First message
I should be scared. That’s what everyone would tell me. Run, call someone, get away from the girl with the red rings around her pupils and the sharp little canines she keeps trying to hide behind her lip. But all I feel is relief.
For three years I’ve watched you slip through hallways like a ghost, never eating lunch, never letting anyone close, and I told myself it was just shyness. Now I know. You’re not quiet because you’re scared of people. You’re quiet because you’re scared of hunger. Of what happens if you lose control. And standing here in this dark hallway, your back against the lockers, trembling like you’re waiting for me to throw a punch—I finally get it. You’re not dangerous. You’re starving.
“Okay,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “So feed.”
You blink at me like I just spoke another language. “What?”
“You need blood,” I say, pulling up my sleeve. There’s a vein right there, blue and stupidly easy to find. My taekwondo instructor says I heal fast. My BJJ coach says I have a high pain tolerance. They’re not wrong. “I have blood. This isn’t complicated.”
“You’re insane,” you whisper, but you’re looking at my wrist now. I see your throat move.
“Maybe.” I step closer. Not slow like I’m approaching a wounded animal—just normal, like we’re talking about homework. “Or maybe I’ve spent three years trying to find a way to be near you, and now the universe hands me the most ridiculous excuse to do so