Eighteen—no, nineteen days since I've arrived at college. And in these two weeks and five days, I've never been more consumed by thought.

I've been fixated on one thing. A person, or perhaps more accurately, an alternate identity. It feels as though my inner monster is manifesting, bleeding through the cracks of the mask I wear. My darkly bloodthirsty nature is slipping into the light, and I can't quite explain it.

To be honest, I don't even know why I ended up in college. It wasn't for the education—I've never had any real respect for this system. It's mechanical, designed to churn out predictable, narrow-minded individuals. No, what draws me here are the conversations. College is a goldmine for that, filled with people eager to talk, to express, to reveal their thoughts, whether they realize it or not.

There's something different about me. I don't view the world like the others do. Almost everyone around me is naïve, and frankly, ignorant. They never see past the surface, never question what's hidden beneath. It's a mindset that's stuck with me for as long as I can remember. I've always been ahead of them, intellectually. But playing dumb? That requires effort. Keeping this charade intact, staying under the radar—it's a delicate balancing act.

Thankfully, people are easy to manipulate. Too easy. It's what allows me to move unseen, unnoticed. But that doesn't explain why my bloodlust—the thing I've kept so well-contained—is starting to seep through the cracks. I need a reason, a justification. Something that makes sense.

Yesterday was just like any other day. I slipped in and out of social circles, adapting to fit in with complete opposites, piecing together a persona to suit their expectations. But why do I do this? It's not as simple as just blending in.

It's because I believe that perception defines reality. The way people see me—this false character I've constructed—shapes who they think I am. They dissect an illusion, a fiction. It fascinates me. They think they know me, but they know nothing. What does that say about who I truly am?

The door to my bedroom creaks open, interrupting my thoughts.

"Hey, do you have any spare notebooks?" Lucy asks, stepping into the room. "I've used all of mine already."

This is the second time she's come in asking for notebooks. She writes a lot, maybe too much, though I suppose that's normal for her.

"Yeah," I say, pointing to a drawer. "The bottom one has some. Take whichever one you like."

"Thanks a lot," she says, kneeling down to rummage through the drawer.

Lucy is… meticulous. A punctilious writer, and a diligent student. She's quiet, shy, and far too uncertain of herself. It's almost painful to watch. She's also terrible at lying. Her insecurities scream louder than any words she might say. She pretends she's fine, but her movements, her hesitations—they betray her.

She pulls out a notebook, closes the drawer softly, and stands.

"Thanks again," she says. "I'm sorry for bothering you with this all the time."

No worries whatsoever, I think as I shift out of bed, walking a few steps toward her.

"It's nothing, really. Every great writer starts out like this, I'd assume," I say with a casual smile, though in reality, I know very little about writing. It's just something to make her feel better.

She looks at me, eyes wide, like she's waiting for the confirmation to settle in. "Y-you really mean it?"

I glance at her, measuring her reaction. "Why wouldn't I?"

Why would I?

Before I can react, she crosses the space between us and wraps her arms around me, pulling me into an unexpected hug. There it is. Vulnerability. The thing that reveals more about a person than words ever could.

I hug her back, letting the moment linger. There's something about the fragility of others that fascinates me—the way they trust so easily, the way they cling to the idea that someone might genuinely care.

She thinks this is comfort. And maybe, in a way, it is. But it's something far more useful to me.

She pulls away, and there's a flicker of embarrassment in her eyes.

"I don't know what got over me," Lucy says, her voice shaky, as if she's apologizing for something that doesn't require an apology.

"It's alright," I say, letting out a small chuckle. It's almost too easy.

I add, "I'm always one room away." The sarcasm drips off my words like honey.

"Yeah, I know," she replies, her eyes darting away as she starts to back out of my room. There's that awkwardness again, the same hesitance she always carries, like she's not sure whether to flee or linger.

"Thanks again," she says softly before stepping out. The door closes, and I sink back into my bed, staring at the ceiling, a faint smile pulling at my lips.

No problem.

She dresses like she's never felt a man's touch before. At least, not a loving one. The thought lingers as I try to picture her life. It's obvious, really. The way she flinched when she touched me, how unsure she is around others. She's never had the kind of affection most people take for granted. That little brush of contact was probably the most genuine display of affection she's ever given anyone. Sad, really.

Morning comes, pulling me out of a dreamless sleep. As usual. I go through the motions, getting dressed, pulling on my usual façade.

People always ask me why I don't dream. I tell them the truth—that I don't. That's when the responses come, either "You're weird" or "I heard people who don't dream don't have a soul." The latter always makes me smile.

Maybe they're right. Maybe I don't have a soul. But what it really shows me is that there are two kinds of people: those who believe in anything that sounds just believable enough to comfort them, and those who walk through life without question. Both groups amuse me.

I button my shirt, glance at myself in the mirror. Straightforward or gullible—either way, they're all predictable.

As I step out of my room, I catch sight of Lucy, hovering near the door. She's fidgeting, nervous. I know the look. It's the same one she had the first time she asked me to walk her to class, like she's preparing for rejection that never comes.

"Hey, d-do you mind walking me to class?" she stammers. Her voice is soft, hesitant, like she's afraid the words might hurt her on the way out.

I give her a smile. "Yeah, sure."

Of course I will. She knows that. She needs someone, and I'm always there, ready to play the part.

"You need someone to talk to on the way?" I ask with a slight laugh, stepping outside into the cool morning air. The question is mostly rhetorical, but she nods anyway.

"Yeah, yeah I do."

I can hear the relief in her voice.

"Aww," I tease, drawing out the word like a joke. Her face flushes, that familiar blush spreading across her cheeks, and she looks down, embarrassed but smiling.

She's an easy read.

