Chapter 1 — The Girl Next Door
I have lived next to Saint Clair my entire life.
Even now, the name feels strange in my mouth.
Our houses are so close that if I lean out my bedroom window, I can see the faint glow of her desk lamp through the curtains. I know her habits better than she knows my name. When she sleeps late. When she doesn’t sleep at all. When the music stops and the silence gets… heavy.
Right now, she sits three rows ahead of me in class.
Sunlight catches in her hair like the world is conspiring to make her visible. She’s tall for her age—unnaturally so—and it makes her stand out even when she’s sitting. Her skin is light, almost luminous, her hair soft and dark, falling neatly around her shoulders.
Her eyes are what people notice last.
They’re cat-like. Sharp. Slitted just enough to feel unsettling if you look too long.
She laughs at something someone says—soft, practiced—and the room tilts toward her. Desks, chairs, people leaning without realizing they are.
I watch from the back, chin resting on my knuckles, pretending to listen.
She never looks back.
That’s fine. I’ve learned how to exist without being seen.
My name is Jai.
I’m quiet. Observant. I notice things people overlook—the pauses between words, the way expressions slip when someone thinks no one is watching. I keep my thoughts folded neatly inside my chest where they stay safe.
Especially when it comes to Clair.
Her name has always bothered me a little.
Saint. What’s even her last name?
Anyhow, it sounds gentle. Holy. Like someone meant to be trusted. Sometimes I think it’s funny in a way I can’t explain—funny and eerie at the same time. Like a joke that doesn’t quite land.
It suits her the way everything else does. Too perfect. Almost ironically.
At school, Clair is warm.
She volunteers for everything—club booths, events, fundraisers. During activity week, I watch her stand behind a decorated table, smiling brightly as she hands out flyers.
“Come join us,” she says gently. “We’d love to have you.”
People smile back without thinking.
They always do.
Teachers linger longer when she speaks. Students hover, waiting for her attention. She remembers names. Laugh at the right moments. Makes people feel chosen.
They never notice how her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes when she thinks no one is watching.
I do.
I’ve tried to understand why she draws people in the way she does.
It isn’t just popularity. It’s not even a charm.
It’s something subtle. Something constant.
When she isn’t around, she barely exists in my thoughts. Once, my family went on vacation for two months. New city. New routines. I didn’t think about her at all.
But the day we came back—
the moment I saw her again, standing by the lockers, smiling—
Something inside me tightened.
Not longing. Not excitement.
Awareness.
The first time I realized Clair was different, we were fourteen.
It was summer. Too hot. I’d wandered into the park alone when raised voices echoed from the narrow alley behind the restrooms. Two older girls had someone cornered.
I peeked around the wall.
She stood there—pale, beautiful in that fragile way people mistake for weakness. Her innocent face didn’t match the stillness in her posture. Her eyes were lowered.
I thought she was in danger.
One of the girls shoved her. “You think you’re better than us?”
Clair looked up.
Her eyes changed.
And she smiled.
“I think,” she said calmly, “you should run.”
They laughed.
Then she moved.
She slammed one girl into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of her. Her voice dropped—too quiet, too precise for a young girl.
“Bother me again,” she whispered, “and I’ll make you regret it.”
Her eyes were empty. Focused.
The girls ran.
I stood frozen, heart pounding.
Clair straightened her dress, adjusted her backpack, and turned. For a brief second, our eyes met.
Her gaze passed over me—not curious, not kind—just aware.
I ducked away before she could speak.
I wanted to know what really happened, so I ran to the girls and they just shrug like they were scared of her.
After that, I made sure she never noticed me.
My curiosity got stronger as we grew older.
Growing up next door to her felt like living beside a door you were never meant to open.
There were other moments too. Quieter ones.
Once, my parents took me to a restaurant downtown. I saw her there with her family—well dressed, wealthy in that effortless way.
The waiter apologized for bringing the wrong order.
“You can’t even do your job properly?” Clair snapped.
The room froze, looking at their direction.
The waiter shrank. Her parents were calm as if nothing happened.
She somehow noticed everyone was looking.
“Oh,” she said softly, lips curving into an uneasy smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She reached out, touching the waiter’s sleeve gently. “It’s okay. Really.”
He nodded and fled.
That smile unsettled me more than the anger.
It must have been hard when her parents died when she was seventeen.
The tragedy made her untouchable, almost holy.
After that, the house grew quieter than usual.
The doors stayed closed.
I don’t get why people still go inside.
Some of them never came back out.
At least in my observation.
They said those students transferred.
Moved away. Ran off.
But once, I heard crying through the walls.
It stopped the moment the door opened.
At night, when the air smells like iron and burnt candles, I hear music through the walls.
Not from a phone.
From an old cassette player.
The tape clicks. Whirs. Warps.
‧₊˚♪ On the day that you were born, the angels got together
And decided to create a dream come true.‧₊˚♪
The song sounds wrong, slowed down, stretched thin, as if it’s been played too many times.
Their family is rich.
She has everything modern.
Yet Clair prefers old things.
Radios. Cassettes. Objects that remember.
Sometimes the music cuts out suddenly.
Sometimes the silence presses harder.
Sometimes she looks up at my window.
Just for a second.
And I don’t know why.
I only know that when she’s close, I pay attention.
More than I should.
More than everyone else does.
₊˚♪ Just like me, they long to be
Close to you.‧₊˚♪
