𝑲𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑹 𝑰𝑵𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑪𝑻𝑺 | B.L & S.M

Chapter 3 : Cold Stare, Warm Breath

I loathe mornings.

This one was no different from the others, the faint smell of brewing coffee drifting through the air, rousing me from the haze of sleep. My body felt heavy, sluggish, as though I were dragging chains behind me with every step.

The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I shuffled toward the bathroom, the cold air prickling my skin, making me shiver. The mirror greeted me with a reflection I barely recognized—eyes heavy-lidded, skin pale, hair wild and tangled like I'd just fought off a storm. A frown tugged at the corners of my mouth before I could even stop it.

Routine. It was the only thing that grounded me, the only constant in the chaos. I splashed cold water on my face, the chill seeping into my bones, hoping to wake up, to feel something besides the numbness that had begun to settle in my chest.

My room—cluttered with half-filled notebooks, old Polaroids pinned haphazardly to the walls, the remnants of a life I didn't want to let go of—was the one place that still felt like mine. Outside of it, the world felt like a fog, a weight that pressed against my ribs, suffocating in its uncertainty.

Everywhere in Woodsboro seemed to hum with a sense of unease, the very air thick with whispered secrets and eyes that lingered a moment too long.

"Eryl!" Dad's voice rang out from downstairs, sharp and commanding, pulling me from my thoughts. "You're going to be late!"

I blinked, snapping my gaze to the clock. Shit. He was right. Panic jolted through me as I scrambled for clothes, grabbing whatever was closest—a sweater and jeans—and pulling them on in a frantic rush. My fingers fumbled as I stuffed my books into my bag, the weight of them a reminder of everything I was trying to avoid.

By the time I made it downstairs, Dad was waiting by the door, his car keys hanging from one hand, his face carved with that permanent frown that never quite left him.

"Breakfast?" he asked, gesturing to the untouched plate of toast and eggs on the counter.

I shook my head. "Not hungry," I muttered, though the hollow ache in my stomach begged to differ. I grabbed my bag, ignoring the quiet disapproval that radiated off him.

He didn't push. He never did. His concern wrapped in silence, the unspoken words hanging in the space between us, too heavy to touch. I wasn't sure if it was because he didn't know how to talk about it or if it was because he thought silence would fix things.

As he drove me to school, the radio filled the silence, crackling with the latest news about the murders that had everyone on edge. My eyes wandered to the blur of trees passing by, the constant loop of suspects remain unidentified crawling through my mind like a chant, a whisper I couldn't escape.

"Be careful," Dad said when we reached the school, his grip on the steering wheel tight, the white-knuckled evidence of his own exhaustion.

"I'm always careful," I replied, pushing the door open before he could say anything more. The world outside felt even colder than inside the car, the air thick with tension as I stepped out, the door slamming shut with a dull thud.

I glanced back briefly, seeing Dad's tired eyes watching me from behind the wheel before I turned to face the school.

It was just another day—like yesterday, like the day before, and the one before that. My chest tightened at the thought, but I kept walking, the weight of it pressing against me. My body ached, but it wasn't from anything physical. It was just this endless, gnawing exhaustion, a fatigue that went deeper than my bones.

The hallways of Woodsboro High buzzed with noise—lockers slamming, laughter ringing off the walls, the lingering scent of cheap cologne mixing with the sharp scent of freshly mopped floors. I walked through the crowd like a ghost, eyes fixed on the ground as I made my way to my locker, trying to block out the world.