You Can't Sit With Us
Before the silence, there was rhythm. Before the facility, there was home.
Seventeen-year-old Keosha Wells knows control — morning drills, flawless edges, the kind of poise that hides fear behind gloss.
But when she and her best friend Kiara vanish on the first day of school, waking inside a sterile white facility where no one remembers how they got there, discipline means nothing.
Each girl carries a secret the captors seem to want — and the walls hum with something alive.
Not every experiment starts in a lab. Some begin in your own home.
Chapter One- You Can’t Sit With Us
What I remember before being taken was my father’s voice.
Not the warnings. Not the drills. Not the silence.
Just his voice.
“Come on, Keosha — hit right, then left-left-right. After that, give me fifteen more push-ups.”
It was 4:00 a.m.
The first day of my junior year, and I was already sweating on the basement floor.
My muscles burned. My wrists stung.
But I liked the ache.
It meant I was awake.
Come on. Finish the last five, Keosha.
Every morning was like this — before school, before breakfast, before anything.
He called it discipline.
I called it the part of me that felt alive.
Moving made the fog lift. It was the one part of our morning routine that felt like mine.
I sprinted up from the basement barefoot, my heels hitting each stair like a drum. The house was quiet but not cold — big, a little echoey, and smelling faintly of protein powder and lemon cleaner.
Third floor. My room. Plush carpet under my feet. Breath catching in my throat.
The walls were soft peach, lined with Polaroids:
Me and Kiara at the fair.
Me, midair on the balance beam.
Bryce holding a turkey leg with fake vampire fangs in.
A medal hung from my doorknob — 200m track, last spring.
I never went back. Not because I couldn’t. Just… didn’t want to share that part anymore.
String lights looped around my mirror, half flickering.
A record player in the corner. A rack of vintage blazers from Goodwill I’d “borrowed forever.”
I reached for the outfit I’d planned all week:
a fitted black miniskirt that stopped mid-thigh, a red mock-neck top with sheer sleeves, and a cropped houndstooth blazer that cinched just right.
Gold hoops kissed my jawline.
Lip gloss matched the red clutch under my arm.
Hair half-up, half-down — edges laid. Fresh acrylics, square-tipped. Just enough.
I looked like the kind of girl who had plans.
Not the kind of girl they’d take.
Downstairs, Dad was waiting.
Checking the time like we were late — though we weren’t. Shoulders squared. Face unreadable.
He adjusted the cuff of his shirt — once, twice, three times.
“I won’t be home tonight,” he said.
“I need you to stay at a friend’s place. I’ll call when I can.”
His voice was flat. Not cold, not angry — just… distant.
“Okay. Is everything alright?”
He didn’t answer. Just reached for his keys, paused, then walked out. The door clicked behind him.
For a second, I just stood there.
The sunlight had shifted.
The wall by the stairs — where our photo collage hung — was missing a frame.
A pale square outlined by faded paint, like a memory erased at the edges.
What was in that frame?
I didn’t know.
And I hated that I didn’t know.
The kitchen smelled like lemon rinds and dish soap.
A faint coffee ring stained the glass table.
I used to leave lipstick marks on purpose — testing which shades would stain, which would wipe clean.
The fridge still had a cracked flamingo magnet and a glitter-pen note from third grade: DAD = THE BOMB.
It was still there.
But the other drawings — the ones from Kiara, Bryce, and me — were gone.
Upstairs, the bathroom doorknob was still loose.
Dad’s door was closed. Always closed.
I lingered near it for a second — not out of curiosity, just to feel the heaviness in the air — then kept walking.
Back in my room, my speaker was dead.
I didn’t bother to plug it in.
Everything was quiet.
Not peaceful quiet.
Held-breath quiet.
I stared into the mirror one last time. Adjusted my hoops. Smoothed my skirt. Popped my hip like I was about to walk into a magazine spread.
Because that’s what I did.