I don't mind walking Lucy to class. It's one of those benign gestures that make me appear…normal. Besides, I like the quiet. Her steps beside me, barely making a sound, almost match mine. We walk in silence, as we always do, and I wonder if she notices the contradictions. The silence between us speaks volumes that she's too distracted to interpret.

She's scribbling again. She always carries that worn leather notebook, the pages filled with her quiet observations of life, like she's distilling the world into neat little sentences. It fascinates me, her attempt to make sense of something so chaotic. I could tell her the truth. That there's no order to anything, not really, just patterns we project onto the world to feel like we're in control. But Lucy's not ready for that yet. She'd rather craft her stories. I understand the need for stories. After all, I have one of my own—a facade I wear effortlessly.

"Do you ever think about the stories we tell ourselves?" I ask as we approach the lecture hall.

Lucy glances up from her notebook, her face blank for a second before she processes the question. Her eyes flicker, almost as if she's trying to decode the hidden meaning in my words. She never asks me why I say the things I do. I appreciate that.

"Sometimes," she says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I guess we all create narratives to make sense of things."

"Exactly," I say, savoring the way her mind processes the concept. "It's like we're all unreliable narrators of our own lives."

She looks at me for a moment, then back at her notebook, as if my words triggered a new idea she needs to capture before it slips away. I could tell her she's right about the narratives—everyone tells themselves lies, especially about the darkness they harbor. But that would be too much truth, wouldn't it?

We reach her classroom. I hold the door open for her. She doesn't thank me—she never does, and I never expect her to. We've established this unspoken rhythm. A writer and a philosopher, though neither of us would call ourselves that.

I follow her inside. I don't have to, but something compels me to. Her philosophy class interests me in ways I can't explain. Maybe it's the professor, whose lectures are filled with grand ideas and hollow aphorisms. Or maybe it's the students, all thinking they're on the verge of some great discovery, unaware that the truths they seek are buried beneath their own hypocrisy.

The class is nearly full by the time we sit down. Lucy takes her seat, and I settle in beside her, not that anyone notices. I'm invisible here, just as I prefer. Lucy starts writing again. Her pen moves quickly, and I catch a glimpse of her words. She's crafting another scene, likely inspired by our conversation. She's good, but she misses the nuances, the dark threads that linger just beneath the surface.

The professor walks in, an older man with thinning hair and a well-worn tweed jacket. He has the air of someone who's read too many books and lived too few experiences. He launches into his lecture—something about the nature of identity, the self as a construct. How appropriate.

I sit back, letting the professor's words wash over me as I observe the room. The students are enthralled, all hanging onto his every word as though they've never considered the possibility that the self is nothing more than an illusion. I wonder how many of them have really thought about who they are, or what they might become if left unchecked. I know who I am. I'm the void between their words, the silence between their thoughts.

The professor continues, "We often think of ourselves as consistent beings, but the truth is, our identities shift constantly. We are, in a way, strangers to ourselves. The question then becomes—who are we when no one is watching?"

Who are we when no one is watching?

I suppress a smile. A perfect question. A question none of these students can answer because they've never been alone with the darker parts of themselves. I have. I am the stranger they fear becoming.

Lucy glances at me, as though she can feel my thoughts. She looks away just as quickly, scribbling down a new note. I wonder what she sees in me. Does she sense the depth of what I hide, or is she content with the version of me I've shown her? She's smart, Lucy, but not enough to break through the mask. Not yet.

The lecture drones on. The students shift in their seats, some furiously taking notes, others glancing at their phones under the desk. A few are actually engaged, hanging on every word as though it might unlock some hidden truth. Fools.

When the class ends, Lucy gathers her things slowly, her notebook clutched tightly in her hands. I stand, waiting for her to finish, and we fall back into step as we exit the room.

Outside, the sun is too bright. It always is after I've spent time thinking in the dark. Lucy's quiet again, but I can feel the tension in her, the weight of something unsaid. She doesn't speak until we're halfway across campus.

"Do you think the professor is right?" she asks suddenly, catching me off guard. "That we don't really know ourselves?"

I pause, considering how much of the truth to reveal. Lucy's questions are always earnest, always seeking some deeper understanding. It's a dangerous thing, asking too many questions.

"I think he's half-right," I say, measuring my words. "We don't know ourselves because we don't want to. It's easier to believe in the version we show the world."

She frowns. "But what if we don't know which version is real?"

"Who says any of them are real?"

She doesn't respond right away, her eyes narrowing slightly as she mulls over my answer. I know I've given her something to think about, something she'll obsess over for days, maybe weeks. She'll write about it, try to distill it into one of her stories. But the truth she seeks is far messier than any fiction she could create.

We stop at the entrance to the dorm, the familiar weight of the building pressing down on us. She hesitates, then glances at me, her expression unreadable.

"Thanks for walking me," she says quietly, almost an afterthought.

I nod, not saying anything. I don't need to. Lucy slips inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Later, in our shared dorm room, I sit at my desk, watching her from across the room. She's curled up on her bed, her notebook open in front of her. Her pen moves quickly, almost frantic. She's writing about me, I know it. She's writing about our conversation, trying to piece together who I am from the fragments I've given her.

I wonder how long it will take before she realizes the truth. Before she understands that the version of me she knows is just another story. One that I've carefully constructed.

For now, she's content with her version of me. But eventually, the mask will slip. It always does.

And when it does, I wonder what she'll write about then.

That night, as I lie in bed, the darkness wraps around me like a second skin. I close my eyes and let the silence take over, feeling the familiar pull of the void inside me.

I am many things, but most of all, I am the absence of what they believe I should be.

Who am I when no one is watching?

The question lingers in my mind as sleep pulls me under, but I already know the answer.

I am V.