Chapter 1
Dorian
Many stories start with “Once upon a time,” but that’s only when it’s some fictional bullshit. This one isn’t. A late-night bus. A forgotten bag. A leather-bound journal wedged between two seats like someone had tried to bury it and missed. I wasn’t supposed to see it. I wasn’t supposed to open it. I wasn’t supposed to know anything about it. But I did. And there she was— Elowen Skye. A name I hadn’t said out loud in four years. A name that had no business being written next to mine in a place this private. She remembered me. God help her. I flipped the cover open before I could stop myself. The leather creaked, like it knew it was betraying her. The first page wasn’t recent. It was dated September 4th, three years ago, when she was sixteen. The latest entry was only a week old. June 6th. Her handwriting was the same—slanted, a little loopy, still curling her y’s like music notes. Too delicate for a city that had ground us both down. I turned the page, then another. Then I found it.
I haven’t seen him since high school. But I still wonder—where is he? Is he okay? Does he ever think of me? And the worst thought of all—has he fallen in love with someone? Someone who isn’t me?
My chest tightened. Because she wasn’t just a memory anymore. She had questions. And so did I.I smelled some noxious, strong perfume and turned to see some lady snooping over my shoulder. “Get a life,” I snapped, rather harshly, but it was better than sounding the way I felt: defensive. She pouted and scoffed, turning away. I snapped the journal shut and shoved it into the inside pocket of my jacket before the woman could say anything else. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t push further. I got off at the next stop, boots hitting pavement as the doors hissed closed behind me. My heart was pounding in rhythm with the city’s restless hum. The cold night air hit me like a slap. I pulled my collar up and forced myself to keep moving, but my mind was already spiraling back.
High school. That cramped classroom, the smell of chalk and old textbooks. Elowen, sitting three seats over, her hair a wild tangle of gold that caught the light like fire. She wasn’t like the others—too fragile, too fierce. And me? I was a mess back then, trying to stay invisible while everything inside me screamed for escape, trying to disappear while everything inside me begged to be seen. We’d drifted apart the moment graduation pulled us into different orbits. No fights, no goodbyes. Just silence. Now, holding her thoughts in my hands, I realized how loud that silence had become.
The shop was dim when I got there, the overhead fluorescents humming like they hadn’t quite woken up yet. Oil stains patterned the concrete floor like abstract art, the smell of grease and gasoline clinging to the air like smoke.“Morning, boss,” came a voice from behind a lifted Ducati. Will stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag that looked like it had already seen war. “You’re late. Everything okay?”I gave him a half-shrug. “Overslept.”He squinted at me like he didn’t believe it, but didn’t press. That’s why I kept him around—he knew when to ask, and when to shut the fuck up. I headed to the back bay, rolling up my sleeves as I passed racks of parts, bikes in various states of disassembly, and that damn ringing in my chest I couldn’t shake. The bike I was supposed to be working on, a Honda CBR600RR, sat there silently like it knew I wasn’t really there. The customer had requested new fairings, matte black with red accents, sharp and sleek. I started removing the bolts, careful not to scratch the tank. But my hands weren’t steady. The bolts kept slipping. The fit wasn’t right. I stripped one of the screws, and cursed under my breath. Will glanced over from across the bay. “You good?” “Yeah,” I muttered, though I knew I sounded like a liar. “Just need a minute.”I wiped my hands off and grabbed the journal from the inside of my jacket, the leather still warm from my body heat. I sat on the edge of the workbench, back to the wall, and flipped it open again. Elowen’s voice hit me instantly—quiet, unfiltered, unguarded. She had no idea I’d ever read this. And God help me, I couldn’t stop.
June 6th – 8:27 PM – First page in 3 years
I didn’t mean to find this journal.
It was tucked between a stack of books I haven’t touched since high school—covered in dust, a little bent, the corner still folded on the last page I wrote. I almost threw it out. I’m so, so glad I didn’t. Reading those old entries… I forgot how much I used to feel. Everything was louder then—wanting things, dreaming things, fearing everything else. I miss the girl who wrote those words. She was quiet, sure, but she still believed people could surprise her. That someone might notice her if she looked back hard enough. I don’t think I believe that anymore. But I’m going to try writing again anyway. Not because I think someone’s watching. Not because I expect anything to change. Just… because I miss being honest. Even if it’s just to paper. The truth feels safer here than anywhere else. So—hello again, old friend. Let’s try this one more time.
-Elowen Grace Skye
I read the next entry, as curious about her as she was about me. Scratch that, probably more curious.Obsessed, maybe, if I was being honest with myself. Not in a creepy way. Not yet. But in the way you start falling before you realize there’s no ledge beneath you.
September 7th – 12:03 AM It’s stupid to write this, but I dreamt about him last night. Not the boy he was. The man I don’t know yet. Same eyes. Same voice. But older. Taller. Sadder. He didn’t speak. Just looked at me like I’d said something unforgivable. I don’t remember what I said. I woke up with my hands in fists and my mouth already open like I’d been yelling at him to stay. I don’t know what’s worse—missing someone who left, or missing someone you never really had.
