We Are Together Again - part 5-8

Part 3-4: https://www.patreon.com/posts/we-are-together-117849633

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Part 5

The entryway greeted them with dampness and the dim glow of a single working bulb. Mark looked up and suddenly remembered the first time he had crossed the threshold of this building. Back then, he had come holding a bouquet, feeling shy but happy, while Monica laughed, breathlessly recounting stories about her neighbors. This entryway had smelled of something warm, something homely. That memory, so sweet and comforting, flared brightly in his mind, filling his heart with an unexpected warmth. But it vanished as soon as they stepped into the apartment, where a loud crash startled Mark, yanking him back into reality.

Monica shut the door behind her abruptly, let go of Emma’s hand, and silently headed toward the kitchen. Mark froze in the hallway, nervously watching her rigid back. Monica’s expression was stern, but the silence was worse than anything else. She didn’t yell, didn’t launch into a lecture. She simply took off her jacket, hung it neatly over the back of a chair, and finally turned to him.

— Sit down, — she said curtly, pointing to the chair by the table.

Mark crossed his arms over his chest, deciding that at least here, he wouldn’t give in. But Monica kept staring at him in such a way that he couldn’t help but feel like a child about to be scolded for stealing a cookie.

— Emma, I said sit down, — her voice grew colder, and Mark, unable to withstand the pressure, reluctantly obeyed. His chest churned with resentment and anger, but he held it in, not saying a word.

Monica sat down across from him, leaning her elbows on the table and clasping her fingers together. Her eyes studied the face of her "daughter" as she spoke, emphasizing every phrase with sharp clarity.

— I don’t understand what you’re trying to prove, — she began, her voice sharp but not loud, which only made it more terrifying. — You get into fights at school, skip classes, and try to act like you’re an adult who can do whatever they want. But you’re not an adult, Emma.

“Not an adult?!” Mark felt crushed at that moment. It was as if his entire experience, his past, his life, had been erased with a single stroke. Sitting before him was a woman who had once built her life around him. Who had accepted his help, his money, his time, only to leave when it was more convenient to live without him. And now she had the audacity to tell him how to behave, as if he were a worthless child.

— What’s with that strange smile? — Monica asked sharply, her eyes narrowing.

Mark suddenly realized his face was betraying far more than he intended. His lips had twisted into a bitter smirk, too obvious to go unnoticed.

— It’s just funny how things turned out, — he replied quietly, lowering his gaze.

— Turned out? — Monica snapped, her tone demanding. — Look at me, — she said sharply.

Mark lifted his eyes, but the usual teenage defiance she expected wasn’t there. Instead, she saw something else — a heavy mix of exhaustion and irritation. It felt unnatural for her “daughter,” and Monica’s frown deepened.

— Are you trying to say something with that look of yours? — her voice grew prickly.

— I’ve already told you everything a hundred times, — Mark snapped, unable to hold back. — But you don’t believe me.

Monica’s eyes narrowed, her face turning cautious.

— Told me? About what? That those girls are provoking you? Or something else?

Mark squinted, feeling his anger flare up.

— No, not about them! About myself! I… — he blurted out, his voice trembling with tension. — I’m not Emma!

Monica stared at him, her expression both confused and stern.

— Are we back to this again? — she said coldly, though doubt flickered in her voice. — You’re starting with this nonsense again? Do you really think I’ll believe it?

Mark leapt from the chair, his thin hands trembling.

— It’s not nonsense! I’m a man! And I’m Mark! — he shouted, his voice breaking. His fists clenched, small but taut with emotion. — I know you liked it when I kissed you on the back of your neck because you said it reminded you of your youth. Or how you got turned on when I grabbed your hair.

Monica clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes widening.

— You… — she exhaled, her voice trembling.

— I know how once you asked me to turn off the music because it distracted you when you were on top and… — He stopped abruptly, seeing her eyes glisten with tears.

Monica stared at "Emma" with a piercing gaze. Her look was strict, but then her eyes widened, and her breath hitched. That expression… That mix of stubbornness, irritation, and despair. She had seen it before.

— Stop, — she said sharply, raising her hand. — Say it again. Say… that you’re Mark.

Mark exhaled heavily, feeling as though the weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders.

— I’m Mark, Monica. I’m your ex.

She stared at him for several seconds, then let out a nervous, deliberate laugh. The sound grew louder, spiraling into something strange, almost hysterical. Finally, Monica clutched her head and exhaled deeply, as if trying to pull herself together.

