The echo of fists meeting flesh haunted Elena's ears even as she sprinted down the deserted hallway of Bellrose High. The sharp sting of fluorescent lights overhead flickered against the polished linoleum, casting fragmented shadows that blurred with the frantic pounding of her heart. Her footsteps slapped against the cold floor, a frantic rhythm that matched the chaotic drumbeat inside her chest.
The metallic tang of fear coated her tongue, sharp and bitter, as images flashed like strobe lights in her mind—Jaxon's body crumpled on the pavement, the rebellious smirk she'd grown to associate with him wiped away, replaced by unsettling stillness. His dark hair matted with blood, the vivid crimson seeping from the wound Mark had inflicted on his temple.
Why did she care?
She wasn't even supposed to like him.
But that didn't matter now.
Her breath hitched as she reached the nurse's office. She didn't knock. She shoved the door open so hard it slammed against the wall with a deafening bang, startling Mrs. Gallagher from her desk. The older woman's cup of tea wobbled dangerously, spilling slightly as she jolted to her feet, eyes wide behind her glasses.
"Help! Someone—please! He's hurt!" Elena's voice came out raw, thick with panic. It was the kind of panic that didn't feel real until it settled into your bones, until it twisted something inside you so tightly it was hard to breathe.
Mrs. Gallagher didn't waste time with questions. The urgency in Elena's voice was enough. She snatched up a first aid kit, her years of routine paperwork forgotten as she rushed to Elena's side.
"Where is he?" the nurse demanded, already halfway out the door.
"Near the parking lot—he's unconscious. There was… there was a fight." The words felt foreign on her tongue, like they didn't belong to her. Like she was reciting someone else's nightmare.
They ran. Elena's legs burned with effort, her chest tight, but she barely felt it. All she could see was Jaxon, motionless on the cold pavement, his breath shallow, his face too pale under the harsh afternoon sun.
When they reached him, he hadn't moved.
Mrs. Gallagher dropped to her knees with clinical efficiency, checking his pulse, then gently prying open his eyelids. "His pulse is strong but irregular. We need to call an ambulance—now." She barked the order over her shoulder to a student who'd gathered nearby, frozen with wide eyes and slack jaws.
Elena hovered, her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging crescents into her palms. She hated how her chest tightened, how her eyes stung. She should've walked away. She should've let someone else handle it. But she couldn't.
The distant wail of sirens arrived quicker than she expected, but it wasn't fast enough. Not when the minutes stretched out like hours, each second pounding in her skull.
As the paramedics lifted Jaxon onto the stretcher, Elena's gaze locked on the bloodstain left behind—a dark, ugly reminder of how fragile everything really was.
And then—
A flash.
A car. Screeching tires.
Shattered glass exploding like falling stars.
Blood.
Her own scream.
"Elena?"
She blinked, her vision swimming, realizing Mrs. Gallagher was speaking to her. The nurse's face blurred at the edges, the background noise fading like she was underwater. The sharp sting of panic clawed up her throat.
"I—I'm fine," she rasped, though her hands trembled uncontrollably.
But she wasn't fine. Not even close.
---
Elena didn't go home that night.
Instead, she found herself in the sterile waiting room of the hospital, sitting on one of those stiff, plastic chairs designed with maximum discomfort in mind. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly pallor over everything. She stared blankly at the outdated magazines on the coffee table—titles about diets, celebrity scandals, and home renovation tips that felt absurdly disconnected from reality.
Her mind was a whirlpool of fragmented images and unanswered questions.
Why did seeing Jaxon like that trigger… whatever that was?
She'd been told her accident had wiped her memory clean, a blank slate. That's what Damian always said. "Like erasing a chalkboard," he'd told her once, with that practiced, sympathetic smile. But this didn't feel clean. It felt jagged. Broken. Sharp-edged pieces that didn't fit together, like shards of glass trying to form a mirror.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to massage away the headache blooming behind her eyes.
"Elena!"
