The Masked Truth

The campus of Hawthorne College sprawled like a kingdom, towering structures of brick and ivy standing in defiant contrast to the crumbling small town that was nestled against its borders. I strode across the cobblestone paths, my gaze fixed straight ahead, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my black coat. The autumn air bit at my cheeks, but the cold didn't bother me; I preferred it that way. The chill kept people at a distance.

It had only been a few months since I had transferred to the prestigious college, but already I had earned a reputation. Some called me aloof, others cold. I didn't care for either label. It was easier this way, easier to be left alone. People at Hawthorne were no different from those in the town I had left behind—superficial, pretending to care, only to turn on you when it suited them. I had learned that lesson the hard way.

The clock tower loomed in the distance, its hands ticking forward with a sense of indifference to the world around it. as I had memorized the campus layout by now; I didn't need to look to know exactly where I was headed. My feet led me automatically to the library—a sanctuary away from the buzzing noise of the student body. I had preferred the silence, the echo of my footsteps through the long, winding halls. There was comfort in the isolation, in the solitude that shielded me from the expectations of others.

My boots scuffed lightly against the polished floor as I entered the grand library, the scent of aged books and worn leather filling my lungs. Rows upon rows of tomes stretched high, casting shadows that danced in the golden afternoon light. A familiar place, safe, predictable.

Today, though, there was an odd tension in the air. I felt it the moment I stepped inside. The usual hum of quiet conversation was absent, replaced by a murmur of concern. my brow furrowed as I made my way to my usual corner, ignoring the students clustered near the entrance, their voices too low for me to catch, but their body language spoke of unease.

I didn't care.

settling into my seat by the window, I had pulled out my notebook, flipping it open to a blank page. The leather cover was worn, the corners slightly dog-eared from use. Writing helped me clear my mind from dark thoughts that seeped through my mind, it helped me make sense of the world when everything seemed too complicated.

But even as I tapped my pen against the paper, my mind wouldn't settle. my gaze drifted toward the group near the entrance, and despite myself, I listened.

Isabella Monroe. The name caught my attention like a spark in the dark. The girl who had gone missing, the one who was now on everyone's lips. I hadn't known her well, but I had seen her once or twice, a fleeting presence in the sea of faces at Hawthorne.

I frowned, my pen hovered above the page. Isabella had been missing for a week now. but I hadn't thought much of it. people came and went. it wasn't my business. And yet, something gnawed at me something I couldn't quite ignore.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling me away from my thoughts. She glanced at the screen—a message from a classmate I barely knew, asking if I had heard anything about Isabella. I ignored it, slipping my phone back into my coat. I wasn't here to socialize, least of all about someone I didn't know.

Still, as much as I tried to focus on the empty page before me, the whispers lingered. Isabella Monroe. My pen tapped a little harder against the paper, a quiet rhythm that matched the pulsing unease in the back of my mind. I hated that the name stayed with me, an unwelcome thought clinging with my consciousness.

The missing girl would become the town's obsession soon enough. They plastered her face on posters, spread rumors, and dug every aspect of her life, as if piecing together the puzzle of her disappearance would give them some sense of control of their own lives. People always did that. They thrived on other people's tragedies. I didn't want to be one of those people's.

But there was something about this—about Isabella—that made it harder to ignore. Maybe it was the familiarity of loss, of disappearance, that hit too close to home. Or maybe it was just curiosity. but I couldn't be sure. All I knew was that the library, my sanctuary, no longer felt as peaceful as it had moments ago.

I closed my notebook with a sigh, standing and slipping it back into my bag. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows through the tall windows. I didn't have a plan, but my feet carried me toward the exit, toward the group of students still gathered in hushed conversation. My steps were slow, deliberate, as if testing the weight of my next move.

I wasn't one to get involved in other people's business. I had enough of my own problems to deal with, enough scars—both visible and hidden—that told me it was better to stay away. And yet, as I passed by the murmuring group, something made me stop. A piece of paper in the hands of one of the students caught my eye—a missing person flyer with Isabella's face staring back at me, wide-eyed and smiling.