— My God, what a bastard… — she whispered, her voice hoarse. — I should have known this was because of him, — she said, suddenly spinning toward Mark. — You talked to him, didn’t you?

Monica abruptly turned away, her breathing quickened. She paced the kitchen, grabbing cups and opening cabinets as if trying to distract herself from the conversation.

— What does he want, huh? — she asked without looking at Mark. — He had no right to do this!

She slammed a cabinet door so hard that Mark flinched. Turning to him, she ran a hand down her face, as if trying to erase her thoughts, but her gaze hardened.

— I know what he’s trying to do, — she said, staring at Emma. — He’s trying to turn you against me. You don’t even realize he’s using you to hurt me.

Mark frowned, his voice desperate:

— It’s not him. I… It’s really me, Monica.

— You don’t even understand what he’s doing, — she shook her head, her voice trembling. — You’re a child, and he’s using that to strike me where it hurts most.

She grabbed his frail shoulders and began shaking him so hard that his body flopped like a rag doll.

— You don’t understand what he’s doing! — she screamed, gripping "Emma’s" shoulders so tightly that Mark winced in pain. — He’s using you, Emma! And you’re too stupid and small to see his manipulations, turning my life into hell.

— You’re hurting me, — Mark croaked, tears threatening to spill.

Monica released him so abruptly that he stumbled. Her expression grew distant, as if she no longer saw “Emma” in front of her.

— Go to your room, — she said quietly, but her tone carried a chilling menace. — I need to think.

— Monica, I really… — he started, but she cut him off, sharply pointing to the door.

— And don’t you dare call me by my name again! — she snapped, clenching her fists. — I’m not your friend, Emma. I’m your mother.

Her eyes burned with fury, and Mark felt something inside him collapse. He opened his mouth to say something else, but her cold glare silenced him.

— You want to play at being an adult? Fine. You’ll do the dishes, take out the trash, cook, clean, do laundry, and tidy up wherever I say. And if I hear this circus again, — her voice turned icy, — I’ll take away your phone, your computer, and you won’t leave the apartment. School, chores, and not a single distraction.

A chill ran down Mark’s spine at her words. Without a word, he turned and walked to his room, feeling her searing gaze on his back. Slowly closing the door behind him, he sat on the bed, staring blankly ahead.

— This is complete fucking bullshit... — he whispered to himself, rubbing his neck. His gaze fell on the textbooks, and something tightened inside him. — So this is my life now, huh?

"I’m still me. Still a man? Or… a girl who…" flashed through his mind as he lowered his gaze to his hands. They were trembling, so thin they looked like they could break with the slightest effort.

Monica’s recent words flashed through his mind again — "do the dishes, take out the trash, cook, clean" — and he closed his eyes as if trying to retreat into his old life.

— It’s temporary. — He tried to take a deep breath, but even his own words sounded like a lie. — I’ll figure a way out.

But these hands, this body reminded him that “temporary” had already lasted far too long.

Part 6

The bus wheels clattered in rhythm with his thoughts. Mark sat by the window, looking at the green fields they were passing. His feet, stuffed into uncomfortable shoes, nervously tapped against the floor. He nervously tugged at the short skirt, his fingers brushing the fabric of the tights, part of the school uniform, which rubbed uncomfortably against his legs. The white blouse, the hairpins. His school uniform irritated him to the core.

"How did I even end up here?" — flashed in his mind. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the skirt. This trip, mandatory for all students, was part of the curriculum, but for him, it was yet another reminder of how far he had drifted from his old life.

Over the past few months, Mark had tried everything to get back. He called his old number, hoping to hear something that would clarify the situation. The phone was answered by him — the real Mark, confident, calm, unchanged. The man spoke like Mark, with the same tone, and refused to take his words seriously.

"What's up, Emma?" — he had said then. — "You really shouldn't be calling me. This is weird." Mark tried to prove something. He reminded him of details of their life: their shared apartment, how they spent weekends. But "Mark" laughed. "Emma, this isn't funny anymore," — he had snapped during one of the calls. "Your mom called me, screamed like I robbed her. Are you really walking around telling everyone you’re me? Seriously? Do you even realize you’re making trouble for me? If you have problems, go talk to a therapist. I don’t have time for this!"

