Don't read me.
The days passed.
Slow, sticky days filled with laughter, training, and the kind of calm that felt fake. Like the calm before a storm or the smile someone gives before bursting into tears.
Peter and Chloe thought I was getting better. They thought I was healing.
But the truth?
I was rotting inside.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw fire. Smoke. Screams. The twisted faces of people who once trusted me, now terrified, running from me. Begging me. Hating me.
And that boy.
Peter.
Well… the version of him that existed back then. He didn't hold me. He didn't save me. He didn't even try.
He slapped me.
He looked at me like I wasn't Emma.
Like I was death.
I couldn't unsee it.
I couldn't forgive it.
But worse—I couldn't blame him.
---
That evening, we were back in the attic. Practicing again.
Chloe had drawn circles in salt. Peter sat cross-legged, reading aloud from some psychic guide that had more spelling errors than useful advice. I was sitting stiffly, arms folded.
We had tried everything.
Incense. Focus chants. Pressure points. Candle meditation. Nothing worked. The powers wouldn't come.
"You're not connecting," Chloe said, watching me.
"No duh," I muttered. "Maybe because I'm emotionally dead right now."
Peter looked up. "You're not dead, Emma. You're numb. That's different."
"Wow, thanks, therapy boy."
He didn't flinch. "Then talk to me."
I picked at the hem of my sleeve.
"Nothing to say," I whispered.
Another lie.
--
Later that night, I curled up on the couch again, fake asleep.
I heard them talking.
Peter and Chloe. In the kitchen.
"She's not telling us everything," Peter said, voice low.
"I know," Chloe whispered back. "She smiles too much. That's the red flag."
"She doesn't laugh anymore. Not really."
There was a pause.
"She's scared," Peter added. "I can see it in her eyes."
My heart twisted.
--
The next day was worse.
It started like any other. We ate toast. Trained. Failed. Laughed (kind of). Then around noon, Peter decided to clean the study.
Because he's a weirdo.
"I bet we've got something useful in those old drawers," he said, stretching his arms. "Books. Spells. A secret portal to another dimension."
"You're the secret portal," Chloe snorted.
I froze.
"Wait," I said quickly. "You don't need to—uh—I'll clean that room later!"
Peter raised a brow. "You hate cleaning.
"Y-Yeah, but I feel like it today!"
He opened the study door anyway.
I bolted after him.
My heart pounded. My throat closed. I stepped in just in time to see him pick up a throw rug and peer underneath.
No.
No.
No no no—
"Peter," I snapped, louder than I meant to. "Leave it."
He blinked at me.
Then crouched down… and lifted the rug.
And saw the loose floorboard.
"Oh?"
I dove.
I literally dove across the room and slammed my hand on the board before he could open it.
"It's just old junk under there!" I laughed nervously. "Spider webs. Dead mice. Ghosts. You know!"
Peter stared at me.
"I just saw your soul leave your body," Chloe said behind me.
"I'm fine," I insisted, breathless, heart racing.
Peter tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Emma. What are you hiding?"
I didn't blink. "Nothing."
Chloe crossed her arms. "You're a terrible liar."
I stood up too fast. "Let's go outside. Fresh air. Training. Whatever."
They followed..
Peter kept watching me. Silently. His eyes didn't leave me once the entire afternoon
--
That night, I opened the journal again.
My hands shook as I wrote:
> I almost got caught!!
I can't let them see this part of me. Not yet. Maybe never.
Because what if they see what he saw? The hate? The horror? The monster?
What if Peter looks at me like that again?
What if I never unsee the way those mothers screamed? The way their babies—
I hate myself.
I hate this.
And I miss feeling loved.
-----
The ink smeared from my tears.
I buried the journal again. Deeper this time.
At breakfast, I barely touched my food.
Chloe nudged me. "You're not even eating Nutella. Something is definitely wrong."
Peter reached out, softly brushing my hand. "You okay?"
I looked at him.
He looked so kind.
So warm.
So unlike the boy who once let them drag me away.
"I'm fine," I said.
Lie.
But I had to lie.
Because the truth might break everything.
Something cracked inside me that day.
Maybe it was the way Peter looked at me too long, or how Chloe kept whispering things when she thought I wasn't listening. Maybe it was the way I kept dreaming of fire and screams and crying babies and hands that once loved me, turning into fists.