For a moment, I stood there, my eyes fixed on the flyer. It was a typical picture, one meant to evoke sympathy, to make people care. But there was something off about it, something that I couldn't quite put my finger on. I didn't know what it was—just a feeling, a fleeting thought.

My fingers twitched at my side, but I forced myself to walk past the group, my mind swirling with questions I didn't want to ask. I wasn't a detective, and this wasn't my case to solve.

But the name—Isabella Monroe—lingered in my mind, long after I had left the library, long after the sun had set.

The walk back to my dorm was quiet, the evening settling in like a heavy blanket over the campus. Hawthorne was a different place at night. The usual bustle of students crisscrossing paths, rushing between lectures, club meetings, and study sessions gave way to an eerie calm. The streetlights cast long shadows, their orange glow flickering over the cobblestone paths, illuminating only pieces of the campus at a time.

I had preferred it like this—when everything was still, when I could disappear into the silence. The wind brushed through the trees, their leaves rustling softly, almost in conversation with one another. My footsteps were steady, almost rhythmic, as I made my way toward my dorm, but my thoughts were anything but calm.

Isabella Monroe. I had repeated the name silently to myself, testing it, letting it settle in my mind as though it was trying to etch itself into my memory. Why did it bother me? I couldn't place it. There was nothing special about Isabella, at least not from what I had seen. Just another girl at Hawthorne, one face in a sea of others.

I had reached the entrance of my dorm building, my fingers hesitating on the handle. The heavy wooden door stood before me, sturdy and imposing, as if it were daring me to walk away, to let go of whatever thoughts had taken root in my mind. I shook my head and pushed the door open.

Inside, the warmth of the building hit me like a wave, contrasting sharply with the cool evening air. The dorm's common room was dimly lit, a few students lounging on the faded couches, chatting in hushed voices. A television flickered in the corner, muted, its images a blur of shifting colors. I barely glanced at them as I headed for the stairs, the familiar squeak of my boots against the hardwood floor echoing through the hall.

My room, on the third floor, was tucked away in the farthest corner, away from the noise and traffic of the main hallway. It was exactly the way I liked it. I had learned early on to appreciate spaces where I could be alone, undisturbed. I didn't need distractions. Not now.

Unlocking the door, I stepped inside, greeted by the dim light I had left on earlier. The room was small, but it was my—a sanctuary I had crafted for myself. The scent of lavender and old books hung in the air, familiar and comforting. I set my bag down on the chair by my desk, my gaze drifting toward the window, where the night sky stretched endlessly above the distant trees.

The stillness in the room should have calmed me, but instead, it felt too quiet. It wasn't the comforting silence I usually sought. It felt like something was waiting—just beyond my reach, just out of view.

I took a deep breath and turned my attention to the desk. Scattered across it were my notebooks, some half-open, others stacked haphazardly. Books were piled up against the wall, a mixture of old paperbacks and worn journals. The one I needed now sat at the very top—a heavy volume bound in black leather, with gold lettering that had faded over time. I had found it in a secondhand bookstore just outside town during one of my walks. The shopkeeper didn't know much about the book, but something about it had caught my eye.

It wasn't for school, not really. It was something I had picked up on my own—a book about solving puzzles, about understanding how people thought and moved, how to see things others couldn't. I had always been good at noticing things, but this book had taken it further. It was almost like a manual for understanding the world in a way no one else did.

I ran my fingers over the spine of the book, feeling the rough texture beneath my skin. I hadn't even made it halfway through yet. Each page seemed to demand time, a slow and deliberate unraveling of concepts that felt both foreign and familiar at once. It was like the author knew things—things that I myself had always suspected but never had the words to articulate.

I pulled the book from the stack and sat down on the edge of my bed, flipping through the pages slowly, savoring the feel of the paper under her fingertips. My eyes scanned the words, but my mind wandered, distracted by the quiet hum of the night outside my window. The wind had picked up, brushing against the glass in soft, irregular patterns, as if reminding me that something was always moving, always shifting, even when everything seemed still.

