His To Hear, His To Hold

The world is full of noise I can't turn off.

Not sound. Not chatter or honking or footsteps. I mean noise. Real noise—the kind that rattles around inside your skull and makes it hard to breathe if you don't learn how to ignore it.

Voices in my head. Not mine. Theirs.

Especially on this bus.

'My feet hurt. Why don't these young people give up a seat? Brats!'

The old man didn't say it out loud. He just thought it, clear as a bell, aimed at the back of my skull like I owed him something.

"You can have my seat, sir," I said, standing up and slipping my bag over my shoulder.

He blinked at me for a second, surprised, and then smiled as he lowered himself into the seat with a relieved sigh. "Thank you. You young people are getting to be so nice."

Right. Faker.

What he actually thought about me and what he said didn't line up at all. But that just makes him like everyone else I've ever met. Say one thing, think another. Smile while they're thinking something rotten. That's what passes for normal.

And maybe that's the real problem—he's just too normal.

I've always known something was off about me. Telepathy, they call it. But that word sounds way cooler than it actually is. There's nothing fun about hearing people's thoughts without permission, without a choice. It's like living with your head pressed up against a hundred radios all tuned to different stations—every second of every day.

At least the range is limited. Maybe it's a suburb thing. Small minds, short reach. I've learned how to live around it—how to dull it into background static.

But not always.

I started this school year late, which was probably the first strike against me. Add that to the way I keep to myself and don't play into the plastic social games, and you've got a perfect recipe for being labeled: loser, freak, anorexic—take your pick.

Not that I care. Let them talk. Let them think.

People tend to leave me alone anyway. Being near me is apparently "social suicide." Like I'm radioactive or cursed or just too depressing to stand next to in a photo. It stung at first. But honestly? I'd rather be alone than be "friends" with the kind of people who chew you up and spit you out for fun.

They're all fake.

I've seen how they think. I know what they really mean. The betrayals. The petty schemes. The double-crosses behind flawless I*******m smiles. You want to feel sick? Hear someone think one thing and say the opposite with perfect timing. Do it every day for years.

When my stop came, I stepped off the bus without a word, pushing past the cloud of thoughts that swarmed around me like gnats. I didn't flinch. It was all just white noise at this point.

Then there it was—my school.

Big. Gleaming. Overcompensating. The kind of building designed by people who thought shiny lockers and polished floors could distract from the rot inside. The courtyard was packed, kids spilling across it like ants—laughing, shoving, staring at screens, thinking way too loud.

"There she is," someone murmured. The voice was distant, but the thought was sharp—jealousy. She hated how I how I didn't orbit around anyone like a lost dog.

"I guess she still didn't have the guts to kill herself," another voice said behind a snort. The thought behind it was weaker, more hesitant. She didn't mean it. She just wanted to impress her friends. Fit in.

Pathetic.

I slid my headphones in and let the music play. Not that it blocked much, but at least it was something. A filter if you will. The one thing that made walking down that hallway feel almost normal.

'Here's the fucking loser. Maybe I'll smack the back of her head so she can get out of Lara's sight.'

I stiffened. Incoming. My body moved before I fully processed it—I ducked just in time.

A fist slammed into the metal locker beside me, the clang echoing through the hallway. I didn't flinch.

'Damn! Fucking loser made me miss!'

I straightened up just in time to see him yank my headphones out and hurl them down the hallway. They skidded and cracked somewhere near the drinking fountain.

'I wonder if Lara thinks I'm cool?'

"Lara isn't even looking at you. She's going to call you a loser for this," I muttered under my breath.

His face flushed with embarrassment and rage. A second later, his palm cracked across my face.

My cheek burned. My head turned. But I didn't stagger. Didn't cry.

Shake it off, Anne. It's not a huge fucking deal.

He didn't even put his full weight into it. And now? He wasn't even looking at me anymore. Because Lara—Queen of Popularity, Goddess of Manipulation—wasn't paying attention. She was too busy fawning over some other guy like a heat-seeking missile.

Everyone adored her. I couldn't stand her. Her thoughts were filth. Constant obsessions about who she wanted to screw next or who she already had. She walked through school like a sparkly plague, and thanks to her, I'd been mentally assaulted with naked football players more times than I could count.

She's the reason I learned to tune everything out. So I guess... thanks?

Whatever. I didn't care.

My nose was bleeding now. Great.

I tilted my head back slightly, wiping at it with the sleeve of my jacket as I moved toward the bathroom. Then—

'Anne is looking good as usual, even with a bloody nose.'

I stopped.

That thought again. That voice. The one that had been quietly watching for three years. Closer now. Much closer. It brushed against my mind like fingertips.

I should've felt flattered. I didn't.

Because whoever that was... they were hiding. Cowardly. Fixated. And still hadn't said a damn word out loud. I didn't want mystery. I didn't want a secret admirer. I wanted peace. Quiet.

I just wanted to finish school and get the hell out of this town.

No drama. No love letters. No confessions whispered between classes.

Just silence.

But that's the thing about people. They can't help but lie—even when they're only talking to themselves.

"You there!" a voice called out.