Or maybe I was just tired.
Of pretending.
---
We were in the barn again, going through yet another "training session."
"Try to focus on one thought," Chloe said.
"Something positive," Peter added.
I clenched my fists.
Positive?
Like the sound of six-month-old infants choking on smoke? Like the look on Peter's face when he slapped me?
Like the silence after I killed 800 people?
"I can't do this," I muttered, stepping away.
"Emma—" Peter began.
"Just stop!" I snapped.
They both froze.
I didn't want to explode. I really didn't. But the truth was too big now. Too messy. And it was swallowing me alive.
"You guys don't get it. You don't get it!" I screamed.
Peter walked toward me. "Then tell us—"
"No!" I backed away. "Because if you knew... you'd hate me."
Chloe shook her head. "Emma, that's not—"
"I deserve it!" I yelled. "You should hate me! You should run! I'm not someone you save! I'm not someone you fix!"
The lights in the barn flickered.
Peter froze mid-step. "Emma—your eyes."
Chloe gasped. "They're bleeding."
I clutched my head. "Stay away! I'll hurt you. I'll hurt everyone!"
"Emma, no one's afraid of you," Chloe said gently.
"I am!" I sobbed. "Don't you get it? I killed children. Babies. I saw the pain in their mothers' eyes. I didn't mean to, but I did. I burned them all."
Peter didn't speak. He just stared at me, his jaw clenched. Not in fear. But something worse—like he knew.
And then—
Boom.
The wooden table behind me exploded, splinters flying.
The salt circles burst into sparks. Chloe shrieked and ducked. Peter grabbed her and pulled her back as the floorboards cracked beneath my feet.
It was happening.
My power was finally listening to me.
But it wasn't a gift.
It was rage.
And regret.
And guilt too big for my body to hold.
I collapsed to my knees, sobbing into my hands. "I can't be saved," I whispered.
---
They didn't speak to me after that. Not for the rest of the night.
I locked myself in my room. Cried until my stomach hurt. And eventually passed out cold on the bed.
---
The next morning, Amanda returned.
Worse. Louder. And meaner than ever.
We were in town getting coffee and groceries, and she spotted us near the park.
"Oh look," she smirked, walking over. "The misfit trio still trying to be normal."
I didn't say anything.
But she looked at me weirdly. Eyes narrowing.
"You okay, Blanders? You look… different."
"Go away," Peter muttered, shielding me slightly.
But Amanda didn't move.
She leaned closer to me. "You've got… something in your eyes. Looks like blood."
I turned to her slowly.
And for a split second, I wanted her to feel afraid.
And she did.
She stepped back. "Whatever. You're all freaks."
But she left. Without a single comeback.
Peter and Chloe were silent the whole walk back to the farmhouse.
---
That night, while I showered, they searched the study.
They didn't mean to pry.
Not really.
But something about the floorboard felt too off. Too obvious.
Chloe lifted it gently. Pulled out the leather-bound journal tucked inside an old scarf.
It was worn.
Full.
Pages and pages.
From the first time I ever wrote in it at age eleven to... now.
They didn't read everything.
Just the last few pages.
But Peter's eyes fell on one specific entry as he flipped to the back:
> March 18th — My 14th Birthday
I love him.
I don't know how I didn't see it before, but now I do. It's Peter. It's always been Peter.
He makes me laugh. He makes me feel like I'm not crazy. He looks at me like I matter.
I'm sure now. I love him. I know it.
Peter's fingers shook.
His cheeks turned red.
Chloe peeked over his shoulder. "That's..."
"Don't," he said quickly.
He flipped past it.
To the last entry:
> I almost destroyed the world once. No one knows what it felt like. I felt right doing it, and that's what scared me. I saw children die. I let them die. And he hated me for it. I hated me too. But part of me… part of me didn't feel sorry. Part of me wanted more. What if that part wins?
Peter swallowed hard.
Chloe quietly said, "She's carrying all of this alone."
They put the journal back carefully.
Exactly how it was.
But I noticed.
---
Later that night, I returned to my room and froze.
Something was different.
The rug was slightly crooked.
The scarf didn't smell like dust anymore.
I opened the floorboard and stared at my journal.
Tears filled my eyes.
They knew.
They read it.
At least some of it.
And I didn't know whether to be angry…
…or relieved.
---