I wake up and immediately wish I hadn't.
The sunlight slips through the edge of my blackout curtains, hitting me in the face like a slap. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, not moving. I don't want to get up. There's nothing waiting for me that's worth getting up for. Same routine. Same people. Same emptiness. I'm just tired.
From the hallway, I can already smell the incense. Mom must be burning sage again. She says it keeps bad spirits away, clears the air, resets energy. To me, it just smells like smoke and denial.
I drag myself out of bed, my limbs feeling like they weigh twice as much. My boots are still on the floor, scuffed and muddy from yesterday. I don't bother changing out of the oversized hoodie I slept in. I pull my long black hair into a messy bun, wipe yesterday's eyeliner from under my eyes, and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
I look like I haven't slept in years. Good.
Downstairs, the candles on Mom's little altar are already lit. She's kneeling in front of them, whispering something in a language I don't understand. Probably a prayer. Maybe a chant. I don't ask.
Dad's sitting cross-legged on the floor with his headphones in, listening to some crystal frequency meditation. He used to be in a rock band, back before he "found his path" and decided spirits and chakras were more important than working a real job. Now he wears beaded necklaces and calls himself "energy-sensitive."
"Morning, Amber," Mom says without looking at me. Her voice is calm, too calm. "Don't forget to cleanse your aura before you leave. You've been carrying heavy energy lately."
I grab a granola bar from the counter and bite into it without answering.
"You should meditate with us tonight," Dad adds. "Might help with all that darkness you're holding onto."
I roll my eyes and walk out the door.
They don't get it. They think waving incense around and chanting can fix things. Like a candle can chase away whatever's clawing at my ribs from the inside. They believe everything happens for a reason, that spirits are watching over us, that life is a journey of the soul. I'm not sure I even believe life is worth the time it takes to get through a day.
At school, everything feels the same. People avoid me. Or they stare. Or they whisper. I'm not sure which is worse.
I keep my hood up, headphones in, and eyes down. Teachers barely notice when I'm there. I kind of like it that way. Being invisible is easier than pretending to be something I'm not.
In art class, I catch myself sketching something strange. A figure. Shadowy, tall, no face, just hollow eyes. I didn't plan it. My hand just started moving on its own, like I wasn't even thinking. I stare at it for a long time after class ends. It gives me a weird feeling, like it's staring back at me.
I tear the page out and crumple it up.
Later, when I'm at my locker, I hear breathing.
Right behind me.
I freeze. For a second I think someone's trying to scare me, but when I turn around, there's no one there. The hallway is nearly empty.
I look back at my locker and blink. There's a handprint on the metal. A faint one. Smudged like someone touched it with damp fingers. But I hadn't touched it yet.
I lean closer.
Then I see it.
In the reflection—faint but clear—a figure standing right behind me. Pale. Still. Watching.
I spin around fast. My heart jumps into my throat.
But there's nothing there.
I stand there, frozen, trying to calm my breathing, but my skin is crawling. The air feels too still. Too quiet. Like the world held its breath and forgot how to let it go.
I slam the locker shut and leave.
That night, I can't sleep.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft flicker of candlelight from Mom's altar down the hall. I can hear her praying, chanting under her breath. My room still smells like smoke.
She thinks the house is protected.
But I don't feel safe.
I feel watched.
And just when I start to drift off, I hear it.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
It's coming from my mirror.
I sit up slowly, every nerve in my body alert.
The mirror is across the room, and in the dim light, there's something there.
A shape. A figure. Standing just behind my reflection.
And I know I'm not alone.