The words on the page began to blur together, and I blinked, shaking off the haze that had settled over me. I needed to focus. The book was supposed to help me sharpen my mind, to see things more clearly. But tonight, my thoughts were scattered, as if every idea I tried to grasp slipped away before I could hold onto it.

Isabella Monroe. The name floated back into my consciousness, uninvited. I closed my eyes for a moment, willing it to leave, but it clung to me like a shadow, refusing to be ignored. I exhaled sharply and leaned back, my head resting against the cool wall. I wasn't even sure why it mattered to me. I didn't know Isabella, didn't care about the gossip or the mystery of it all.

But the feeling, the itch at the back of my mind, wouldn't go away. It wasn't about Isabella myself, I realized. It was about the idea of something missing, something out of place. The disappearance wasn't the first thing that had ever unsettled me, but this was different somehow, as if it had slipped under my defenses and settled in my bones without permission.

I opened my eyes again and glanced back down at the book. The paragraph I had been reading described the importance of attention to detail, of seeing what others missed. I smiled to myself, a bitter, quiet laugh. I had always been good at that—seeing what people tried to hide, what they pretended didn't exist.

I closed the book gently, placing it beside me on the bed. The familiar weight of it grounded me, even if my mind refused to settle. I glanced at the window, watching the night deepen, the stars barely visible through the faint mist that had begun to roll in over the campus grounds.

There was something about nights like these that made the world feel both larger and smaller at the same time. I had always found comfort in the way darkness softened the edges of things, blurring reality just enough to make everything seem a little more manageable. But tonight, the night seemed sharper, as though the quiet held more secrets than usual.

my phone buzzed again from where I had left it on the desk. I didn't move to check it. I didn't need to. Whatever it was, it could wait.

For now, I wanted the silence.

I stood and moved toward the window, my eyes scanning the campus below. The faint glow of the streetlights illuminated the paths, now mostly empty except for the occasional figure hurrying back to their dorms. It was peaceful, serene. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But I knew better than to trust appearances. I had learned that a long time ago.

I pressed my forehead gently against the cool glass, my breath fogging up the pane for a moment before it faded. The world outside looked the same as it always did—quiet, composed, hiding whatever truths lay beneath the surface.

My fingers twitched against the windowsill, as if they were searching for something, some answer I didn't know what I was looking for. I didn't want to get involved in whatever was happening with Isabella Monroe. It wasn't my problem. I had my own life to focus on, my own issues to handle.

But the night was too quiet. The air too thick with unanswered questions.

I turned away from the window and picked up her book again, opening it to the page I had left off. The words stared back at me, waiting.

 let them wait a little longer.

I stared at the page in front of me, but the words felt distant, as though they were just shapes on a paper and nothing more. I blinked slowly, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling behind my eyes. I had pushed myself too hard today, too much studying, too much thinking. But even as the weight pressed down on me, my mind refused to settle.

My phone buzzed again, vibrating against the desk, louder than it should have been in the quiet of the room. This time, something felt different—heavier, darker. I hesitated, not wanting to acknowledge the device, but knowing all too well who it was. My pulse quickened, a familiar tightening in my chest as the past came crashing into the present.

Ignore it, I told myself. Just ignore it.

But the buzzing persisted, like an alarm that wouldn't shut off. With a sigh, I leaned forward and grabbed the phone, already dreading what I would see. The screen lit up, and there it was: a message from my father. my hand tightened around the phone instinctively, my body already bracing itself for the verbal blows that would follow.

My heart sank as my eyes skimmed over the angry words, each one laced with venom:

"Don't think you can hide at that fancy college forever. You owe me. After everything I did for you, this is how you repay me? Disappearing like your mother. You're useless—always were. Don't forget where you came from, Priscilla. You're nothing without me."

