W*tch

Chapter 1: 12 Hours Earlier

NOVA

You'd think at the age of 25, I'd have had my life together. I mean, wasn't that what everyone expected? But there I was, struggling to scrounge together enough change to buy a cheeseburger at McDonald's. It was pathetic. Every day, I felt like I was falling further behind. I worked, saw my best friend, Zoey, and then slept. Rinse, repeat. It was a cycle of monotony I couldn't break out of, no matter how hard I tried. And whenever I did try—when I attempted to do something, anything, out of my usual routine—my sister, Echo, would show up and effortlessly make me look like an idiot.

Echo had always been perfect. It was like she got all the good genes, and I got... well, whatever was left. I used to watch her glide through life, ticking off every box—she even managed to look good doing it. Meanwhile, I was stumbling along, wondering where I went wrong.

Those thoughts were what led me to where I found myself that day: sitting in a small, stuffy office for therapy. The office was as depressing as I felt—off-white walls, a single diploma hanging lopsided, as if it had given up trying to stay straight. The furniture looked like it had been picked up from a clearance sale somewhere, and the couch I sat on was far from comfortable. It was the kind of place where hope felt like it was on life support.

I hadn't wanted to go. I never did. But my parents had insisted, said it would help me "find myself" or whatever nonsense they had read in some self-help book. The truth was, they just didn't want to deal with me anymore. They were busy with their lives—Echo's life—and I was just this afterthought they felt obligated to fix.

"Nova, could you please answer my question?" Dr. Archer's voice cut through my spiral of thoughts. He always sounded like he was trying to balance on the edge of something—trying to keep his calm, but never quite succeeding. It was our second session, and I was pretty sure he was already regretting taking me on as a client. His notebook was proof of that. He fidgeted with it constantly, turning the pages over so many times they had started to fray at the edges. The cover was practically falling off, which I found ironic—he was trying to keep me together when he couldn't even manage his own notebook.

Feigning innocence, I looked up at him and plastered on a polite smile. "Sorry, I think I misheard. What was the question again?" I hated lying, but at that point, I couldn't help it. It was like a reflex. Lying kept people at a distance; it kept me safe.

He sighed, clearly frustrated. "What's making you so unhappy?" His voice was soft, almost pleading. He'd asked this before, back in our first session, and I had just stared at him like he was speaking another language. Part of me still wanted to just sit there in silence and wait it out, but I knew that would only make things more awkward. So, I threw him a bone. Just enough to keep him from asking too many more questions.

"You know... life," I said, shrugging as if that explained everything.

Dr. Archer blinked, his expression tightening. I could see his jaw clench for a second, like he was trying to decide whether or not to push further. He scribbled something in his notebook, and I wondered what he was writing. Probably something about how I was deflecting or how I wasn't opening up. As if I was supposed to bare my soul to some stranger after two sessions.

"Nova, we've talked about this before," he said, keeping his voice steady. "You need to allow yourself to open up. It's the only way I can help you."

"Why?" The word slipped out before I could stop myself. It was a genuine question. Why should I open up to him? Why should I trust that he could fix me when I had accepted long ago that I couldn't be fixed?

His eyes brightened slightly, like he was relieved I was finally engaging, even if it was in frustration. "Because you're not as broken as you think you are," he said. "You have so much potential, Nova. You could do anything."