A dream wakes you up, just at the moment at which it might reveal the truth, so that you only wake up in order to keep dreaming—to dream in the real, or to be more exact, in reality." - Lacan

I woke up to the sound of knocking. Someone was at my bedroom door. Groaning, I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock—it was too early for this.

Then I heard my mom's voice. "Harley, get up! You want breakfast before school, don't you? I made breakfast burritos." Her excitement seeped through the door. "There's enough for both of you." A smile crept onto my face. My mom always knew how to start the day right.

Beside me, Jon stirred awake. "She must have heard you come in last night," I teased, and we both chuckled softly.

"Yeah, probably," he said, stretching like a cat. "Do you still have some of my clothes here?" He glanced around the room, scanning for his stuff.

"Of course. They're in the first two drawers on the left side of my closet." I watched as he rummaged through my things, searching for something to wear.

I quickly picked out my outfit—a black turtleneck paired with a red and black plaid skirt. Simple yet comfortable.

But when I turned around to talk to Jon, I froze.

He stood shirtless, muscles catching the morning light filtering through the window. My eyes involuntarily traced his defined abs, the sharp angles of his body. He casually buttoned up his pants, and my heart raced with the sudden closeness.

Our eyes locked. I felt heat creep into my cheeks as I realized I'd been caught staring.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly. I could feel my heart thumping, loud and panicked. My mouth went dry.

"Just... thirsty," I stammered, darting out of the room without waiting for his response.

The kitchen greeted me with a familiar warmth. My mom stood by the sink, her smile faltering when she saw my flustered expression.

"What's wrong? You're flushed," she observed, her brow furrowing with concern.

I took a deep breath, the smell of fresh orange juice filling the air. "Mom, how did you know you liked Dad more than a friend?"

Her face lit up, a soft laugh escaping her lips. I sank into a chair at the kitchen island, nervously sipping my juice. The tangy flavor barely registered as my mind replayed the unexpected encounter with Jon. His shirtless form lingered in my mind, leaving a knot in my stomach.

My mom turned off the water, dried her hands, and sat down across from me. "Harley, love is complex. It's not always easy to recognize, especially with someone who's been by your side for so long."

"But how do you know if it's more than just friendship? How do you know if what you feel is... love?"

She smiled gently, covering my hand with hers, warmth radiating from her touch. "Love isn't easily defined. It grows over time, nurtured by shared experiences. Sometimes, it takes a moment of realization to see what's been in front of you all along."

Her words lingered between as I thought about Jon. He'd always been there, a constant in my life. The way he made me laugh, the way he listened without judgment, the way he knew me better than anyone else.

Could it be possible that what I felt for him was more than friendship? My heart raced at the thought. I glanced at my mom, hoping for a sign that I wasn't imagining it.

"Mom," I began, hesitating but feeling a rush of courage. "What if I think I like him... like, really like him?"

Her eyes sparkled. "That's part of growing up, Harley. It's messy and confusing, but it's also beautiful."

I didn't notice Jon slipping into the kitchen until he cleared his throat softly.

Had he heard our conversation?

If he had, he wasn't showing it.

"Morning, Mrs. Masters-Avril," he said, flashing a sheepish grin as he caught my mom's disapproving look, correcting himself.

"Morning, Jonathan. Sleep well?" she asked.

"Yeah. Very good," Jon replied, his eyes flickering toward me for a moment. The warmth in his gaze made my stomach flutter, but he quickly returned to my mom's warm smile.

"I'm glad. How's your head? Feeling better?" she pressed, genuine concern weaving through her words.

Jon nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Much."

"Good. I'm glad," she said, her smile brightening. She placed two large breakfast burritos on the table, steam rising from them. "I made your favourites. Chorizo, egg, onion, green peppers, and Parmesan cheese. Enjoy."

She mentioned her homemade barbecue sauce, setting it on the table before bustling around to gather her things for work.

As she said her goodbyes and left for the bakery, I was left alone with Jon.

I bit into the burrito, the flavours exploded in my mouth. The spice of the chorizo mingled with the creaminess of the cheese, and the light crunch of green peppers.

But my thoughts kept drifting. The way Jon's hair fell over his forehead, the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed—was this what a crush felt like?

Suddenly, he looked at me. "What happened last night?"

I paused, mid-bite. "What do you mean?"

"You were tossing and turning all night," he said, his brow furrowed. "And mumbling something about Mr. Haggerty."

I swallowed hard, my stomach tightening at the memory. "I was in a forest near that grove we found," I started. The image of the dream flashed in my mind—a young girl in a green dress, her black hair flowing like shadows. "She kept pointing behind me. When I turned, Mr. Haggerty was there."

