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Heat creeps into my cheeks. I want to pretend the way he moves doesn’t feel familiar. Pretend the sound of his laugh isn’t hauntingly close to one I’ve spent years trying to forget. It’s ridiculous. Plenty of men have dark hair, are tall, and smirk like they know exactly what they’re doing to you. But every time I convince myself it can’t possibly be him, I find another reason to doubt it. Another gesture, movement, a tiny detail that twists something uncomfortable in my chest. I refuse to mention any of it to my friends. They’ll tell me not to go back, if it’s him. Because of what he did.

So I keep scrolling instead, pretending I’m just as curious as everyone else, for entirely different reasons.

There’s another video, an older one, where he and another masked man advance together, unhurried, like predators stalking their prey.

at the same damn time

The mask … the makeup … it’s all staying on

You just know they know what they’re doing

There are hundreds of people in the replies losing their minds, and the responses get dirtier the more I scroll. I can feel my cheeks heating. Part of me wants to close the app, pretend I don’t care about any of it, but another part – the part I can’t fight – wants to watch everything.

Every video. Every angle. I need to know if it’s really him, after all this time.

Looking at him feels different to watching other famous people online because I know he’s real. He exists. He’s out there, only fifteen minutes from here, and I bet he’s working again tonight.

I keep scrolling.

And I can’t stop.

13

BRYN

Five Years Ago

The house is too perfect. It has high ceilings, polished wooden floors, and walls painted a white so stark it gives me a headache if I stare too long. The kitchen has sleek marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, and cabinets that close silently no matter how hard you try to slam them.

From the balcony, you can see fancy cars glide along the streets, and neighbours walking by with designer bags and outfits that drip with luxury. Everything is new, clean, and too orderly. It doesn’t feel like home. Our last house was fancy too, but it still felt like ours. Every step I take echoes across the cavernous space, making it feel even bigger and colder. Grant hired an interior decorator, throwing away all our previous furniture, and now the house feels cold and sterile, like it was ripped straight from a catalogue.

I feel as though everything has been taken out from under me: my friends, school, the track team … Ash. I only met him very recently, but he’s already left an impact on me. I would have loved the opportunity to get to know him more, and I’m worried about him. His home life sounds less than ideal, and I’m concerned that he doesn’t have anyone looking after him.

Pressing my forehead against my bedroom window, I try to find warmth in the sunlight, but it only highlights the hollow feeling in my chest. Grant insists that the move is going to be a ‘fresh start’, not that I even understand why we need one. Things have been a little tense at home lately, but it seems quite dramatic to leave so suddenly and uproot all our lives.

Isla and I used to be close when we were younger, and we were always there for each other, but now she has completely shut me out – she’s turned into someone I don’t recognise. I could handle whatever happened as long as I had her, but now that she’s cut me off, I feel lost. She’s here too, living in the same new house, adjusting just like I am, and yet she feels so far away.

I miss the old Isla. The one who’d tease me, who’d sneak into my room at night just to talk about nothing. She made me feel like I mattered and that I wasn’t alone. Now, I try to talk to her, but she is drifting through her own world, and every glance she gives me feels careful and guarded. It’s like living with a toxic, jealous friend who you should probably cut out of your life to protect yourself, but can’t, because she is family. We’re supposed to be in this together. We’ve always been each other’s anchor, a safe place for the other, but now, I feel completely alone.

Leaving my room, I find Isla standing at the kitchen counter, her hands wrapped around a mug. Once again, she isn’t dressed in her usual revealing clothes. She is in an overworn hoodie, a pair of mismatched socks, and her hair is ratty.

‘Hey,’ I say softly.

She flinches before turning to face me, a strained smile on her face. ‘Morning.’

I lean against the counter beside her, trying to pretend that everything is normal. ‘Did you sleep okay?’

‘Fine,’ she answers after a moment. ‘Don’t love the new house.’

‘Me neither.’ My fingers dance across the countertop, a little surprised she’s bothering to make small talk, since she basically just shouts in my face these days. ‘Are you doing okay?’

‘Yeah,’ she replies dismissively. ‘Just a lot on my mind.’

There’s always a lot on her mind these days. School. Moving. Adjusting. That’s what she says, anyway, but her eyes dart toward the hallway – the part of the house that leads toward our parents’ room – and something in her expression flickers. Something she hides before I can catch it. I study her for a second, but she turns away, moving to the fridge.

‘Want breakfast?’ she asks as she pulls out fruit and yogurt.

‘Sure,’ I say, even though I haven’t had much of an appetite since the move.