Page 68 of Ghosted

That part keeps sitting heavy in my chest because I can’t blame him properly. Not when I ran. Not when I looked back. Not when some stupid, reckless part of me wanted to know what would happen if he caught me.

And then let him.

Johnny is different.

Jagger’s danger has a shape. I can see it coming, even when I don’t move out of the way.

Johnny’s doesn’t.

I think about him in the library basement. Too close to me. Too comfortable in a place he didn’t belong. Smiling like he already knew which buttons to press and was just deciding how bored he felt.

He didn’t look at me like Jagger does.

Jagger looks at me like he wants to keep me.

Johnny looks at me like he wanted to see what would happen if he broke something Jagger wanted.

That’s the thing about the Cutter brothers.

Jagger makes me feel seen.

Johnny makes me feel hunted.

And unfortunately for me, I don’t think either one of them plans to stop.

By the time I get dressed, I’ve convinced myself I’m fine.

This is a lie, but I’m wearing enough eyeliner to sell it.

Black pleated skirt. Ripped tights with my doc martens. Cropped sweater under my jacket, even though the collar keeps shifting and making me aware of the mark underneath. I pull it up three times before giving up and grabbing my bag.

My camera sits on the desk, right where I left it.

I stare at it for a second.

Then I grab it before walking out the door, because apparently learning from consequences is not something I’m doing this week.

Class is useless.

The professor spends an hour talking about visual intention and negative space, and I spend the entire time pretending I’m listening while thinking about Jagger’s hands on my hips, his voice in my ear, and that stupid mask lying in the mud by our feet.

Very academic of me.

I take notes anyway, but none of them make sense. At one point, the girl beside me drops her pen, and I jump so hard she looks at me like I might need medical attention.

After class, Milo catches up to me outside the arts building with his skateboard under one arm and purple hair falling into his eyes.

“You look like shit,” he says.

I blink at him. “Good morning to you too.”

“It’s almost noon.”

“Then I’ve looked like shit for hours. Thanks for noticing.”

His mouth twitches, and he gives me that look again. The one that lingers a second too long before he remembers we’re supposed to be friends and drags his eyes back to my face.

“Rough night?” he asks.