I shivered as I remembered his bloodied figure. Jon's eyes widened, the shock evident. "And then? What happened?"

"It gets worse," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "The girl turned back to me. Her dress was soaked in blood. She was still pointing at Mr. Haggerty while he bled from his mouth and stomach."

Jon grimaced, his face paling. "That's creepy as hell."

"Yeah." I felt a shiver run down my spine. "I tried to help him, but he just... died right in front of me."

"Have you seen this girl before?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No, never."

He reached out, his hand resting on mine. "We need to find out who that girl is and why she appeared in your dream."

We finished our burritos in silence.

It was almost time to leave.

We gathered our things, ready to face another day at school—or as Jon called it, our "daily hell hole."

I slid on my black knee-high boots, feeling the soft leather hug my legs. Jon handed me my bag, his fingers brushing mine.

The crisp morning air filled my lungs as we made our way to school. The scent of freshly baked pastries wafted from the bakery, as we walked past.

Through the window, I spotted my mom, a big smile on her face. We waved before continuing down the street.

"About that dream you had last night..." Jon's voice broke through my thoughts. "It got me thinking. Maybe we should start looking into it."

"Yeah. But where do we even begin?"

Jon paused, his eyes scanning the pavement. "We should head to the archives again. Maybe there's something there that can help us."

"That sounds like a plan. But wait... auditions for the school play are today. Mr. Haggerty asked for my help."

"Why would he need your help?" Jon questioned.

"I'm not sure," I admitted. "But maybe you could go to the archives alone. See if you can find anything on those missing girls."

Jon's brow furrowed. "We were supposed to go together."

The unease settled in my stomach. "But... with your dream adding another layer to this mystery, maybe it's worth exploring both leads."

"I'm sorry for changing plans at the last minute," I said.

"It's okay," Jon reassured me as we reached the steps of our school. He looked down, shuffling his feet before meeting my gaze again. "We can always go tomorrow or whenever it works best for you."

"I promise I'll make it up to you somehow," I vowed, placing a hand on his shoulder.

I'd bake him something sweet. His favourite desserts, maybe.

He chuckled softly. "You don't have to make desserts as an apology."

But I noticed the light in his eyes at the mention of sweets. "Are you sure? Your sweet tooth is quite legendary."

He blushed slightly, a rare sight that made me smile. I loved seeing him flustered.

The warning bell rang, slicing through the chatter of the hallway. We had only five minutes. Jon and I were deep in a project, bouncing ideas back and forth.

"Darn. We need to go to class. Can we finish this later?" I asked.

"Yeah. Later," he muttered, eyes glued to his notebook.

With a quick nod, we split up. I slipped into the familiar corridors toward biology, the scent of chalk dust lingering in the air. Jon veered off to computer science, his focus unwavering.

Just as I reached for the door handle, someone rushed into me from behind. I stumbled, the sharp jolt pulling me from my thoughts.

"Sorry, Harley." It was Damon. His voice buzzed in my ears while he grabbed my arm to steady me. I brushed off his apology and walked in without looking back. Just days ago, he swore we weren't friends. Now he was trying to talk to me again.

"Wait, Harley! Let me explain!" he called as I made my way inside.

Without waiting for him, Mr. Killian entered. His presence filled the room. "Morning class," he said, diving right into the day's agenda. "Who has their permission forms signed?"

My stomach dropped. I had completely forgotten. I scribbled a reminder in my notepad. Jon would help me remember.

I settled in my usual spot near the front, smiling at Mr. Killian as he started the lesson on cellular respiration. His voice flowed, turning complicated subjects into understandable bits.

I twirled my pen, trying to focus. Biology wasn't my favourite, but I needed to pass. My eyes were glued to Mr. Killian as he shuffled papers.

"Quizzes from last week are graded," he announced, holding up a stack.

"Well done, Harley," he said, handing me my test. Pride swelled as I scanned my answers until one caught my eye. A wrong mark? I knew I had answered it correctly.

I raised my hand. "Mr. Killian, I think you marked a question wrong."

"Which one?" he asked, peering at my binder.

He studied the question but nodded. "If you can stay a few minutes after class, I'll check."

Then Jake's voice cut in. "Nerd," he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. Heat rushed to my cheeks. Ignoring him was hard. Everything inside me wanted to snap back.

"Do you have something to share with the class?" Mr. Killian's tone was sharp yet calm.

"No? Then keep it to yourself."

Jake shifted, muttering an apology, shrinking in his seat like a scolded child.

