Id, Ego, and the Stranger

"According to Freud, repressed memories can manifest as undesirable behaviors if not properly controlled. This applies not only to individual psychology but also to relationships. A person with unresolved childhood trauma may struggle with attachment, leading to instability in their future partnerships"

Ryan wasn't listening.

His body slouched over his desk, head buried in his arms, breathing slow and steady. Dreaming. Or maybe escaping.

"They say that dreams are the royal road to the unconscious, so mister Ryan must be enjoying his journey on the way there"

That joke made their laughs rippled through the classroom.

Then, a crumpled ball of paper thrown by his professor struck his head.

No reaction.

A sharp nudge from his seatmate.

Still nothing.

Then suddenly, he lurched awake from his royal road journey, gasping for air. His heart slamming against his ribs, his vision momentarily blurred.

"His carriage must have drowned when the bridge collapsed. You're sleeping in my class again, Mister Alvarez?"

Ryan swallowed hard, wiping his face. "Sorry, sir."

The chuckles faded, but the heat of embarrassment lingered.

It was just a dream.

Except… it didn't feel like one.

"Repressed memories manifest in behaviors we don't understand." The professor's words still echoed in his mind. Unresolved relationship which turns into instability-- all that psychological talk was supposed to be theoretical.

But Ryan knew better. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the thought as he stepped into the hallway after the class. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up like that.

These dreams or whatever they were had been creeping up on him for months now. Always the same pattern: suffocating darkness, a crushing weight on his chest, and the feeling of being trapped in something he couldn't see.

By the time he woke up, his body always felt like it had just run a marathon. Maybe it was just stress. Or maybe-- maybe Freud was right.

Maybe the past wasn't done with him yet.

His fingers curled into a fist for a brief second before he forced them to relax. No. He wasn't going to do this again.

It had been a year already. A year since Alie. A year since the accusations. A year since he lost everything. The suspension, the whispers, the way people looked at him like he was guilty before he even opened his mouth.

Later that afternoon, the sun hung low. He checked his watch-- late. He hurried to the guidance office, pushing past students with places to be. With a sigh, he quickened his pace toward the guidance office, where the air always smelled faintly of lavender and strong perfume.

Inside, Miss Porpora sat behind her desk, tapping her nails against a clipboard. Her full makeup always immaculate-- deep red lips, perfectly shaped brows, and just the right amount of blush to make her look effortlessly put together. The tight folds that frame her face doubling in contrast with her patience which is almost at its bottom. 

She looked like she didn't want to talk but he went anyway, because that was what "recovery" was supposed to look like, wasn't it?

"Ryan, how are we today?" with a pointed look on her face

He sank into the chair. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"That's something." Her deep red lips quirked into a knowing smirk. 

They talked about the usual: school, sleep, stress. Then, as always, Alie.

Talk about Alie again, she is that sweet yet cunning girl who had a knack for playing games,

A year ago, he played her game and she completely shattered him.

A framed assault, a ruined varsity career, a reputation burned to the ground. She took everything. But he swore,

"I won't let it happen again."

"That's progress," Miss Propora said softly.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

As their conversation goes, he almost forgot that he had a 2 PM Chemistry Class since he stopped for a year and had to retake the minor subject.

So after a quick meal, he made his way to the library, needing to download notes for their first lesson, then proceeded to their classroom for this afternoon.

The room was empty, still. The kind of quiet that felt untouched.

He took a seat near the window, let his head rest against his folded arms. Just for a minute.

Then a cold. Sharp. Wet.

A sting of ice against his shoulder.

Ryan jolted up, heart hammering, and locked eyes with a stranger.

A girl stood in front of him, gripping an iced coffee, condensation dripping from the cup.

She had a wolf-cut-- messy but effortlessly styled. A black oversized jacket swallowed her frame. Her nails were painted in a spectrum of colors, each fingertip a different shade.

She wore a mask, but her eyes are wide, startled, that held all the expression she needed.

"I… I'm so sorry," she murmured, voice soft, uncertain. "I was startled…"

Ryan blinked, still half-trapped in sleep. He glanced down, his shirt was damp where the ice had touched him.

"It's… it's alright," he said, shaking off the daze. "Yeah. I'm sorry too."

She hesitated, then lowered her gaze and without another word, turned and walked away. He watched her go.

Who was she? She didn't look familiar, but something about her stayed with him.

The way she walks is elegant,

That outfit, she looks like a truant,

And that mask, I bet she looks good underneath that clothing,

But before he could think too much about it, voices filled the room as his classmates arrived.

"Nevermind."