That was the last time Mark spoke to the person who was now him. After failed conversations with "Mark" and relatives, he turned to the internet. Hours of searching led him to forums on reincarnation, astral travel, and magic. He even found a blogger who claimed to have regained his past life through an ancient ritual.

Late one evening, after waiting for Monica to fall asleep, Mark drew a circle on the floor with chalk, lit candles, and began whispering words he found online. He felt like an idiot, but in his desperation, he was willing to try anything. When the ritual didn’t work, he threw the candle to the floor and broke down crying.

For a moment, he thought it was divine punishment. He had never been particularly religious, but one night, unable to sleep because of his tears, he knelt and began to pray. "God, if You exist, please give me my life back," — he whispered into the emptiness, feeling the cold floor beneath his knees.

Mark prayed every evening for a week, but instead of miracles, things only got worse. Monica became more demanding, and the mocking at school only increased.

— " Hey, Crazy, what are you zoning out for?" a mocking voice rang out.

Mark felt something snap inside. Suddenly, a memory flashed before his eyes: he, still himself, sitting in a bar with colleagues. Someone had said to him then: "What’s wrong with you?"

Laughter, jokes, a light atmosphere. And now... He was here, in the body of a girl, sitting at the back of a school bus.

— "Ignore her," — whispered Jessica, sitting next to him, but Maddy came closer, circling the row of seats, while her friends snickered, as if anticipating a show.

— "Crazy Em, I’m talking to you!" — Maddy didn't stop.

Mark suddenly turned around, his gaze filled with anger and pain.

— "Got a hearing problem, Crazy Em?" — Maddy smirked, sitting down opposite him.

— "What do you want?" — he asked sharply, trying to keep what was left of his composure.

Maddy pretended to be offended.

— "How rude. But I’m actually here on business," — she shook her head theatrically. — "I need you to do something."

Mark frowned.

— "What? Are you completely out of your mind?"

— "You don’t get it, Emma," — Maddy interrupted him, her voice turning cold. — "This isn’t a request. I’ve got a pile of math homework, and I know you’re pretty good at it. So, it’s yours now."

— "What?" — Mark barely managed to stop himself from laughing. — "Seriously?"

— "Very seriously," — Maddy moved closer, her gaze becoming threatening.

— "I’m not doing anything for you," — he hissed through his teeth, trying not to attract unnecessary attention, especially from the teachers riding with the group. But his girl’s voice, high and slightly trembling with emotion, sounded far less threatening than he wanted it to.

Maddy smirked and crossed her arms.

— "Oh, how brave," — she stretched the words out lazily, dripping with mockery. — "Alright then, I’ll just show everyone your video. How many followers do I have now? Oh, over two thousand, I think. That’s the one where you had your little meltdown by the lockers, screaming about how you’re a man?"

Mark froze, feeling Maddy’s words hit his chest like fists.

— "You... you can’t," — he mumbled, but the tremble in his voice made his protest sound pathetic.

Maddy raised an eyebrow, her smile widening.

— "Why can’t I?" — she purred, with a sickeningly sweet innocence. — "I even titled the video: 'Crazy Em tells how she was a man! Best comedy of the year!' So, do you want everyone to see it, or will you change your mind and be a good girl?"

Mark felt his face flush. It was humiliating beyond belief. He remembered that day in the hallway: how he lost control, how he screamed, trying to prove that he was Mark, not Emma. At that moment, he gave in to his new teenage emotions and couldn’t hold them back, wanting to tell the truth, but from the outside, it must have looked like madness.

— "You’re lying," — he said, barely holding back the tremor in his voice.

Maddy instantly pulled out her phone and unlocked the screen. She tapped a few buttons and turned the screen toward Mark.

— "Lying?" — she said, grinning like a cat that cornered a mouse.

On the screen was the video. A blurry shot of the school hallway, Mark’s voice — or rather, Emma’s — shrill and screaming: "I’m telling you, I’m a guy! My name’s Mark!" His thin face flashed in the frame, twisted with rage, and his big eyes shining with tears.

Mark froze. This was even worse than he had imagined. His fists shook, but he couldn’t look away from the screen.

— "I have it in drafts. But, you know, all I need is one button to make it public," — Maddy said calmly, putting the phone away. — "Now think again. You going to do my test, or are you going to be an internet star?"

Part 7

A sharp voice cut through the tension:

— "Maddy, did it ever occur to you that you’ve already hit rock bottom?"