That’s who I was.
I filled rooms.
I was never the girl you didn’t notice.
I grabbed my clutch and headed for the door — heels clicking like a runway.
One last strut through a house that didn’t know it was losing me.
And I didn’t know I was losing it.
The walk to Kiara’s wasn’t long, but I made it longer.
Stopped to fix my clutch. Took the sidewalk instead of the shortcut.
Walked slower than I needed to.
Because once I got to her house, I wouldn’t be alone anymore.
And something about this morning made me want to stretch the silence a little longer.
Kiara was already outside, flipping her hair and swatting Bryce on the arm.
“Took you long enough,” she said, rolling her eyes. “My mom just finished cooking.”
Bryce grinned. “She made the good dumplings.”
“Wait — the pan-fried ones?”
“With the dipping sauce that makes your tongue tingle,” Kiara added.
That was all I needed.
We always met at her place before school. It wasn’t a routine — it was a rhythm.
Her house smelled like garlic, rice, and whatever perfume her mom had just spritzed on.
Her mom moved like a storm — fast, graceful, laughing hard and loving loud. She fed everyone, even when she said nothing.
We kicked our shoes off by the door.
Kiara tossed her bag on the couch.
Bryce was already stealing dumplings before they hit the table.
Her mom pretended not to notice — then threw a kitchen towel at him anyway.
It was always like this.
Messy. Loud. Safe.
Austin leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. Senior, like us — quiet, steady.
He nodded when I walked in.
“Morning,” he said.
“You smell like cinnamon,” I teased.
“That’s because I’m better than all of you,” he replied.
We’d known each other since middle school. He used to call me Ketchup for my red backpack.
Now he just stared longer than he needed to.
And I let him.
Breakfast was quick.
Chopsticks clattered. Sauce spilled. We talked over each other until we were breathless.
And for a moment — I forgot.
The missing frame.
The silence at home.
The distance in my father’s voice.
Because here?
Here was real.
Kiara’s mom humming over a pot.
Bryce licking sauce from his fingers.
Austin glancing at me when he thought I wasn’t looking.
Here was my life — untouched.
After breakfast, Kiara and I lingered at the door while Bryce grabbed his bag.
Austin checked the car keys like he might drive last-minute.
The house glowed with that late-morning calm — sunlight through blinds, shoes scattered on the floor. Quiet, but not empty.
Just alive.
Kiara reapplied lip gloss with one hand, fixed her curls with the other.
“You’re doing the absolute most,” I said.
“Thank you,” she replied, like it was a compliment.
She tilted her head. “You nervous for today?”
“For school?” I scoffed. “Please. I run that campus.”
“With those heels?”
“I am the moment.”
She laughed — that real, chest-deep kind.
“Okay, Miss Drama.”
“I’ll tone it down when the haters catch up.”
“Then I guess you’ll be dramatic forever.”
Outside, the sun hit just right — warm, not hot.
Even cracked sidewalks looked polished.
The kind of day you don’t think will ever end.
The bus pulled up right on time.
Bryce sprinted ahead. Kiara and I took our time.
“You think he’s gonna say something this year?” she whispered.
“Austin?”
She shrugged. “You’ve been staring at each other like a CW subplot since spring.”
“If this were a CW show, we’d have kissed behind a locker by now.”
“If this were a CW show,” she said, stepping onto the bus, “I’d be the chaotic friend who ruins everything halfway through the season.”
“No, that’s definitely Bryce.”
We laughed until the driver rolled his eyes.
And that was it.
Just another morning.
Just another ride to school.
I pressed my head to the bus window.
Nothing felt wrong.
Nothing felt different.
Not yet.
The AC hummed weakly. The windows fogged with heat and breath.
I slid into the fourth seat on the left, smoothed my skirt, and pulled out We Were Liars.
Halfway through.
Perfect summer, rich people, all lies.
Lonely, even with sunshine and money.
