Monday returned like a blow to the ribs. The halls of Windmere felt tighter than ever, laughter echoing sharp off the lockers, whispers curling like smoke around Sophie wherever she walked. She had trained herself to keep her head down, to move quietly, but today her heart wouldn't let her.
It beat too hard, too loud, filled with images of Friday night—the streetlamp glow, Marcus's words, his voice breaking on you should be.
She hated that memory. She clung to it anyway.
At her locker, she found another note shoved through the vents. The paper was crumpled, the ink smeared but still legible.
No one will ever want you. Stop trying.
Sophie's stomach twisted. She crushed the note in her fist, shoving it deep into her bag. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.
But as she turned, Marcus leaned casually against the wall a few lockers down, eyes fixed on her. His smirk was there, but his gaze—dark, sharp, intent—wasn't playful.
"Bad morning?" he asked, voice low enough that only she could hear.
Sophie's chest tightened. "Why do you care?"
He shrugged. "Maybe I don't. Maybe I just like watching you pretend you don't bleed."
Anger flared in her. "You don't get to talk about my pain when you're the one who fuels it."
Something flickered in his expression—guilt, maybe, or regret—but he buried it fast. "Maybe I want to see how much fire it takes to turn ashes into something stronger."
The words stunned her. She wanted to ask what he meant, but the hallway erupted in laughter as his friends approached.
"Come on, Hale," one of them jeered, clapping him on the back. "Don't waste time on Nobody."
Marcus's smirk widened, cruel and easy. "Who says I am?"
The laughter roared, covering Sophie's silence. She turned away quickly, throat burning, heart pounding.
But as she walked, she felt his gaze burning into her back.
That afternoon, Sophie sought refuge in the art room. It was one of the few places left untouched by their games, quiet and dim, the air heavy with paint and clay. She sat at a corner table, sketching in her notebook, lines forming shapes she didn't plan.
When she looked down, she realized what she'd drawn: a shadowed figure beneath a streetlamp, smoke curling from his hands.
Her stomach knotted. She slammed the notebook shut, but the image lingered in her mind.
"You're getting good," a voice said.
She jerked her head up. Marcus leaned in the doorway, his posture lazy, but his eyes locked on her with unnerving intensity.
"Do you follow me everywhere?" she snapped.
"Maybe." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The sound echoed too loud in the quiet room.
Her pulse spiked. "Why are you here?"
"Because I wanted to see if you'd draw me."
Sophie froze. "What?"
He smirked. "Don't look so surprised. I know you think about me. You write about me. Now you draw me."
Her face flushed hot. "You don't know anything."
"I know enough." He moved closer, stopping just a few feet away. "Tell me I'm wrong."
She opened her mouth, but no words came. Because he wasn't wrong.
Her silence was answer enough.
Marcus's smirk faltered. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration breaking through his calm. "Why do you let me do this to you?"
The question stunned her. "Do what?"
"This." He gestured sharply between them. "The games. The cruelty. The truth underneath. You keep coming back. You don't run."
Sophie's throat tightened. "Because I see the cracks."
His chest rose sharply, as though her words had struck him.
"You don't want to see them," he whispered. "Trust me."
"I already do."
The silence that followed was suffocating. His eyes locked on hers, fierce and unguarded, as though he were daring her to look away. She didn't.
Marcus took a step closer. Then another. Until the air between them was charged, alive.
"You think you're safe with me," he said, voice rough.
"No," Sophie whispered. "I think I'm burning with you."
For the briefest moment, his mask shattered completely. His face softened, raw and human, stripped of armor. He looked at her as though she were both a wound and a cure.
Then the door banged open. A teacher entered, arms full of supplies, eyes flicking curiously between them. Marcus straightened instantly, smirk snapping back into place.
"Caught me skipping again," he said easily, brushing past Sophie. But as he passed, his hand brushed against hers, quick and deliberate.
Sophie's heart thundered.
Because even with the mask back on, she'd seen the truth.
And she knew he hated her for it as much as he needed her to.
That night, Sophie sat by her window, the dark pressing close. She opened her notebook, but no words came. Only one sentence burned in her mind, over and over:
The cracks are widening.
And if she wasn't careful, she was going to fall straight through them.