Mr. Killian glanced at me, then turned back to the whiteboard, seamlessly continuing our biology lesson.

"Yeah, wouldn't want to hurt your little girlfriend's feelings," Jake sneered softly.

Aside from his tense shoulders, it was unknown whether or not Mr. Killian had heard his second comment. If he did, he didn't say anything.

Whispers swirled around me.

"Did you hear Masterson was questioned about Miranda's death?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't be surprised if she did it."

The bell rang. Finally. The class quickly cleared, leaving only Mr. Killian and I.

I hesitated, glancing at Mr. Killian. My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my test paper. I had to ask about the grade.

As I pointed out an error, he leaned in closer. His eyes were intense. They lingered longer than they should.

A shiver raced down my spine as his fingers brushed my hair.

"Sorry. Fluff," he said, flicking something away.

That was weird. Creepy, even.

"There have been rumours," he said slowly, "about you being questioned by the police." My heart raced, each beat louder than the last.

"I—I don't know anything about her death," I stuttered, words tumbling out like marbles.

Mr. Killian's gaze pierced through me. "Harley, I believe you. But you need to be careful. People jump to conclusions when they're scared."

I nodded. Maybe not everyone thought I was guilty—someone other than Jon and my mom, at least.

As I turned to leave, a flicker caught my eye. A shadow stood by the door, then vanished.

I rushed through the empty hallway, the note from Mr. Killian crumpled in my fist.

Fluorescent lights buzzed above me, casting shadows on the linoleum floor.

As I neared the gym, the sound of muffled chatter and squeaking sneakers greeted me. Coach's voice barked orders, sharp and demanding. I pushed open the heavy double doors, the sound echoing in the vast space. Coach turned, his glare pinning me in place.

"Ms. Masterson! Late again," he snapped, eyes narrowing like slits.

"Sorry, Coach. Mr. Killian—" My voice faltered as I handed him the note.

He crumpled it, tossing it aside. "No excuse. You need to take your classes seriously."

Before I could respond, he pointed to the bleachers, where my classmates were already stretching. "Get changed. Start your laps."

Head hung low, I made my way to the change room.

I quickly changed into my gym clothes, the fabric cool against my skin. I glanced in the mirror, taking a deep breath, before exiting.

Moments later, I was running laps around the gym, surrounded by the familiar scent of sweat and polished wood. Jon had already finished his laps, but he didn't leave. He stayed right beside me, matching my pace.

"You really don't have to do this," I panted, my breath coming in quick bursts.

"It's okay," he replied, a grin appearing on his face. "Coach says there's always room for improvement."

As we approached the last lap, Jon broke the quiet. "I want to tell you something during lunch," he said.

"Okay."

The rest of gym class blurred by, each whistle of the coach echoing in my mind. The bell rang, bringing an end to my hell, and signalling the start of lunch.

Jon and I navigated the cafeteria, slipping through the throng of students hungry for lunch. The scent of sizzling food was everywhere, drawing us in. Each step toward the line sparked my anticipation. What would we find today?

At last, we reached the front. My gaze darted over the options. My stomach rumbled at the sight of steaming burritos, which we learned were stuffed with Mexican rice, corn and shredded chicken. They looked irresistible. "Burritos it is," I said, grinning.

Sure, we had my mom's breakfast burritos, but this was different.

They rarely made burritos, so, I always made sure to grab some when they did.

Jon nodded, mirroring my enthusiasm, as we grabbed our trays, paying for our lunch, and headed to our usual table beneath a leafy tree. The sun filtered through the branches, casting playful shadows on our plates.

The explosion of flavors hit me: the rich, spicy chicken mingled with the subtle warmth of the rice and crunchy corn.

But then, my gaze drifted. Damon sat alone at a distant table, his expression unreadable. Ever since our argument days ago, the air between us had shifted.

Jon nudged me, pulling me from my thoughts.

"What's up with you?"

I sighed. "It's about Damon.

"He came to me before first period. Said he wanted to explain."

"Explain what?" I asked, intrigued.

"Not sure. But you should talk to him."

I hesitated.

Jon kept his eyes on Damon, who was lost in thought, barely touching his food. "Did Damon say anything about Kirsty?"

I shook my head. "Why would he?"

Jon leaned in, voice low. "Remember that convo we heard? Kirsty warned him about 'him.' Maybe she knows about those notes you've been getting."

The pieces clicked together. Could Kirsty be involved? Did Damon hold the answers? Despite my doubts, I realized talking to him might be my only chance to unravel this mess.

"Yeah." I glanced at Damon, head down, fiddling with his tray. "Maybe."