Page 5 of Ashen Souls

I had the sterile vocabulary to explain it away.

But previous episodes had been nothing more than formless terror.

Last night had intent.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in the kitchen, my hands still shaking as I lifted the mug to my mouth. The silence in the apartment felt tainted, haunted by a presence I refused to acknowledge. I couldn't stay there. I headed to the campus library to kill time before my family’s inescapable Sunday dinner. It was my favorite place to soak up these final days of student life, and by the time I arrived, I had almost convinced myself it was only a hallucination.

It should’ve been a rule by now: if you try too hard to pretend everything is fine, the universe takes it personally.

For the next few days, my life settled into a brittle kind of calm—the sort that hangs in the air right before someone drops a heavy glass. I went to lectures. I submitted drafts. I smiled when people asked how I was doing, and answered my mother’s Are you eating enough? texts with familiar lies and a red heart emoji.

And then Thursday arrived, because Thursday always does, bringing a glowing notification on my phone. A reminder that I’d agreed to yet another date as if it were a mandatory civic obligation.

7:30 p.m. — Lucas. Wine bar on Saint Mireille.

His profile photo had been the usual: soft lighting, a half-smile, and a well-maintained jawline. He liked museums and deep conversations. He’d used the word wanderlust without an ounce of irony.

My phone buzzed on the dresser just as I was deciding what to wear.

“Please tell me you survived Sunday dinner without casualties,” Harper said the second I answered, skipping the hello.

“Barely,” I countered, studying my reflection in the mirror. “My mother spent half the evening treating my singleness like a terminal illness, and Chloe tried to blackmail me into writing her essay.”

“Ah, family. A beautiful, deeply flawed institution,” Harper replied. “Did you finish your own article for the magazine at least?”

“Sent it in yesterday. Now I just have to survive tonight.”

A heavy sigh crackled through the speaker. “Tell me you’re not going out with another guy who looks like a corporate stock photo.”

“I’m trying to be open-minded,” I said.

“Open-minded is how people end up in cults,” Harper retorted. “You keep shopping for candles, Aveline, and then acting surprised when none of them set the damn house on fire.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Her voice softened marginally. Harper was biologically incapable of being gentle for more than two sentences in a row. “You claim you want a spark, but you pick men who come with a user manual.”

“I’m not afraid of intensity,” I said, though the defense sounded rehearsed even to my own ears.

“You chase intensity on the page,” she corrected. “In real life, you settle for manageable. It’s like you love the idea of being wrecked by someone, but only if you get to dictate the terms.”

The observation scraped against a truth I usually tried to keep buried.

“I don’t want to be wrecked,” I breathed.

“You know what I think?” she asked after a brief pause. “I think you’re waiting for a story. Real men don’t always feel like stories right out of the gate, so you bail before they get the chance.”

I hesitated, tracing a loose thread on my sleeve. “Maybe I just haven’t met the right person.”

“Maybe. But for the love of God, stop dating men who feel like an email you forgot to answer.”

A laugh startled out of me. “Harper.”

“I’m serious.” I could hear the wicked grin spreading across her face. “Either lower your expectations or raise your standards. Pick a lane, Aveline.”

“I have to go,” I muttered, though her words still stung.

“Have fun,” she quipped. “Try not to die of boredom.”