What's home, if not the first place you flee from? What's love, if not that blazing, unexplainable feeling born from the ashes of hate?
Reputable for her appeal, servility, and obsession with cartoons, Alaina is a workaholic immigrant doctor who's s...
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Doja Cat ft. The Weeknd - You Right.
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I SNAP MY EYES OPEN, drenched in a light film of sweat, my breath hitching, shallow, ragged—like someone had just yanked me from the bottom of the sea. My pulse gallops wildly, unruly hooves trampling calm, and the dark around me hums with danger.
"Hello?" I whisper through a throat tight and raw. "Is anyone there?" I repeat, trembling as fear pulses through my limbs like cold, electrified silk.
My fingers crawl blindly to the bedside table, skimming its surface until they meet the lamp's base. I flick it on. Warm yellow light slices through the gloom...but there's no one here.
Calm down, Alaina. Just a dream.
No, subconscious—nightmare. An innermost scream in Technicolor.
I grab my phone. 12:34 a.m., the digits glow like a scourge. I must've passed out mid-convo with Amara.
I tap into Instagram, my eyes locking on the last message she sent. Her words stare back at me like something unfinished, something...off.
Amara: García is okay.
García? Since when? And why didn't she mention the blowjob scandal Jason's been pissed about? We spill everything to each other...down to the size of a man's—
I scoff out loud, shaking my head.
I talked to my mum last night too. She grilled me like a seasoned detective—questions about my well-being, my love life, James Blonde. Ugh. When I told her I was in town, she made me swear I'd visit her soon.
But the nightmare still haunts me, clawing through the edges of my thoughts—two men chasing me down, trying to silence me the way they did Taylor. They said I'd found out their secret. Her corpse flashed in and out like static on a broken television.
I realize then—I didn't take Temazepam. Not after reading that diary. If I had, I wouldn't be up now, sweating like a sinner in confession.
And I know—deep in the marrow of me—that dream was no random trick of the night. It was triggered. By the truth buried inside that diary. Taylor Ash's truth.
After reading it, I have no doubt...Taylor was murdered.
She fled to California with a man she named over and over again—her mystery lover. Bought the journal there. Documented it all, secretly, the way a soul in hiding scrawls revelations they'll never speak aloud. She wanted to prove to her mother that he was worth it. That she made the right choice.
But the lines were all carefully scratched out—each entry of his name, gone.
The early loggings glowed with love and rebellion. She even got married to him.