Maddy froze, her posture stiffening at the familiar raspy tone. Dan strolled over to them, the guy every teacher feared as much as the students. He looked as he always did — in a worn leather jacket, squinting, and twirling a cigarette between his fingers. His crooked smirk cast a shadow over the group, and suddenly the bus seemed to go quiet.

— "Buzz off!" — Maddy snapped, but her voice trembled.

— "No, I won’t," — Dan said, fixing her with a sharp gaze. Then, turning to Emma, he added: — "Tell me, Emma, is she just dumb as a rock and doesn’t understand words, or should I spell it out for her? You wouldn’t mind my help, would you?"

Mark hesitated. He wasn’t used to being defended, especially in such a bold way.

— "I don’t need your help," — he replied, his voice trembling slightly.

Dan gave Emma a faint smirk, then abruptly snatched the phone out of Maddy’s hands.

— "Hey! Give it back!" — she shrieked, lunging to grab the device, but Dan easily held it above his head.

— "Listen, princess, you know what happens to people who piss me off, right?" — he said calmly. — "Why tempt fate?"

Maddy froze, unsure how to respond.

— "Here’s the deal. I’m deleting this video. And if you record anything about Emma again, or even lay a finger on her, you’ll be the next internet star," — his voice was icy.

He deleted the video and handed the phone back while Mark watched the scene unfold in utter confusion. On one hand, Mark felt a strange sense of gratitude. But his male pride, still intact despite his current body, made it hard to accept this. Dan reminded him of all the bullies who had tormented him in the past.

Maddy shot to her feet, her face flushed with rage, but she said nothing. Throwing a searing glare at Dan, she turned on her heel and stormed back to her group of friends, her chin defiantly raised.

— "You know what, Emma?" — Dan said, sitting down so they were face-to-face, — " you might be small and a bit of a weirdo, but there’s something about you. Even Maddy’s pissed about it."

Mark let out a dry chuckle, fiddling with his skirt and turning toward the window, his cheeks heating up for no clear reason.

— "Sometimes I think your head’s older than half the folks hanging around here." The comment made Mark flinch, as if Dan knew the truth, but... no, that was impossible.

— "Do you always flinch like that when someone gives you a compliment?" — Dan asked lazily, tilting his head. His sharp, slightly amused gaze seemed to study Mark’s every movement, as though searching for weakness or... something else.

Mark shifted uncomfortably, instinctively adjusting his skirt, as though it could shield him from Dan’s scrutiny. Inside, he boiled with a mix of irritation, embarrassment, and faint anger.

— "I’m not flinching," — he said as calmly as he could, though his voice betrayed him with a slight tremor. His eyes, a little evasive, briefly landed on Dan, who sat there relaxed, like a king on his throne. The worn leather jacket, slightly tousled hair, and cocky squint made his confidence infuriatingly palpable. — "I’m always on edge around guys like you," — Mark retorted, crossing his arms to mask his unease.

Dan’s lips curled into a grin. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to get closer but not cross any boundaries.

— "That’s why you’re strange," — he said with a quiet chuckle. His voice was low, almost gravelly, but there was no malice in it.

Mark frowned, a strange chill running down his spine.

— "What?"

— "Look, I’m a year older, but even I don’t always have the courage to say what I’m thinking. But you? You say it, you fight, you push back. Whatever’s on your mind, you let it out. That’s awesome, and I like it."

Dan’s words struck an odd chord, so plain and unexpectedly sincere that Mark didn’t know how to respond.

"Like?" — The word echoed in his head. His throat went dry, and he struggled to find his voice.

— "Like?" — he repeated, feeling a tightness in his chest as if his heart had skipped a beat.

Dan nodded briefly, his gaze, usually brash, softening for a moment.

— "Not in love, don’t worry," — he said lazily, leaning back.

The words came out casually, but to Mark, they seemed to hang in the air, weighing him down. He looked away, unable to meet Dan’s eyes. "Not in love" — those words were supposed to reassure him, but instead, they made things worse. His cheeks burned with betrayal, and his whole body felt uncomfortably warm.

Mark quickly turned toward the window, but Dan’s reflection lingered in his peripheral vision. His palms grew sweaty, and his hands nervously clenched at his skirt.