-Elowen Grace Skye
My jaw clenched. She dreamt about me. And it wasn’t soft or sweet or nostalgic. It was wreckage.
She’d carried the weight of our silence all this time, and I hadn’t even looked back. I told myself we’d just drifted—different directions, different lives—but she still felt the undertow.
I flipped the page.
September 8th - 11:44 PM
I wonder what kind of person he’s become. I hope he’s okay. I hope the world hasn’t swallowed him whole. But, as terrible as it is, I also hope he’s not perfect. Because if he’s happy without me, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.
-Elowen Grace Skye
I closed the journal and just sat there for a while, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the clink of tools in Will’s bay echoing through the garage. I closed the journal and just sat there for a while, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, the metallic clink of tools in Will’s bay echoing faintly through the garage.
The words pressed against my ribs like something alive.
If he’s happy without me, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.
Neither do I, El. Not even fucking close. Because I wasn’t happy. I was functioning. Breathing. Running a shop. Fixing other people’s machines because mine would never stop breaking. But that wasn’t the same thing as living, was it? She remembered me. Not just the surface—the real stuff. The damage. The distance. The gravity of who I was when I didn’t know how to carry myself through a room without flinching.
And the fact that she’d been holding onto that weight in silence… Hell.“Hey,” Will called from across the garage. “You gonna finish those fairings, or are you writing poetry back there?” I slid the journal back into my jacket and stood up, movements slower than usual, heavy like I’d aged five years in the last five minutes. “Little of both,” I muttered, brushing a hand through my hair. Will squinted, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. “You sure you’re alright?”I glanced at him. Flat stare. No expression. Okay, I take it back. Maybe he didn’t know when to shut the fuck up after all.
“Getting there,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either, because the more I read, the more I knew; I wasn’t getting anywhere. I was circling something I’d never really left.
The fairings could wait. Hell, the whole damn world could wait. I stared at the half-disassembled bike, the tools lined up with precision on the bench, and felt nothing. Not focus, not drive—just noise. Background static. She missed the girl she used to be. I didn’t even know if I’d survived the boy I was. I walked over to the CBR and started tightening bolts just to have something to do, but my hands moved on muscle memory alone. My mind? Still trapped in slanted ink and her voice in my head like a song I hadn’t heard in years—but somehow still knew every word.
I tightened a bolt too far and heard it strain, felt the thread catch wrong. Didn’t matter. Nothing about this damn bike mattered right now. Not the fairings. Not the client. Not the perfect black-and-red finish they wanted like the motorcycle’s soul could be painted on.
I wiped my hands on a rag and leaned back against the bench, jaw tight.
She missed the girl she used to be. That line wouldn’t leave me alone. It echoed, ugly and aching, somewhere between guilt and something worse.
Because I hadn’t missed anyone. I’d buried everything.
I didn’t miss the boy I used to be. I blamed him. For not fighting harder. For leaving her behind in the blur of growing up. For thinking silence was easier than explaining why I couldn’t look her in the eye that last week of school. And now she was nineteen and writing about dreams that still had my name in them.
I rubbed the back of my neck. The air in the shop felt tighter somehow, like even the walls were closing in to listen. I glanced at the jacket where the journal sat, tucked deep inside. Still warm. Still whispering.
I could give it back. That’d be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it? I should return it. Tomorrow. Leave it on a bench or her doorstep or wherever the hell fate wanted to step in and fix what we broke. But I knew I wouldn’t. Not yet. Because I had to know what came next.What secrets she’d whispered to these pages, long after the world told her to shut up. What cracks and shadows hid beneath her careful words. What part of me was still tangled in the knot of her silence.
It was dangerous. Sinister, even. But I couldn’t let go. That journal—her confessions, her fears, her broken dreams—it was the only thing tethering me to her anymore. To the girl I thought I lost. To the girl I never really stopped chasing.
I kept telling myself I’d read just one more page. One more, then I’d lock it away. Bury it where no one would find it. But the ink was like poison—slow, crawling under my skin, and I was already too far gone. “Dorian,” Will’s voice cut through the silence, softer this time. “If you don’t wanna finish the fairings, I can take over.” I didn’t answer right away. My hands trembled slightly as I tightened a bolt, the metal cold against my fingers. When I finally spoke, the edge in my voice was sharper than I intended. “I said I’ve got it.” Will’s quiet pause was heavy with something—concern, frustration, or maybe just the recognition that whatever I was fighting, it wasn’t about a damn motorcycle.
I shoved the wrench down, stood too fast, and the room spun just a little. This wasn’t repair work. This was unraveling. And deep down, I wondered if she felt the same. If somewhere behind her careful words, her guarded silence, she was unraveling too.
The night had settled outside, thick and suffocating as the city’s neon glow bled through the cracked windows. I slipped the journal back into my jacket, the leather warm and heavy against my skin—like carrying a ghost I couldn’t bury. Elowen Grace Skye wasn’t just a name anymore. She was a question I couldn’t stop asking. A wound I didn’t want to heal.Because sometimes, the darkest places are the only ones that feel like home.
