dork," I teased.

"But I'm your dork," he shot back, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.

That made me smile. "And I wouldn't want it any other way."

We held each other's gaze for a moment. It felt good to be on the same page.

Then, the bell rang, breaking the moment and signaling the end of the period.

Lunch time! Finally, we were halfway through the day. Thank goodness!

We headed to our lockers, grabbed our bags, and went outside to our favourite picnic bench under a tree outside the cafeteria.

As we sat down and unpacked our bags, I noticed Jonathan wasn't eating.

I frowned and asked, "Jon? Why aren't you eating?"

He turned his bag toward me. It was empty. No lunch, no snacks. He didn't even check his wallet, which meant he had no money.

"Why didn't you tell me? My mom would have given you something this morning," I said.

He shifted in his seat and wouldn't meet my gaze. I recognized that look. Embarrassment. It was the only time I ever saw him avoid eye contact.

"I already ask you two for so much. Your mom has opened her home to me. I can't ask her for lunch too."

At that moment, the atmosphere shifted. The sounds of laughter from the cafeteria faded. The world around us was just background noise.

I could see the conflict in his eyes—the blend of gratitude and shame. He wanted to be strong, to not appear needy. But I wanted him to know he wasn't a burden.

I frowned again, moving to sit next to him and rubbing his shoulder. "My mom doesn't care about that. You're like the son she doesn't have. You know that."

He placed his hand on mine and finally looked at me. "I know."

I returned to my side of the bench and rummaged through my backpack. The familiar s of plastic met my fingers. I pulled out a container, holding it out to him. "Here."

"What's this?" he asked, taking the container and opening it with curiosity.

"My mom packed it this morning. She knows how forgetful your parents can be. She wanted to make sure you had something."

"Forgetful?! Ha!" he laughed, but it was bitter. "They're more than a little forgetful." The last part slipped out, almost a whisper.

Wrapping my arms around him, I tried my best to offer him comfort. "I'm sorry, Jon. But on the bright side, you're always welcome at our house. You know my mom loves having you over."

It was true. My mom treated him like her own son. My dad joked that she thought Jon and I would grow up to get married, and she'd be his mother-in-law. People often assumed we were dating simply because of how much time we spent together.

"Thanks," he said, a small smile breaking through the heaviness.

No words were needed between us. A simple smile said everything. Everything was okay. Or at least, it would be soon.

I watched as he took a bite of the pasta, his face lighting up. There was something about home cooked food that had the ability to make things feel okay.

I had barely sat down when she showed up.

Kirsty Lavell—Miranda Hutchins's best friend and her loyal sidekick.

I sighed as she brushed past me, her focus solely on Jonathan. No surprise there. Kirsty and Miranda both made it clear they didn't like me.

She was also one of the girls who suddenly began paying attention to Jon at the start of high school.

These were the same girls who had known him since nursery school. They hadn't noticed him before, but now? Now, the moment we spoke, they'd swoop in like hawks. Just like now.

But here's the thing: it wasn't just her. A whole crowd of girls suddenly flocked to Jon as if he was some new attraction.

High school had transformed him.

He shot up in height, his voice deepened, muscles appeared, and his hair now hung to his shoulders. His features sharpened, especially his chin.

"Hey Jonathan," she chirped, her voice overly sweet. "A couple of us were going to the theater later tonight. Want to come?"

Kirsty gestured toward the popular table. The jocks and cheerleaders sat there, laughing and trading stories. Jonathan glanced at me, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. I nodded slightly, encouraging him to respond. If he wanted to go, I wouldn't hold him back.

"Um, sure. We'll meet you there."

Kirsty's smile faltered, and for a heartbeat, the atmosphere shifted. "Ohh. I'm sorry. We meant just you."

Of course, I'd known that before she even spoke.

"Then I'm going to have to decline."

"What?!" Her disbelief was clear. She wasn't used to hearing 'no.'

"Yes, no. If Harley isn't invited, I'm out. Thanks for the offer, though."

"Why do you hang out with her when you could be with us?" Her eyes flicked to her fellow athletes, who watched with growing interest. "She's like an annoying bird that won't go away."

I turned to Kirsty. "Look, sweetheart, I don't need your approval. That's for people who don't know who they are. You call me a bird? Well, bock, bock, bitch."

The bell rang, and we stood up, strolling away, leaving her there, wide eyed and slack jawed.

"You didn't have to do that, you know?" I said.

"I know. But why would I hang out with them when I could be having so much more fun with my... BEST FRIEND!" Jonathan exclaimed, lifting me off the ground. I squealed.

"Ah, Jonathan! Put me down!"

He pretended to let me slip, and I clung to him like a koala on a tree. This was our usual routine. We did silly things like this so often that it became background noise to everyone else.

"Okay, I can't wait for our crime marathon tonight," I said, as he carried me to our next class.

"Yeah. We'll take a break from the project, right?"

I nodded. "Absolutely. Mr. Haggerty said we have the whole term for this project. We're only halfway through, and we've done tons of research. We've got loads of time."

Finally, we reached our classroom, and he set me down.

I looked at him, smirking. "And we can't forget the snacks. A crime marathon isn't complete without popcorn and some treats from my mom's bakery."

He laughed. "Of course! It's all about the snacks."

I was counting the minutes until the school day ended.

Crime shows, snacks, and Jonathan—what more could I ask for?