The morning
Warning
Violent scenes , abusive language, depressed thoughts.
Dedication
To all the those messed up people who can relate to some of my thoughts and yes it's a work of fiction I really didn't do anything like and neither plan to do ( just kidding) maybe I will .
Content :
Part l. Part ll.
Chapter 1 chapter 16
02. 17
03. 18
04
05
06
07
08
09
10
11
12
13
14
15
Epilogue
Not everything is same as it looks like , no one's perfect, everybody lies , don't trust anyone.
May han's diary
PART l
... Chapter 01
02:02
Monday , 15 August
I can't bring myself to sleep I'm trying, trying so hard but I can't maybe I've been taking too much of cafeen lately might stop watching Netflix too I think I've been taking all the serial killer documentaries to my head well Even though I watch it for fun but I think it's affecting me now there are thoughts which I can't seem to ignore . If mum knew that I've been staying up late of which she's already suspicious of me she'll kill me . There's class tomorrow .I should get my shit together if I want to have it of course I do I've just been slacking off I'll get back to it once for all like I always do.
8: 00 am
I heard banging on my room's door and my mum's voice travel across the room ," Get your ass up may before I beat it up " .
" I am ,stop - shouting ". I yelled still laying in my bed .Tossing around and tryna get up to go to college it's been hard to wake up lately after I finished high school and got into the college of my mum's choice but at least got to study the degree of my choice I still can't believe she agreed to it .The shouting cut through the house like a siren.
“Wake up already! You’re late for college!”
The voice came again, sharper this time, followed by a knock that rattled the bedroom door. The sound felt too loud for the early morning, too aggressive for a place that was supposed to be safe. I groaned and rolled onto my side, the clock on my nightstand glowing 8:17 a.m. in angry red numbers.
Late.
Again.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” my mom yelled from the hallway. “Blackridge University does not care if you stayed up all night staring at the ceiling.”
I pushed myself upright, the cold air biting at my skin.Outside my window, the sky hung low and gray, the kind of overcast that made it impossible to tell whether it was morning or evening. Blackridge was like that—always muted, always half-asleep, like the town itself was holding its breath.
“I’m up,” I muttered, though she was already walking away.
From my bedroom window, I could see the tops of the old maple trees lining our street, their branches bare and skeletal. Beyond them, the distant silhouette of the university buildings loomed over the town, dark brick structures rising out of the fog like watchtowers. Blackridge University didn’t blend into the city. It watched it.
The house sat on the quieter edge of town, where sidewalks cracked and streetlights flickered even during the day. A ten-minute drive from campus, close enough to hear the low hum of traffic but far enough that the student noise never quite reached us. Mom had said it was a good compromise. Close, but not too close.
I dragged on a hoodie and glanced back at the window. Somewhere behind those buildings was the psychology wing—newer, colder, all glass and steel—standing in sharp contrast to the rest of the campus. That was where my first lecture was today. The one that already made my stomach twist just thinking about it.
“Coffee’s on the counter,” my mom called. “And don’t forget—you can’t be late again. This is college, not high school.”
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, the weight of it heavier than it should’ve been. Outside, the air smelled like damp pavement and dead leaves. A siren wailed faintly in the distance, then stopped just as suddenly.
Blackridge always sounded like that—unfinished. Since the day we came to this town there's always something off about it .
I locked the door behind me and started toward my car, the university barely visible through the fog ahead. I told myself it was just another morning.
I was already wrong.
I slammed the car door harder than I meant to, the sound echoing down the empty street. The engine groaned to life, and for a moment I just sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at the fog rolling low across the road like it was alive.
Blackridge always looked different from behind glass.
The drive to campus took less than ten minutes, but the scenery changed fast. Houses thinned out, replaced by old brick storefronts with darkened windows and “For Lease” signs that had clearly been there for years. A rusted factory rose on the left, half-swallowed by weeds, its broken windows staring back at me like empty eyes.
The university appeared suddenly, emerging from the fog without warning.
Tall iron gates marked the main entrance, the name BLACKRIDGE UNIVERSITY arched across the top in blackened metal. I slowed without meaning to. The gates were always open, but they never felt welcoming. Crossing through them felt less like arriving somewhere and more like being let in.
The road curved inward, lined with ancient trees whose branches stretched overhead, tangling together like veins. The buildings were massive and dark, their brick faces stained by time and weather. Gothic arches. Narrow windows. Stone steps worn smooth by generations of students who had come here hopeful and left… changed.
I parked near Hawthorne Hall, one of the older dorms, and killed the engine. For a second, everything went silent. No birds. No voices. Just the low hum of the campus, like it was breathing.
I stepped out and pulled my hoodie tighter around myself.
Students moved past me in small clusters, their conversations hushed, their faces tired. Everyone here looked exhausted in the same way—as if sleep wasn’t enough anymore. As if something else was being taken from us.
The library tower loomed ahead, its lights still on despite the daylight. They were always on. Someone once joked it was so students could study at any hour. Someone else said it was so no one would notice if a light went out.
I headed toward the psychology building, my footsteps echoing too loudly on the stone path. The newer buildings were colder—steel and glass, sharp edges where the old campus had curves. The psychology wing sat slightly apart from everything else, like it didn’t want to touch the rest of the university.
As I reached the entrance, I hesitated.
The doors reflected my face back at me—pale, tense, unfamiliar. Twenty years old, and already feeling like I’d stepped into something I didn’t fully understand.
I pushed the door open.
Inside, the air was cooler, sterile. The smell of disinfectant mixed with old paper. Voices echoed down the hallway, distorted, impossible to place. Somewhere deeper in the building, a door slammed shut.
I checked my schedule again even though I already knew where I was supposed to be.
Intro to Psychological Research.
Room 3B.
Late.