She looked up, startled, as Lydia rushed over. Her friend's usual bright energy seemed out of place in the sterile, somber hospital. Lydia plopped down beside her, eyes wide with concern.
"Oh my gosh, are you okay? I heard about the fight. Is Jaxon—?"
"He's being checked," Elena interrupted, her voice flat and distant.
Lydia frowned. "You look pale. Like… really pale. Maybe you should see a doctor too."
Elena almost laughed. A hollow, brittle sound. "It's just a headache."
But it wasn't just that.
It was the weight in her chest. The flashes behind her eyes. The feeling that her life was stitched together with someone else's thread.
---
Later that night, Damian picked her up from the hospital. His sleek black car gleamed under the fluorescent lights, pristine and perfect—everything Elena didn't feel.
He didn't ask many questions. Just tightened his grip on the steering wheel when she mentioned Jaxon.
"He's trouble," Damian muttered, his jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Boys like him don't belong around girls like you."
Girls like me. The words tasted bitter.
She wasn't even sure who she was anymore.
At home, the mansion felt colder than usual. The grand hallways, once intimidating, now seemed suffocating. She went straight to her room, locking the door behind her, the soft click oddly satisfying.
She stared at the ceiling, letting the silence press down on her. The fight replayed in her mind—the sound of fists, Jaxon's body hitting the ground, the blood. But beneath that, darker images lurked.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
And the floodgates opened.
A flash—
A woman's voice screaming her name.
"Run, Elena!"
The sound of something crashing.
Pain.
Then nothing.
Elena shot up in bed, gasping for air, her heart racing like she'd just run miles. Sweat clung to her skin, her sheets tangled around her legs. She stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over her own feet, and made her way to the mirror.
Gripping the edges of the vanity like it could anchor her, she stared at her reflection—pale, haunted, with dark circles under her eyes.
"Who are you?" she whispered to the girl in the glass.
Because suddenly, she wasn't sure anymore.
---
The next day at school, Elena didn't tell anyone about the flashbacks.
Not Lydia.
Not the guidance counselor who called her in for a "routine check-in."
And definitely not Damian, who texted to ask if she was "feeling stable."
Stable.
Like she was some fragile doll that might shatter if handled too roughly.
After class, she found herself wandering—her feet pulling her toward the spot where Jaxon had fallen. The pavement still held a faint, dark stain where his blood had seeped into the cracks. She stared at it, unable to shake the feeling that he was somehow connected to all of this.
She was so lost in thought she didn't hear the footsteps until someone spoke.
"You look like you're trying to solve a murder."
She spun around.
Jaxon.
Bruised, bandaged, but standing.
Relief flooded her before she could stop it. Then irritation followed, quick and sharp. "You shouldn't be here."
He smirked, wincing slightly. "Didn't know you cared."
Elena crossed her arms, scowling to cover the storm brewing inside her. "I don't."
His grin faded, replaced by something softer. "Thanks for getting help."
She looked away, her heart doing that stupid thing where it sped up around him. "You'd have done the same."
"Maybe." He leaned casually against the wall, studying her with those sharp eyes that always seemed to see too much. "You okay? You look… different."
She hesitated. The urge to dismiss him was right there. But for reasons she couldn't explain, she whispered, "I keep seeing things. Flashes. Like memories, but not clear. They're… wrong."
Jaxon didn't mock her. Didn't brush it off.
Instead, he nodded slowly. "Sometimes the brain hides things to protect you. But it doesn't mean they're gone."
His words hit something deep inside her.
"What if I don't want to remember?" she whispered.
He met her gaze, steady and unflinching. "What if you need to?"
---
That night, the flashbacks grew worse.
She dreamed of fire.
Of glass cutting into her skin.
Of her mother's face—twisted in fear.
When she woke, she wasn't crying.
She was angry.
Angry that no one had told her the full story.
Angry that her mind was a puzzle with missing pieces.
And maybe—just maybe—angry that the only person who seemed to understand was Jaxon Rivers.