"Shit. What the hell’s going on with me? It’s just this body reacting. Stupid teenage hormones kicking in. Makes sense... it’s just the body, that’s all..." — he tried to rationalize, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. He quickly let go, licking the cut, and snuck another glance at Dan. The boy was casually looking down the bus aisle, but something about him suggested he was fully aware of the effect of his words.

"How dare he?!" — Mark fumed inwardly. — "It’s like he knows more about me than I do."

Jessica returned then, her presence a welcome distraction. Seeing her, Dan stood slowly, offering an unexpectedly gentlemanly gesture as he gave up his seat. Jessica smiled awkwardly, casting a quick glance at Mark, as if checking if he was okay.

— "She’s stronger than she looks," — Dan remarked, as though confirming his earlier statement, then moved off to another row.

— "Stronger than she looks," — Mark muttered under his breath, feeling his ears burn with embarrassment, and then scoffed, mocking himself.

"Stronger than she looks," — he mimicked internally, annoyance bubbling to the surface. — "What does he even know about me? I’m a man, dammit. Of course I’m strong!" he mentally berated himself. But something about Dan’s words clung to him, as if Dan hadn’t been speaking to "Emma" but to someone equal.

Old memories surged forth, unbidden. He recalled how, back when he was still a boy, others had dismissed him, mocked him behind his back. And now… now someone had noticed his determination.

— "Hey, what are you mumbling about?" — Jessica teased, trying to lighten the mood, though concern lingered in her eyes.

— "Nothing," — Mark snapped, though his voice lacked the conviction he wanted.

Jessica studied him for a moment but didn’t press further.

Mark, meanwhile, was still replaying Dan’s words in his head. And not just the words. Dan’s gaze, his tone, his mannerisms — they had stirred a storm of emotions, from irritation to confusion.

"How dare he say that? Likes it, huh... I used to hate guys like him," — Mark thought bitterly. Yet, somewhere deep down, another feeling surfaced: "He didn’t see Emma. He saw me."

That thought hit hard, leaving Mark momentarily stunned. It felt like the world paused, like someone had pressed a giant pause button on his life. But it didn’t last. He shook his head, his long hair brushing his face, a tickling reminder of what he had become. He exhaled sharply and pushed his hair behind his ears.

"Stronger than I look? What nonsense," — Mark muttered. But no matter how much he tried to dismiss the words, they kept echoing in his mind, carving themselves deeper into his thoughts.

Part 8

Monica stood by the window, lazily watering one of her many plants. Outside, the sky was overcast, and a light drizzle fogged up the glass, behind which stretched a dull view of the neighboring houses. The plants were her solace, the one thing she could do with complete focus, almost meditatively.

— “…and he was like, ‘I’m just in awe of you,’ and I was like, ‘Oh, please, you just want to get me into bed!’” — The voice of Monica’s best friend, Lilia, echoed through her wireless earbud. She burst into laughter, but Monica barely listened. Her gaze drifted to Emma’s bedroom door, and that gnawing sense of unease, now almost a constant companion, washed over her again. She recalled how, not long ago, when Emma wasn’t home, she had gone into her room, justifying it to herself as a "cleanliness check."

The room was surprisingly spotless, which felt odd because Emma had never kept things tidy, not even when explicitly told to clean up. But now, Emma had done everything Monica had asked after their last argument, and the sterile neatness of the room unsettled her. Everything looked unnaturally perfect, even the items on the desk were arranged with meticulous precision. It felt unnatural, as though her daughter were trying to overcompensate for her struggles through orderliness.

Monica had been about to leave when her eyes caught the slightly ajar desk drawer, which stood out against the backdrop of perfection, better suited to some perfectionist than a typical schoolgirl. She carefully opened the drawer and immediately noticed a small journal with a battered cover.

"She keeps a journal?" Monica thought, feeling a tug-of-war between respecting her daughter’s privacy and a mother’s worry. But curiosity won out.

When Monica opened the journal, she didn’t expect much. She felt guilty but couldn’t stop herself. "Just a quick look," she rationalized, flipping through the pages. The entries were strange. They didn’t describe a typical teenager’s life; instead, they read more like the recollections of an adult:

"Monica was different when we first met. I adored her, loved her for being real. She could laugh and joke, even when things were tough. We broke up, yeah, but I kept only warm memories. But now, I’m scared of her... yeah, damn it, scared, and it’s killing me. She sees Emma in me" (the name was written as if the author felt disdain for it). "But I’m not Emma. I’m Mark. And honestly, I don’t even know what happened to the real Emma or where she is. It makes me feel ashamed. Maybe the real Emma is still in here? Maybe she’s gone? God, poor girl, if she really is still in here. Or… am I the poor… girl???" (“girl” was written with such force that the ink had soaked through the page.)

