Fractured

7: Breaking Through

MARCO

It's been three days since I've seen Rachel, and every hour feels like an eternity. We have no missions, so we aren't meeting at Cassie's barn, and she's avoiding me at school. Each night, I make my way to the treehouse, hoping she'll show, but the only sounds are the echo of my footsteps and the rustling of leaves. The silence presses in on me, heavy and suffocating, and no matter how hard I try, I can't shake it off. I replay our last encounter over and over—the tension crackling between us, her sudden exit still burning in my mind.

I feel like a jerk for not being able to just let it go. I keep imagining what I should have said, how I should've handled things differently. But every time I try to think it through, my stomach twists into tight, painful knots. What could I say that wouldn't just push her further away? What could I do that would make a difference?

Tonight, as I walk toward the treehouse in the woods behind our houses, I feel the anxiety thrumming beneath my skin. The night is cool, and the moon hangs low and bright, casting silver light over everything below. The branches sway gently in the breeze, making soft, creaking sounds. Part of me wants to convince myself that it's a good night to be alone, to just let the silence swallow me whole. But another part of me—one that I can't ignore—doesn't want to be alone. Not anymore. Not with this feeling gnawing at me.

When I arrive, I scan the space for any sign of her, but the treehouse remains dark and still, like an empty shell. I kick a loose stone, and it clatters away into the underbrush. I feel the frustration rise in my chest. Why is she avoiding me? I thought I meant more to her than this.

With a surge of determination, I morph into an osprey and take to the sky. The wind rushes past me, the cool air biting at my feathers, but it feels good to move, to have a purpose. Flying toward her window is a calculated risk, but it's one I'm willing to take. I'm desperate to fix this. As I approach, I spot a light spilling out of her room, a warm, golden glow that contrasts with the cool night around it. I land on the edge of her windowsill, taking a moment to steady my breath and gather my thoughts.

Peering inside, my breath hitches. Rachel is in fitted workout clothes—black leggings and a tank top that hugs her athletic frame. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands falling out of place as she moves. She's doing some kind of exercise, flowing through poses with a focused, almost graceful intensity. The light from her lamp casts soft shadows that highlight her strength, her beauty. My heart hammers in my chest. How is it that she's always so stunning, even when she's not trying?

Get a grip, Marco.

After a beat, she walks over to the window. I feel the weight of her steps, like every movement is measured, like she's not quite sure what to make of this situation. Slowly, she opens the window, the soft creak of the hinges loud in the quiet of the night. She doesn't say anything right away. Her arms are crossed tightly, her posture closed off, but she doesn't look away from me.

I hop down from the windowsill, my wings folding against my body as I land lightly on the ground below. The cool night air ruffles my feathers, and I take a quick breath, trying to steady my nerves. I want to appear calm, collected. I don't want her to see how badly I'm shaking on the inside.

I close my eyes and let the morph take over. It's always disorienting, even after all this time—the stretch and pull of my limbs, the burning ache as feathers dissolve and muscles reshape. Slowly, my form solidifies back into something human. The last sensation to leave is the sting of my skin as the feathers withdraw. When it's done, I open my eyes again, standing there in front of her, human once more.

The silence lingers between us, thick and heavy. I take another breath, my pulse racing faster than it should. Finally, I speak, my voice rough but steady. "Can we talk?"