Look, I love kids. Really, I do.
But after years of being a teacher—the human equivalent of a caffeine-fueled referee in a room full of sticky, screaming gremlins—I needed a break.
A solo break.
No lesson plans.
No glitter explosions.
No one yelling, "Miss Virella, he stole my eraser!" like it's a felony.
And no seven-year-old named Blade threatening to "unfriend" me because I wouldn't let him eat glue.
I love my job. But I also love my sanity.
Which is why, at exactly 2 a.m., lying awake with eye bags deeper than my student loans, the idea hit me like caffeine withdrawal:
"You should go hiking."
Brilliant, right?
Fresh air. No kids. Peace.
There was only one problem… I hate forests.
Not in books—oh, fictional forests are AMAZING.
Glowing trees. Magical creatures. Hot, broody strangers with tragic backstories? Sign me up.
Real forests?
Mud. Bugs. Weird noises. The constant fear of being eaten by raccoons. Hard pass.
But after endless weeks of sticky fingers, spelling tests, and "Miss, I think I swallowed a crayon," I cracked.
So I packed my bag—snacks, water, way too many granola bars—and drove to Pine Hollow Trail, telling myself this was mature adult behavior.
The parking lot was almost empty. One old car. A faded sign reading "Stay on marked trails." Birds chirping like they knew I'd regret this.
I forced myself onto the trail, ignoring the way the trees loomed.
"Armish Virella," I whispered, "you love forests… in fiction. You've read a thousand magical world stories. You got this."
Naturally, my brain filled the silence with weird little stories to stay calm:
"Maybe this forest hides a portal…"
"What if that squirrel is actually cursed royalty…"
"Plot twist—I trip over a root and—"
And then I tripped.
Classic.
One second I was narrating my own fantasy novel, the next, my foot caught on a root the size of my self-doubt.
Gravity had absolutely no mercy.
I stumbled forward, arms flailing, probably resembling one of those inflatable car wash things.
But before I could faceplant into the dirt—everything shifted.
The ground vanished beneath me like someone yanked the forest rug out from under reality.
A sharp rush of cold air slammed into my face. The trees blurred, twisting like oil on water. My stomach flipped, and my skin prickled like static.
The world tilted. Colors bled together. The sky — if there still was one — fractured like glass.
And then… darkness.
Total, eerie, weightless darkness.
It felt like falling… but slower, stranger, like drifting through thick fog with invisible hands pushing me along.
I opened my mouth to scream. Nothing came out.
My brain sputtered uselessly: "Maybe this is a dream. Maybe I hit my head. Maybe Blade finally cursed me with his weird kindergarten voodoo…"
Before I could spiral further, a harsh jolt slammed through my body. The darkness broke like cracked ice, and I hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of me.
Gasping, I rolled onto my side, coughing, spitting out… was that glitter?
Nope. Just weird glowing dust floating everywhere like tiny fireflies.
I sat up, eyes wide.
The forest was gone.
The sky above me shimmered like spilled paint. The trees glowed faintly blue, their leaves sparkling with tiny lights. Strange, winged creatures darted through the air, and in the distance… something howled.
I stared, jaw slack, brain buffering.
"This," I croaked, "is exactly why I don't go outside."
I, Armish Virella—teacher, terrible hiker, professional overthinker—had somehow fallen straight into one of my weird, daydream fantasy worlds.
Magical forests. Glowing creatures. Probably dangerous, broody strangers lurking nearby…
Yeah. It was about to get worse