Monica snapped the journal shut, her heart pounding.

"This is ridiculous. Nonsense. Why am I even reading this? It’s just some bizarre attempt by a teenager to mask her insecurities. Maybe Emma’s been reading weird forums? Fantasizing? Or is this her way of coping with her issues?”

Monica sighed heavily, tearing her gaze away from the door and looking back out the window.

— Are you even listening to me? — Lilia’s voice chirped in her ear, as lively and annoyingly vibrant as ever.

— Yes, of course, I’m listening, — Monica replied automatically, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater.

— Sure you are, — Lilia drawled. — So, tell me, how’s your “mini-me”? Still driving you crazy?

— Emma... — Monica trailed off, unsure what to say.

— Oh, come on, spill. You know I adore your kid. She’s such a sweetheart, even if she’s got a bit of a temper. But, honestly, she’s been acting kinda weird lately. I noticed it the last time we hung out. Especially that moment when she came home from school and we… — Lilia lowered her voice, her laugh suddenly sounding awkward. — You know, when we were passionately making out in the kitchen… God, Mon, I felt like I was 15 again, caught doing something inappropriate by my dad.

Monica tensed, remembering that moment. Lilia, standing by the stove, had first brushed her lips lightly against hers, then pulled her closer, the kiss growing intense, as though they were alone in the house. Then Monica had heard a dull thud — Emma’s backpack had dropped to the floor. Emma stood in the doorway, her eyes wide. There was something in her gaze that pierced Monica to the core: pain and betrayal.

— She usually just cracks some joke when she catches us, — Lilia said thoughtfully. — Like, “Do I need to start kissing people to get into the kitchen now?” That’s her thing — turning everything into sarcasm. But that time…

At that moment, Emma had stood frozen for several seconds, staring at them. When Monica had let out a playful snort, saying, “Oh, come on, you always knew we were more than just friends. Why the face?” Emma opened her mouth, as if about to say something, her eyes growing even wider, and then she suddenly raised her hand, pointing back and forth between Lilia and Monica.

"You knew? Are you serious?" — Her voice quivered with anger, not fear. — "Did Mark know? Or was that your little secret? Why bother saying you love someone if it’s just meaningless words?"

"Emma, I said watch your mouth!" — Monica’s voice came out firm, though slightly unsteady.

"My mouth?" — Emma’s tone turned cutting, her eyes aflame. — "Right, Mommy! And maybe you should be more careful about what your mouth’s been doing!"

“Emma! How dare you speak like that?! One more word and—” Monica’s voice faltered as Emma waved her hand dismissively.

“And what?! What will you do, Mom?” The word “Mom” came out so harsh and scornful that Monica hesitated for a moment. Throwing a fleeting, condemning look at them, Emma stormed off to her room, slamming the door so hard that the reverberation hung in the air.

— That was weird, sweetie, — Lilia’s voice sounded back in her usual lighthearted tone through the earbud. — And what does your ex, Mark, have to do with any of this? — Lilia drawled, her voice deliberately casual but tinged with curiosity.

Monica frowned, still staring at Emma’s closed door.

— I don’t know... — she replied slowly, searching for the right words. — But Emma… she...

The lines from the journal came back to her mind. "I’m Mark." The thought made her shudder. Her ex’s name, whispered from the past, now rooted itself firmly in the present, sounding strange, almost eerie, on Emma’s lips.

— She’s just a teenager, — Lilia laughed. — You’re overthinking it.

— You haven’t seen how she’s been acting, Lilia. — Monica absentmindedly traced her finger across the glass, watching the raindrops. — She got into a fight with Maddie. They made her apologize. She was smoking in the park. I dragged her home, and she didn’t say a word. Not one word, not even to explain herself.

— See? Classic puberty. — Lilia stretched the word out with exaggerated irony.

— No. — Monica shook her head. — This isn’t puberty. It’s something else.

— Do you really think so? — Lilia’s voice dropped, a note of genuine concern creeping in.

Monica remembered the journal’s words. "I’m Mark." That short phrase carried too much weight to ignore.

— Yes, — she finally answered. — I’m afraid something’s wrong with her. And I don’t know how to help.