I knew that feeling.
We are liars. We are beautiful and privileged. We are cracked and broken.
Across from me, Austin sat down.
He didn’t look right away. Rolled his sleeves. Pencil in hand.
The old habit — tongue between his teeth while he drew.
Like the world would stop if he didn’t finish.
I wondered if he was drawing her. His ex.
Not that I cared.
“That book any good?” he asked.
“Only if you like rich people lying to themselves.”
“So basically everyone at our school.”
“Exactly.”
He smirked. Finally met my eyes — testing how long I’d hold the stare.
He always did that.
And I always broke first.
“You look different today,” he said.
“Different how?”
“Like you know something no one else does.”
My face warmed. I shut the book. Turned toward the window.
“I always know something no one else does,” I whispered.
But the moment stuck.
Last spring, I’d hidden under the bleachers to escape everything — grades, home, life.
He found me.
Didn’t ask why. Didn’t speak.
Just sat beside me, handed me a bitten apple.
We didn’t touch. Didn’t talk.
His hand rested near mine — not on it, just close enough to feel warm.
“I like it here,” he said quietly. “With you.”
That was it.
We never mentioned it again.
The bus rattled on — loud kids, loud music, and sunlight catching Kiara’s curls.
But I stayed watching Austin’s reflection in the window.
The sketch he was working on?
I’m pretty sure it was me.
That memory makes me ache.
Not because of what happened after —
but because of how normal it was.
Safe. Small. Beautiful.
The sleeve of my white sweater catches my tears.
The fabric smells like hospital air and metal polish.
Nothing like home.
Kiara and I aren’t the only ones here.
There are hundreds of girls — some barely old enough to drive, others with gray in their roots.
No one knows what this place is. Or what it wants from us.
No one asks anymore.
Kiara wasn’t supposed to be here.
I told her to run.
I screamed it.
She didn’t listen.
She ran toward me — and punched one of them square in the face.
When he fell, she reached for me.
Then another man appeared and shot something into her neck.
She dropped.
“I can’t move,” she whispered.
Her chest rose. Shallow. Slow. Still alive.
Everything blurred. I ran to her.
Grabbed a fallen needle. Jammed it into his neck.
Didn’t hesitate.
Then — a sting in my ankle.
Hot flash. Cold snap.
I’d stepped on a needle.
Stupid.
I screamed her name.
The world went black — smoke curling in from the edges until it swallowed me whole.
Before all of that — the needle, the chase, the white walls — there was the night before.
My last normal night.
And I think part of me knew.
Hair wrapped. Music low.
A citrus-and-honey mask drying tight across my cheeks.
Our shared playlist — You Can’t Sit With Us — humming softly through the room.
I dressed slow:
black flares, chocolate silk blouse, cropped faux-fur jacket.
Silver heels that clicked just right on the stairs.
Fran Fine would’ve been proud.
As I passed the mirror, I smiled.
Soft. Lashes curled. Freckles showing.
Then I paused.
The wall beside the mirror had always been cluttered with photos — birthdays, trips, dances.
But one frame was still missing.
The same one that had vanished a week before school started.
I reached toward the empty space, fingers hovering —
and a car horn blared outside.
Snapped back, I grabbed my purse, lip gloss, and keys.
Slipped out the door without checking twice.
When I open my eyes, there are no keys.
No gloss.
No sound.
The air is too white.
The walls hum softly, like something breathing behind plaster.
My fingers tremble over the deck of cards in my lap.
One. Two. Three.
I count again. And again.
But the numbers don’t help.
Tears swell. My nails dig into the paper.
I want to throw them. I want to scream.
No windows. No clocks. No sun.
Only bleach in the air. Only silence.
My breath stutters.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
But I can’t.
I’m going to explode — or faint — or shatter into pieces too small to gather back.
And then —
a hand touches mine.
Gentle. Anchoring.
“It’s okay, Keosha.”
