On The Other Side

Thomas woke to the smell of toast and the soft clatter of pans downstairs. For a moment he thought he had overslept, but the alarm clock glowed 6:37, right on time. He rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and listened to the rain tapping against his window like fingertips.

Downstairs, his mother was already dressed for work—scrubs under a windbreaker, hair tied back in a loose bun. She was balancing her travel mug in one hand and buttering toast with the other when he trudged into the kitchen.

“You’re up,” Mrs. Everett said, warmth in her voice despite the bags under her eyes. “Want something before I head out?”

Thomas shook his head, sliding into a chair. “I’m not that hungry.”

She frowned, slid the plate of toast his way anyway. “At least try.”

He picked at the edge but didn’t take a bite. She didn’t press. That was the quiet agreement between them—her small offerings, his silence in return.

“You’ve got your sketchbook,” she said, noticing it tucked under his arm. “Don’t let that distract you too much today, okay? You still need to be there for the rest of it.”

“Yeah,” he said, though his eyes stayed on the rain-fogged window.

Mrs. Everett leaned over, kissed the top of his head, and grabbed her bag. “Love you, sweetheart. Have a good day.”

The door shut behind her, leaving the house hollow in the way it always was after she left. Thomas stared at the untouched toast, then slid it back toward the center of the table.

A good day. Sure.

He grabbed his hoodie, shouldered his bag, and walked out into the drizzle. But instead of turning toward school, he cut down Maple Street, past the shuttered shops, until the park came into view—empty except for the slick swings and the hiss of rain in the trees.

Outside, the air was a bit cold, sharp with the smell of wet leaves. Thomas shoved his hands into his pockets, breath fogging before him. The streets were nearly empty; kids who cared were already hurrying toward Mirrah High.

The school loomed ahead—brick walls blotched with water stains, windows like blank eyes. Thomas stopped, glaring at it. For a second, the building seemed to press down on him, heavier than stone.

“Mirrah High,” he muttered. His lip curled. He flipped it off, then turned his back and walked away.

As he cut down side streets, the quiet deepened. The birds had gone silent. Even the sound of traffic faded. Only his footsteps and the crunch of brittle leaves followed him. It felt—just for a moment—like the whole town was holding its breath, watching him.

The park was empty. Rust on the swing set chains groaned with each push of the wind. The sandbox was a pit of shadows. Thomas dropped his bag, pulled a cigarette from a battered pack, and lit up. Smoke curled around his face, burning his lungs but grounding him.

Finally—peace.

“You know those things kill you, right?”

Thomas’s eyes shot open. He froze, scanning the park. The swings creaked. The trees whispered. No one.

He shook his head, exhaling smoke. “Great. Now I’m hearing voices.”

“Keep puffing away, and you’ll be knocking on Death’s door before long.”

This time the voice was behind him.

Thomas spun.

A girl hung upside down from the monkey bars, her messy ponytail dangling, red-framed glasses sliding toward the ground. One striped leg, one polka-dotted. A grin spread across her face—too wide, like she knew a joke only she understood.

“If I wanted to kill you,” she said lightly, forming a finger gun, “bang—you’d already be gone.”

Thomas blinked, cigarette forgotten in his fingers. “…What?”

She dropped down, knees buckling before she steadied herself. “Whoa. Blood rush. Totally worth it.” She swayed, then locked eyes with him. For a moment, her stare was flat, unblinking. Then she giggled, high and snorting, like the moment hadn’t happened at all.

Thomas grabbed his bag. “Yeah… nice meeting you, I guess.” He turned to leave.

“Whoa, hey, where you going? Hot date?” She skipped into step beside him, hands swinging behind her back.

“I’ve got places to be,” he muttered.

She leaned forward, peering up into his face with a curious tilt of her head. “Like where?”

Thomas shot her a glare, ready to lie. But her crystal-blue eyes fixed on him through her glasses—steady, too innocent, almost knowing. His mouth went dry. “…Nowhere. Just…killing time.”

Her grin returned, sharp and triumphant. “Perfect! We can murder time together.”

“…We?”

“Yep. You, me, and myself. The Three Amigos." She spun on her heel, skirt flaring, then stopped suddenly to look him over like he was a puzzle she already half-solved.

“You dress like an emo boy,” she said, smirking. “Metal, screamo, all that. You’ve got piercings. You’re skipping school. And you smell like smoke.” She leaned closer and sniffed, wrinkling her nose with exaggerated disgust. “Like a chimney. Which means you’re either trying way too hard to look cool… or you’ve actually got something going on.”

Thomas froze. She was too close. Too on point.

“And,” she added, a smile spreading slowly, “I don’t think you’d lie to me. Not when you’re looking a cute girl in the face.”

Thomas’s cheeks burned before he could stop them. “I—I’m not emo,” he stammered. “I’m… alternative.”

She snorted with laughter, clutching her stomach. “Alternative. That’s adorable.” Then, just as quickly, she went quiet. Her smile lingered, but her voice dropped soft, flat: “Names tell you less than you think.”

Silence stretched. The park felt colder.

Then she brightened again, sticking out her hand with a dramatic bow. “Anyway! My name’s Ariel. Nice to meet you, Thomas.”

Thomas blinked. He hadn’t told her his name.