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* * *
When I came to,I was lying on my bed with a bandage wrapped around my head and Aera on my bedside stool, sobbing like a child. I had no idea how I got back in my room or why she was there in the first place, but part of me found comfort in the awareness that I may have skipped the hospital admission and the questions because of Cole’s impressive speed in removing me from the scene. The rest of me remained profoundly confused regarding the amount of tears Aera shed for me that day.
“Hey, why do you look like someone died?” I managed to ask, voice hoarse and weak. “No shit. Am I dead?”
She gasped, scanned me, and cried again. “You are severely injured, Gray! You were hit by a speeding car, who, by the way, should have paid for your medical bills and gone to jail, but Cole said to forget about it. He refused to take you to a fucking hospital. He probably doesn’t even care if you have amnesia or a major brain damage or trauma or if you die, and because I’m just nobody, I have no idea what I can even do for you,” she rambled and wailed like a child. “I tried calling 911, but Cole kept on insisting that you’ll be okay. Are you really okay?”
“That’s why you’re crying?” I reached toward her, but my hand froze in midair.
Aera wiped her tears with a napkin from the bedside table. She closed her eyes, but the stream was ceaseless. She eventually gave up and dropped her hands to her lap. “What am I supposed to do, then?” She managed to meet my gaze. “Laugh at your tremendously unfortunate life? Gray, I thought I was going to lose my mind. You can’t die. I will kill you if you die, you idiot.”
I blinked, speechless as I lowered my hand and pondered over what to do.
I could have come up with something witty to say, maybe soldiered on with our last conversation, but …
“Don’t die. We still have to watch a live BTS concert together,” she mumbled with a slight hiccup, still crying, but more softly now. “You owe me that for making me hike like a fool before.”
I chuckled quietly. “I’m not really a fan, but okay. As long as you stop crying,” I said, finally wiping her tears away with my right thumb, “I’ll be okay.”
So Not Human
Gray wipingmy tears away was like a scene from a K-drama, a slow-mo moment before the main characters kiss. Only, I moved backward before the said scene could advance into something … inappropriately intimate.
I rose from the stool, biting my lip as I hesitated before asking, “What do you think you are, Gray?” I stared at him intently.
He can’t be … a werewolf, right?
“Aera,” he began, looking deceptively composed. “I’m just Gray.” He winked at me. A head injury and a concussion could have done something to his eyes, right?
Why was I overthinking this?
“Then stop getting in trouble all the time!” I exploded. I wanted to say more, but I didn’t knowwhatto say.
Instead, I stormed out, fuming.
Even so, the sultry wink and his cold voice were seared into my brain.
He wasn’t even a song, but his voice made me feel like I was battling a last song syndrome in my head, a song that I would play over and over again. Even on my way home, he managed to infuriate me by running through my mind like a kid thrown into a maze—one where werewolves exist, and they’re trying to hunt and mangle him while I guide him away from them, his tragic fate, but falling short.
A week later, besides getting over the flu, I’d become more vigilant and selfless. I agonized over the fact that if Gray had almost died without a warning from my not-so-genius brain, then it could happen again, anytime.
Psychic powers or not.
* * *
It was Monday.
I prepared my school supplies and slipped into my immaculate blue sweatshirt dress with an adjustable belt. Mom had to leave early for work, so I walked.
With my phone in hand and my eyes glued on its screen, I stared at Gray’s profile on Instagram. After mustering up the courage, I messaged him:
Subconsciously, a smile overcame my face. I didn’t even realize I called him Supes (as in Superman) until I reread our chat.
“He’ssonot human,” I found myself mumbling. “Maybe he’s a vampire?” It seemed like he had no plan on telling me, so I might as well pretend I didn’t care.
I was about to send him another message when I noticed a broody guy clad in all black, standing behind the giant trees as if he were waiting to kill someone with his death glare. He had the look of a serial killer.
It wasn’t until I almost passed the guy that I realized his face was familiar. Rainer de Luca, who was supposedly spending this semester studying abroad. At least, that was the rumor going around; he’d been missing class for weeks.
