Hale didn't go to school the next morning.
He stayed in bed long after the light had shifted from soft gold to that pale, empty blue that meant the day had already started without him. The scream from the night before still rang in his ears like a phantom echo. It wasn't just fear. It wasn't confusion.
It was recognition.
Something was wrong with the days themselves.
He pulled the sketchbook into his lap. The spiral was still there. Bold now. Pressed harder into the page, like whoever drew it wanted it to be permanent.
It pulsed when he stared at it too long.
His chest ached. Not in pain—but in that low, pulsing hum, like his mark was vibrating with something under his skin.
Like something was trying to get out.
He flipped the sketchbook shut and threw it onto the desk.
He needed normal.
He needed Ivy.
He got dressed and left the house without eating. The cold wind didn't bother him this time. Neither did the strange looks from the kid on the bicycle who passed by twice in less than a minute.
He reached school just as the bell rang.
In the hallway, students pushed past, oblivious. Loud. Laughing.
And then—
There she was.
Ivy. At her locker. Dressed differently from yesterday. Same backpack. Different earrings. Same face.
He approached cautiously.
"Hey," he said.
She turned. "Hey," she echoed. "You okay? You look like you haven't slept in a year."
He laughed weakly. "Felt like it."
"Wanna walk with me to class?"
He nodded. And for a moment, things almost felt like they used to—whatever that meant anymore.
As they walked, he turned to her.
"Can I ask you something weird?"
Ivy raised a brow. "Weirder than usual?"
"What's your favorite weather?"
She didn't even think. "I hate the cold. Makes me feel like my bones are freezing from the inside."
Hale stopped walking.
She turned. "What?"
"Nothing," he muttered. "I just thought you said something else yesterday."
She frowned, but didn't press. "Maybe I changed my mind?"
"Maybe," he whispered.
They reached the art room.
And Ivy hesitated at the door. "I'll catch you after class. I'm skipping today."
Hale blinked. "You never skip art."
"Felt like I already painted the same thing ten times," she said with a shrug.
She walked off.
And he entered the room alone.
The same seat. Same window. Same smell of turpentine and clay.
He opened his sketchpad.
A new page.
He hadn't drawn this one either.
It was a face.
Not Ivy's.
His.
But not him.
The expression was different. Too calm. Too… smug.
Below it, in sharp inked letters:
"You can't fake love, Hale. She'll remember."
His breath caught.
He slammed the book shut, eyes darting to the door—
And standing just outside the window, behind the frosted glass, was Ivy.
No expression. No movement.
Just watching.
When he blinked, she was gone.
And he realized—
That version of Ivy had never come inside.