The words hit like a punch, the cold anger dripping from every letter. my father had always known how to get under my skin, to twist the knife in ways that left invisible scars. Even from miles away, his grip on me was suffocating, like a chain I could never fully break free of.

I swallowed hard, my hand trembling slightly as I set the phone back down. The message burned into my mind, echoing louder than the silence that filled the room. I closed my eyes for a moment, willing the rising wave of emotion to pass, to sink back beneath the surface where I had buried it so many times before.

He doesn't control you anymore, I reminded myself, my breath is steady but shallow. You're not that girl anymore.

But the past had a way of creeping in, of tightening its grip when you least expected it. The echoes of his voice still haunted me, no matter how much distance I put between them. Every angry word, every accusation—I had heard it all before. It was the same old refrain, and yet, every time it felt new. Every time, it cut deeper than I wanted to admit.

I stood up from the bed, my body tense, my mind racing. I crossed the room to the window, as if the cold night air outside might somehow soothe the firestorm raging inside me. The stars above blinked down, indifferent to the turmoil of my life. The trees swayed gently in the wind, whispering secrets I wished I could understand.

I had thought that coming to Hawthorne would be an escape, a way to start over. But no matter how far I ran, my father's shadow always seemed to follow. His words clung to me like chains, dragging me back into the darkness I had fought so hard to leave behind.

The room felt smaller now, suffocating, as if the walls were closing in around me. I pressed my hand to the glass of the window, the cold seeping into my skin, grounding me. It was a trick I had learned years ago—focusing on something physical, something immediate, to stop the spiral before it took over completely.

In the stillness of the room, I tried to push the anger back, to tamp it down like I always did. But tonight, it felt harder. The weight of my father's message lingered, festering in the back of my mind like a wound that refused to heal.

I paced the room slowly, my thoughts swirling like the wind outside. The words from the text replayed in my mind, over and over, twisting into different versions of the same poison.

"You're nothing without me."

The words stung, not because they were true, but because, deep down, part of what I had once believed them. Growing up in that house, with his anger, his cruelty—it had shaped me in ways I was still trying to understand. No matter how much I fought against it, some part of me feared that he was right, that I would never fully escape the person he had tried to mold me into.

But I had escaped, hadn't I? I had left that life behind. I had made it here, to Hawthorne, to a place where he couldn't touch me. And yet, the scars he left weren't so easily forgotten.

I walked over to my desk, my fingers brushing lightly over the edges of the books stacked there. The familiar textures grounded me, reminded me of the things I could control, the parts of my life that were mine alone. I had built something here, away from him, away from the past.

But even as I tried to focus on that, the gnawing sensation of his words lingered. The old wounds he had opened never fully healed, no matter how many miles separated them. His voice, the cruelty in his tone, was something I had learned to live with. It was a part of my past I couldn't simply erase.

Sitting back down at my desk, I opened the notebook in front of me, hoping the act of writing would clear my head. Words had always been a kind of refuge, a way to untangle the mess of my thoughts. But tonight, they refused to come. The page in front of me remained empty, a blank reflection of my mind.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes again, letting the cool air from the window wash over me. I needed to focus on something else, something that wasn't my father's anger, something that wasn't the poison he had spilled into my life for so many years.

Slowly, I reached for the black book again—the one that had given me a sense of control, a way to make sense of the world. I opened it to the last page I had been reading, letting the familiar words pull me in, offering a brief escape from the chaos of my own mind.

The book had always been a source of comfort, a guide to understanding the way people thought, how they moved, how they acted. It had become something of a manual for me, a way to protect myself, to see things coming before they could hurt me.

I let the words absorb me, the steady rhythm of the text easing the tension in my shoulders, even if just a little. It was a temporary reprieve, but it was something.

Outside, the wind had died down, and the campus below lay still. The night seemed to hold its breath, waiting. But for now, I tried to push everything else aside, focusing only on the pages in front of me.

The message from my father still burned in the back of my mind, but for now, I let the book be my shield.