"I don't think James would be happy if he saw this."
That sentence boiled my blood. It kept echoing in my head until I started wondering if I should see a doctor about it. But on the other hand, I don't have money, and it would just be a waste of time and space—space that someone else might need more.
I tried asking him what he meant. The only message I got was that he didn't remember and that he's been having memory problems lately.
I wasn't satisfied with that answer, so I kept digging. The next response was lazy and half-hearted, as if he couldn't come up with another excuse for his sudden amnesia.
The sun was slowly rising over the rooftops—warm but somehow cold at the same time. A faint fog still lingered outside. I didn't open the window; I didn't want to catch a cold.
tried getting up but couldn't—because of the soreness from having sex. My butt was red from the second time with Malachai, and it shouldn't have hurt… but I was wrong.
He was asleep, curled into me, both of us naked under the blanket. Sometimes he would stir and mutter incoherent words, but there was one I understood clearly:
"Love you."
Then he drifted back into sleep.
I started building a fantasy in my head—us, cuddling in our own home in South Korea, far away from Willow Hollow. In that imaginary world, my mom had fully recovered and was living in Japan.
But it was just that—imaginary. Not real.
Suddenly, that peace was interrupted by James showing up, begging for forgiveness and swearing he had changed. And I—touched by his sincerity—decided to give him a second chance. Malachai nodded in agreement. And the three of us lived happily ever after.
"What did you say?"
I heard a voice. Malachai was looking at me, smiling.
"I didn't say anything."
He turned on the bed and stretched, reaching for his watch on the floor. He checked the time with sleepy eyes.
"Shit, I'm gonna be late."
I didn't know what was going on. He quickly left the room and came back five minutes later.
"Where are you going?"
Malachai looked at me while putting on his underwear and pants.
He held a Nirvana t-shirt in his hand—the one with the smiley yellow face. I liked that shirt and I wanted to see how it looked on him.
He walked over, leaned down, and said:
"I'm going to work."
He put on the t-shirt in front of me, and I felt a rush of cool air with a lavender and fruity scent.
I had forgotten that he worked. He often skipped school just to earn some extra money. What surprised me was that, despite his rich parents (unlike Ryan and Joshua, who never worked), he actually worked.
"Why so early? I mean, you used to leave early before, but now you're out even—"
"I got fired from my last job," he interrupted.
"What do you mean, fired?" I asked.
"I was too often… high at work," he said with a cracking voice. I could hear the shame and disappointment in it.
"Where do you work now?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"I'm scared… scared of what you'll think of me."
"What could I possibly think? I'm the last person who'd judge you."
"I work as a dealer. Is that okay?"
A dealer?
My heart stopped—I couldn't feel its normal rhythm. I thought it was going to give out right then and there.
"That's exactly why I didn't say anything. So… what do you think of me now?"
Silence fell. The words got stuck in my throat. They wouldn't let themselves rise from my stomach all the way up. I saw the pain in his eyes — he was just waiting for me to say something, good or bad, so he'd know where he stood and whether it bothered me.
"Nothing, Malachai. Nothing at all."
"You need to leave now."
His tone changed — no longer shaky, but more serious and cold, with a hint of menace. I slowly got out of bed, picked my things up from the floor, and went to the bathroom to get dressed.
Once everything was back in place, I went to his room to see him one last time. He was gone.
Then I heard the chime of my phone — a message notification.
I walked over to the desk and turned on the screen.
I couldn't believe it. Twenty-eight missed messages from James.
What does he want? I kept asking myself. I unlocked the phone and opened his notifications.
Most of them were about keeping my mouth shut — and one was an invitation to meet up.
But I have Malachai. He'll protect me.
Still, if I went alone and Malachai wasn't there... it would be suicide.
All the messages had been sent one after another, just ten minutes ago.
"I have to leave now."
Malachai stood by the doorframe in a leather jacket.
"I'm coming," I replied.
***
I went to the café — alone.
Around me, I could hear the clinking of spoons and the hum of conversations growing louder.
Shouts from staff announcing orders mixed with laughter from people who had randomly run into their friends.
It was too noisy, so I stepped outside.
I was waiting for the right moment to ask about a job.
Before I had gone in, I'd noticed a flyer posted on the window saying they were hiring a new employee (they were looking for a young, energetic person), so I was waiting until the crowd cleared out a bit.
The morning weather was far from ideal — it was pouring rain, and it wasn't stopping.
The wind kept picking up, and it looked like a tornado might roll in at any moment.
I turned around — and accidentally bumped into a man in a suit, causing him to drop his things.
"I'm so sorry," I said, quickly picking them up and handing them back to him. "Really, I didn't see you."
"You could be more careful next time, kid…"
The man stopped mid-sentence. He looked at my face — stunned, like he'd just seen a ghost.
I immediately felt uncomfortable. What did he want from me?
"My name's Tom Holden," he said, reaching out to shake my hand. I took it.
He went on,
"I work for a modeling agency. Hold on," — he started digging through his bag for something. When he found it, he handed me a business card.
"So you don't think this is a scam."
"You're an agent?" I asked.
"You could say that. We're looking for people like you."
Like me?
"I don't quite understand."
"We're scouting for new faces for ad campaigns, and we weren't having much luck.
But right when I was about to give up — I ran into you."
It all felt completely unrealistic to me.
Me? A commercial model?
"Is this a joke?"
"A joke? No, not at all. How about we step into the café? What do you say?"
With all that happening, I'd forgotten it was raining.
"We've got a lot to talk about," he said.