I stand there for a full five minutes after he disappeared into the fog, my perfectly manicured nails digging crescents into my palms hard enough to draw blood. The taste of him still lingers on my lips—confusion and longing and something else. Resignation, maybe. Or worse, pity.
He pitied me.
Gage Oliver, who should be grateful for my attention, who should be falling at my feet for the chance to be with someone who actually chooses him first—he looked at me withpity.
The second-choice Oliver pitying me? That’s like being judged by someone’s participation trophy.
I’m sorry, Chloe.
His words echo in the empty space he left behind, each syllable a nail in the coffin of my carefully constructed plans. He didn’t even stay long enough for me to respond, just pulled away from my kiss and walked off like I was nothing more than a mistake he needed to correct.
The wooden planks beneath my feet are slick with condensation, and it takes all I have to focus on each step as I make my way back toward shore. One wrong move and I’ll end up in the black water below, which honestly, might be less humiliating than what just happened.
The worst part is that I really thought I had him this time. The way he met me here, the way he let me kiss him—I thought I was finally breaking through. I thought the confusion and hurt over Skyla would push him right into my arms.
But even confused, even hurt, even desperately lonely—he’d rather have her absence over my presence.
Congratulations, Gage. You’ve chosen to be someone’s backup plan over being my priority. Harvard should study that level of stupidity.
Figures. Skyla, with her perfect little halo, like the world owes her everything, even the crumbs everyone else fights for. She’s untouchable, untouchably annoying, and somehow, he still worships her shadow. Skyla Messenger is a parasite that must be put in her place. She treats Gage and Logan like her personal emotional support dogs. And they certainly beg for more.
The drive home is automatic, with muscle memory taking over while my mind dissects every moment of that disaster on the pier. The way his whole body tensed when I kissed him, like he was fighting against something primal. The way he apologized—not for leading me on, not for wasting my time, but just... sorry.
Sorry, like pity was the only thing he could muster for someone as disposable as me.
I pull into my driveway and sit in the car, engine running, staring at the perfect suburban house that contains my perfect suburban life. Everything about my existence is carefully curated, from my clothes to my grades to my social standing. I’ve worked so hard to be flawless, to be irresistible, to be chosen.
And still, it’s not enough.
Still, I’m nother.
Inside, I bypass my parents and head straight to my room. Themirror on my wall shows me what everyone else sees—beautiful, polished, put-together Chloe Bishop. The girl who could have any guy at West Paragon High. Except the one she actually wants—the one who’s apparently allergic to good decisions and a girl who’d actually kill for him.
I touch my lips where Gage’s mouth was just an hour ago. Even his kiss felt like goodbye. Like he was trying to want me but couldn’t quite manage it.
For a moment, something flickers in the mirror—a flash of white, like a dress, a woman in a wedding dress, and in tears. But when I blink, it’s just me again. Must be the stress. Or the humiliation. Or just my imagination running wild with what-ifs. It’s the same hallucination I saw at Emily’s haunted house. What the hell?
The humiliating truth settles over me like fog. I could stand naked in front of Gage Oliver, and he’d still be looking over my shoulder for Skyla Messenger.
My phone sits silent on my nightstand. No texts from Gage, no apologies or explanations. He’s probably already forgotten about our little meet and greet, already moved on to brooding about Skyla and Logan and whatever celestial drama they’re wrapped up in.
Why does it feel like there’s something bigger happening here?
It’s like I’m playing a game where everyone else knows the rules except me.
But maybe that’s to my advantage. They’re all so caught up in whatever supernatural chess match they’re playing, they’ve forgotten that sometimes the simplest moves are the most effective. And sometimes the Bishop—the piece everyone underestimates—is the one that cuts across the board and changes everything.
I pull out my journal and flip to a fresh page, but instead of slashing my thoughts onto paper like I usually do, I just stare at the blank canvas.
What’s the point of documenting my failures? What’s the point of planning and scheming when Gage has made it crystal clear that I’m not even a consideration?
The fog outside my window swirls thicker, and I remembersomething my grandmother once told me about Paragon. She said the island keeps secrets, that the fog hides more than just the landscape. That sometimes, people see things in the mist that haven’t happened yet, or that happened long ago.
Maybe that’s what’s happening. Maybe we’re all caught in some temporal loop, playing out the same dramas over and over. Maybe in some other timeline, Gage chose me. Maybe in some other reality, I’m the one he can’t live without.
Actually, scratch that. I bet in most timelines, he chooses me. This one is simply defective.
In this timeline, I’m the girl who’s going to have to work a little harder.
