She swallows hard, and I can practically see the pieces falling into place. If she'd take a second to think about it from my perspective, she'd realize I actually went easy on her. I don't need to be the one to make her pay for what she did. Karma has a way of handling that stuff on its own.
"Thank you," she whispers, the words barely audible over the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
I don't respond. Instead, I turn back to my vanity, picking up my brush with deliberate precision. In the mirror's reflection, I watch her hover uncertainly in the doorway, caught between leaving and staying, between apologizing again and accepting defeat.
Finally, she moves. Her heels click against the hardwood floor until she reaches the door, opening it softly. "Asha?" her voice wavers from the threshold.
I don't turn around. "Close the door on your way out, Emma."
The latch clicks shut with a finality that echoes through my chest.
Silence rushes in to fill the space she left behind, heavy and somehow cleansing. I reach for the silver masquerade masklaying on my vanity, running my fingers along its delicate curves and the small crystals embedded along the edges. Tonight isn't about Emma, or Penn, or any of the lies that have been building around me like walls. Tonight is about something real.
My pen pal.
The one person who's known me without agenda, without pretense, without anything to gain except my thoughts and my words. We've shared secrets Emma never earned, dreams Penn never cared about, and fears I've never spoken aloud to anyone else. And tonight, at midnight, when the masks come off in the center of the ballroom under that ridiculous chandelier the prom committee spent three months installing, I'll finally know who he is.
My heart does this strange flutter-kick thing it's been doing all week whenever I think about it. We agreed, 11:30, the hallway behind the stage, no masks. No more hiding. No more carefully crafted texts or deliberately vague descriptions. Just truth.
One story may have found its close, but I can't help but feel like another one, a real one, is just starting.
SENIOR YEAR
TRIGGER
The ballroom glitters like something out of a dream or maybe a nightmare, depending on how you look at it. String lights drape across the ceiling, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that should feel romantic but only makes the heat more oppressive. The air is thick with perfume and anticipation, and I can feel sweat gathering under my collar. The mask pressed against my face doesn't help. It feels like it's suffocating me. I'm a ball of fucking nerves.
I've been watching her for the past hour and seventeen minutes. Her lavender dress and blonde wig, meant to mask her identity, does nothing; I'd know that laugh anywhere. It has an edge to it, like she's in on some joke the rest of us aren't. I've heard it a thousand times, usually right before she takes over a meeting or steals the lunch Mrs. Jean sets aside for me just because she can.
Asha Fairfield. My academic rival. My vice president from hell. The girl who looked at me on the first day of freshman year and decided we were going to be enemies, for reasons I still don'tfully understand. Also, if I'm right—and I'm always right—my secret pen pal for the past four years.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I anxiously pull it out, believing it might be a text from her, only to remember I set a five-minute timer on my phone to ensure I wouldn't miss the exact time we said we would meet.
"Hey." Hollis lightheartedly punches me in the arm, his own mask now on top of his head, signifying he and his pen pal have already met. "Why haven't you gone to get your girl?"
"I have five minutes," I say as my lungs deflate.
"You're lucky. My partner was Rizz from the math club. He's cool and all, and I never would have talked to him were it not for this assignment, but I'd rather have some hot piece of ass on the end of my text messages to take home tonight."
"It's not like that," I'm quick to add, not just because Asha is his cousin but because it's not. Because every word I wrote, every vulnerability I shared, every late-night conversation was all real. It mattered. Even if Asha doesn't know it yet. Even if she's still wandering around this ballroom with no idea that I'm the one who's been writing to her for four years.
“Sure, it's not. If you think the feelings are mutual, why not make a power play? Girls like it when a man takes control." He bumps my shoulder with his. "Show her who's boss."
My mouth can't help but quirk into the semblance of a smile. I've thought about what he's suggesting countless times. Dreamed about her submission, and while I think a move like that could win over even a strong-willed woman like Asha in the moment, knowing her allowance would ultimately lead to pleasure, I don't think it would win her in the long game. I still think about the night of the charity ride, when she came to see me after I was hurt. She let her guard down. She looked at me with something other than contempt, and I saw the real Ashabeneath all the armor. The Asha who might actually feel the same way I do.
I squeeze his shoulder. "Time to go. If I don't see you again tonight, don't come looking." I give him a wink and head toward the stage.
Tonight, I'm playing by her rules. She set the time and place we would meet, and yes, that time was 11:30 p.m. It's why I had to push her today in our last student council meeting. I was further collecting evidence to prove that she is, in fact, who I believe she is, but more than that, I was seeing if she'd crack. I'm tired of pretending, tired of acting like I'm not the one she's been leaning on for years. Sharing the weight of our parents' expectations, fears of disappointment, and dreams she'd never say out loud because they're not the same as her father's.
But I've shoved it all down, every instinct that was screaming for me to snap and lay it all out there, because if she knows the truth, and she's still sharing anyway, then all of the secrecy is worth it. That’s why I followed her instructions and agreed to her new flex, buying a Flynn Rider costume to match hers. As if setting the exact time and location to meet weren't enough, she wanted to ensure, without a doubt, I was indeed her guy, and I dutifully followed her instructions to a T. But once our masks come off, I can't guarantee I'll bend to her will if she doesn't want the same things I do. I'd chase her to the grave and haunt her in the afterlife just for a chance to show her how good we can be, to prove to her what I know in the depths of my soul. She is meant to be mine.
The hallway stretches before me like something out of a fever dream, too long and too quiet. My phone screen glows in my hand, the timestamp mocking me: 11:29 p.m. One minute. I refresh our chat thread for the hundredth time, re-reading her last message even though I've memorized every word, every carefully chosen punctuation mark.Tower corridor. 11:30 p.m.
As I wait, my mind can’t help but circle back to this morning. To her standing at my door with homemade cookies, protein-packed, specifically formulated for my diet, and an apology she didn't have to give. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that she knows. She had to have figured out it was me on the other end of those messages, and the cookies were her insurance policy. Her way of making sure that when everything came out tonight, I'd remember she tried to make things right first. I've analyzed it from every angle, replayed her nervous energy, and I keep landing on the same conclusion: those cookies weren't just about guilt. They were about us. They have to be.
I stop at the alcove where the tower stairs meet the main corridor. This is it. The exact spot. I check my phone one last time: 11:30. Then I hear it. The sharp, rhythmic click of heels on tile echoing down the hallway behind me, each step driving a spike of adrenaline straight through my chest. I know that walk. It's confident and purposeful, the kind of stride that parts crowds and makes boys out of men. My throat goes dry, and I turn.
The Rapunzel mask still frames her face, that golden braid draped over one shoulder, but it’s the way she moves through a room like she belongs there more than anyone else that I can’t get enough of. The dim hallway lighting catches on the shimmer of her dress, and suddenly, I can't remember how to make my lungs work properly. My heart kicks into overdrive, hammering against my ribs so loud I'm sure she can hear it from twenty feet away.