I blinked and turned, immediately regretting it. Mr. Swanson, one of the laziest teachers on campus, was power-walking toward me with a look of forced concern stretched across his face. "Let's get you to the nurse."

'Great, this weird kid again. Why can't she just stay out of trouble for once? If she just kept her head down no one would even bother her.'

I slammed my locker shut. "I'm good."

"You should—"

"You really should stop these things while they're in progress instead of just watching, Mr. Swanson," I said flatly.

He went beet red. Spluttered. Opened and closed his mouth like a fish. "You—"

"I'm out," I said, already turning on my heel. I walked away from his tomato-colored face and into the hallway, a quiet satisfaction blooming in my chest.

I can be quite the little shit when I apply myself correctly.

I made it to the nurse's office without more interruptions and headed straight for the mirror. The girl staring back at me looked like she'd gone head-to-head with a mailbox and lost. My nose was red, crusted with dried blood around the nostrils, but not broken. Just messy. Swollen. Angry-looking.

Ugh.

I looked fucking awful.

My black hair was a wild halo of static and frizz. One of my eyes—a dull, stormy blue—glared back at me with the usual tired fury. The other? Milky white, almost silver. A ghost of an eye. I could still see out of it just fine, not that I told the doctors that. I let them think it was blind. Easier that way.

The eye was part of the reason most people wouldn't speak to me unless they had to. It creeped them out. It made them uneasy. Like they didn't know if I was about to hex them or read their soul.

I could've covered it with my hair, I guess. But why bother? It was annoying to manage and—frankly—why the hell should I?

Still... I'd trade all of this "unique" bullshit for a few days of just being normal. Just looking normal.

And yet, apparently, someone saw "charm" in me.

I splashed cold water on my face, snapping myself out of the pathetic spiral. Get it together, Anne. One guy thinks you look good and suddenly your brain's writing poetry? Don't be delusional. You don't even know what he looks like.

For all I knew, it was the creepy janitor with the bad breath who mentally undressed every girl in a skirt. And now that the voice had been showing up outside of school, following me like a damn ghost, I couldn't pretend it was harmless anymore. Especially not after last month—when it felt like he was right outside my window.

I may seriously have a problem.

Or maybe I'm just overthinking.

"Anne?" the nurse asked gently, breaking me out of my spiral. "This is your fourth time here this week. And it's only Tuesday. Don't you think things have escalated enough?"

"No," I said with a shrug. The last thing I needed was her getting that savior complex again. For some reason, she thought she could fix me. Like I was some kind of broken puppy with a tragic backstory.

"You know how clumsy I can be," I added, pasting on a smile.

'How badly has this kid been abused that this isn't a big deal to her?' the nurse fretted in her mind. 'Why haven't her parents done anything?'

They wouldn't. Dad was either on a business trip or vacationing with whatever sugar baby was latest in his roster. And Mom? MIA, somewhere in this town, actively pretending I didn't exist. I didn't really blame her. Dad had been awful to her—and I looked just like him.

Still... I would've preferred her silence to Dad's parade of twentysomething girlfriends who tried to bond with me like I was a charity case.

The only redeeming quality Dad had? He loved me more than he loved them. I was his little princess.

"It's nothing this time. The school day just started," I said around a yawn, stretching my arms up in fake weariness. "Can I lay down for a bit?"

"Of course!" the nurse said quickly, guiding me toward one of the empty beds. "Take as long as you need."

"Thanks," I mumbled.

'This poor girl. I wish I could do more to help. It must be hard for her to get any real sleep at home.'

I told her not to worry, and she worried anyway. But whatever. Her pity got me a free nap and a pass out of pre-calc. Worth it.

I crawled onto the bed, pulling the thin blanket over me and relaxing into the silence. It was easier to sleep here than in my own house—where the silence wasn't quiet at all. Where it echoed with absence.

As much as I hated hearing everyone's thoughts, I couldn't deny it kept me company. The white noise was a weird kind of comfort. Familiar. Consistent. It filled the gaps that silence carved open.

So I let myself drift.

***

'She's as beautiful as always.'

The voice shattered the silence like glass.

That same damn voice again.

Was he watching me?

Then—strawberries. I smelled strawberries. Sweet. Artificial. Candy, maybe?

And then... lips. Soft lips brushed mine with aching gentleness.

What. The. Fuck?

I started to stir, my mind jerking out of sleep—but something landed over my face fast. A blanket. My blanket.

'Fuck, she usually doesn't wake up while napping!' The panic in the thought was real. Then—footsteps. Running.

Gone.

I yanked the blanket off my head and sat up, blinking rapidly, heart pounding. The taste of strawberries still lingered on my mouth.

My first kiss... had been stolen. By some creepy bastard who thought he was my personal dream-boy. And worse—he'd been watching me sleep long enough to know I usually don't wake up while napping.

HOW. THE. HELL. WOULD. HE. KNOW. THAT?

My mind spun.

Was it a junior? A senior? A teacher? The janitor? The nurse's assistant? Someone passing by?

The strawberry smell clung to the air. Candy or perfume? Didn't matter.

Whoever it was, I was going to find them. And when I did?

They were going to regret everything.