Cracks in the Mask
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The internet never sleeps. Neither do rumors.
Her phone buzzed until it practically hummed itself off the desk. Notifications stacked on top of each other, unread, unwanted.
Poet Rivers. Love poem loser. Jonas x Elara = Ewwwwww.
Screenshots of the cafeteria scene were everywhere. Someone had recorded Vivienne reading the fake poem, her voice syrupy and cruel. Now it lived online, forever. No takebacks. No delete button big enough to erase it.
Elara curled under her blanket, earbuds in but no music playing. Just silence. Just her heart punching against her ribs like it wanted out.
She hated how she could still hear the laughter, even now. Echoes bouncing in her skull.
And then—the whisper. Softer this time. Close.
Why do you bow to them? You are teeth. You are claw. You are not prey.
She pressed her palms to her ears. "Shut up."
But part of her didn't want it to shut up. Part of her liked it.
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Jonas (9:13pm): hey u good?
Jonas (9:16pm): elara?
Jonas (9:22pm): u kno that poem was dumb right
Jonas (9:22pm): like gravy eyes?? who even eats gravy w eyes
Jonas (9:25pm): i'll fight vivienne if u want
Jonas (9:40pm): k maybe not fight bc she'll ruin me but like throw my burger at her
He stared at his screen. No reply. Elara always replied. Even if it was just a dot or a meme or some random trivia fact she'd read that day.
Now nothing.
His stomach twisted. Not hunger this time. Worry.
---
Honestly? She was bored.
Winning was boring if it was too easy. And humiliating Elara Rivers? That was like taking candy from a baby. A nerdy, awkward, oh-my-god-stop-breathing-so-loud baby.
Vivienne lay sprawled across her pink duvet, phone glowing. Notifications rolled in. Memes. TikToks. One clip already had 12k views. Her own smirk frozen at the end of the video like some queen's seal of approval.
She laughed. God, it felt good.
But then—something strange.
Her lamp flickered. Just once. Then again.
She frowned, sat up. "Dad? Power cut?"
No answer. The shadows in the corner stretched, just a little too long, too dark.
Vivienne blinked, heart kicking. Then her phone buzzed and the moment broke.
"Probably nothing," she muttered, shoving it aside.
But for the first time that night, she didn't feel like laughing.
---
Mila was sprawled on her bed, chewing gum loud enough to annoy herself, twirling a pen she had no intention of using for homework.
She kept replaying the scene in the cafeteria. Not Vivienne. Not the laughter. But Elara's face.
Red, cracked, like glass about to shatter.
Mila hated it.
She hated seeing her friend like that. She hated herself for not jumping in. For sitting frozen while Vivienne played ringmaster.
"Next time," she whispered to the ceiling. "Next time I'll do something."
But the ceiling didn't care.
---
Sierra
People say "sticks and stones," but honestly words? They're nuclear. They get in your head and rot there. Vivienne's words… they weren't just jokes. They were knives. And Elara looked like she'd been stabbed in the cafeteria.
I wanted to deck Vivienne. I really did. But here's the truth: if you fight her, you lose. Not just fists, but everything. Social death. Reputation burned. And yeah, I talk big but I'm not suicidal.
Still. Watching Elara run? It made me sick.
Next time? I'll punch her. Even if I go down after.
(I'm writing this in my notebook instead of math homework. Screw math.)
---
Posters lined the walls. "Homecoming Dance! This Friday!" Glittery fonts, too much tape, crooked edges. Students clustered, whispering. Phones out. Still watching the clip. Still laughing.
Elara walked past them, head down, hoodie up. Pretend invisible.
But whispers follow like static.
"Did you see the poem?"
"She's in love with Jonas, ew."
"Bet she actually wrote it."
"Creep."
Her pulse raced. Her nails dug into her palms.
And then—there it was again. The voice. Louder. Almost… eager.
Do not bow. Tear them. Break them. Show them what you are.
Elara's vision swam. The hallway lights flickered. For half a second, she thought she saw claws—her claws—catching the light.
She blinked. Gone.
---
Vivienne leaned closer to the glass. Was it her imagination or did her reflection look… off? Her eyes darker. Her smile too sharp.
"Get a grip," she muttered, slapping on lipstick.
But her hand trembled.
Behind her, a stall door creaked. Slow. Eerie.
She spun around.
Empty.
Her laugh came out shaky. She didn't like that. She didn't like being scared.
And for the first time in a long time—Vivienne wondered if she had poked at the wrong girl.
---
Her room smelled like old books and lemon cleaner. Posters peeling on the wall. The world outside sleeping.
She sat by the window, staring at the woods in the distance. Dark. Waiting.
Her reflection in the glass looked strange. Shadows coiled around her face, shaping something sharper, wilder.
She whispered, "What's happening to me?"
And the voice inside whispered back, almost tender this time:
You're becoming.
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She doesn't see us. Not yet.
She doesn't know what waits in the trees.
But soon.
The night belongs to her.
And when the moon rises,
Vivienne will wish she never spoke her name.
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