Chapter Eight

"AHHHHHHHH!"

The scream ripped out of me before I was even awake.

I bolted upright, chest heaving, skin cold with sweat—and there they were.

“Okay, what the hell?” Rhea crashed into the room like a hurricane in an oversized t-shirt and bunny slippers, eyes wide, hair in a messy bun. “You screamed like you were being murdered!”

Elias was just behind her, quiet and sharp-eyed, already scanning the room like he expected an attacker. His voice was low. “Nightmare again?”

I nodded, still trying to breathe. “Yeah.”

Rhea crawled right into bed beside me without hesitation. “God, I thought we were past this phase. Please tell me it wasn’t blood again.”

My throat tightened. “It was worse.”

She blinked. “Define worse.”

“I was painting.”

That silenced her. Even Elias, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, went still.

“Shit,” Rhea whispered, drawing her knees up under the blanket. “Like real painting? The creepy, possessed-style stuff? Full-on creepy gallery girl mode?”

I nodded slowly, rubbing the heels of my palms into my eyes. “My hands wouldn’t stop moving. It was like… I was painting something I’d, already seen before.

Something I wasn’t supposed to remember.”

Rhea frowned, voice softer now. “What did it look like?”

“It was blurry,” I said honestly. “Like I was painting through water. But it felt… familiar. Faces. Fragments. Like a memory I don’t actually have. It wasn’t like the other dreams, Rhea. This one didn’t just feel strange it felt… true.”

Elias finally spoke. “Has it been happening again recently, or was this the first?”

I shook my head. “First in months. I thought they were done.”

“I’ll sleep in the living room tonight,” he said simply. “Just in case.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“You’re overreacting.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you’re pretending you didn’t wake up screaming.”

I pressed my lips together.

Rhea wrapped an arm around my shoulder and leaned her head against mine. “Okay, but also… what if this means you’re ready to paint again? Like, I know the dreams are scary, but maybe your brain is trying to tell you something. Art therapy, but make it psychic horror.”

She bit her lip, then added gently, “Do you think… maybe you’re supposed to paint again?”

“No.”

“But your body’s like—hey girl, grab a brush.”

“No.”

“You could just do a doodle—”

“Rhea.”

She put up her hands. “Okay, okay.

For a while, none of us spoke. The night air pressed in through the open window. Elias finally turned and left, muttering something about getting water. Rhea stayed.

She looked at me with those wide, sleep-heavy eyes. “You scared me,” she said quietly. “I hate it when this comes back.”

“Me too.”

“You said it felt like memories, right? Like before.....before?”

“Yeah.”

She hesitated. “Bella, do you ever think maybe you were someone else before this life? Like, actually? I don’t know, maybe that’s what the dreams are.”

I gave her a look. “You sound like a conspiracy forum.”

“I’m serious! Reincarnation. Past lives. Psychic echoes. It's not that crazy.”

I laid back down with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling.

“I don’t care what it is,” I murmured. “I just want it to stop.”

But deep down…

I already knew.

It wasn’t going to.

“I missed this,” she whispered.

I turned to her in disbelief. “You missed me screaming at 2 a.m.?”

She smiled faintly. “No. I missed talking to you like this. The real you. The one who paints her feelings even when she’s scared of them.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My throat ached with something heavier than exhaustion.

She nudged me gently. “You wanna draw again tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Wanna talk about boys instead?”

“No.”

“…Wanna scroll TikTok until you feel sleepy again?”

“…Maybe.”

She grinned.

******************>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Morning came slow and syrupy, the kind of light that makes you question if it’s too early or way too late. My head ached from the weight of the dream, the remnants of it still curling in the corners of my skull like smoke.

But it wasn’t the dream that woke me.

It was Rhea.

She barged into the room, already dressed in a sunshine-yellow tank top and high-waisted jeans, her hair thrown into a haphazard clip like she was two seconds from going on a coffee run or staging a bedroom intervention.

“Alright, rise and shine, Van Gogh. Get up. This is your ‘we’re doing life again’ wake-up call.”

I groaned into my pillow. “Go away.”

“Nope,” she said brightly, yanking the curtains open. “We had a full-blown screamfest last night. I think this morning we balance that out with some full-blown planning. As in—your life. Your job. Your bank account, which, unless it’s been lying to me, is currently flirting with the number zero.”

I hissed like a snake. “I said go away.”

She hopped onto my bed like it was a trampoline, crossing her legs criss-cross-applesauce style and giving me a look. “Do I need to call Elias in here?”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too. Now sit up and take this like a grown woman with bills.”

I rolled to the side dramatically, pulling the covers over my head.

“Arabella,” she said in that voice—the one that meant I’m serious but trying to make it sound like I’m not—“it’s time you tried again. The art hiatus was necessary. Healing? Necessary. Sleepwalking through life like a moody ghost? We did that. Now it’s giving… financial ruin and mild depression.”

“I’m not ready.”

“You said that yesterday. And last week. And last month. Babe. I say this with love and the energy of a woman who had two orgasms and a protein smoothie this morning—you need a job.”

I peeked out from under the blanket. “That’s… the weirdest motivational speech I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” she said smugly, “it’s working.”

“Barely.”

“I’ll take it.” She jumped up suddenly. “Hold that pathetic thought—I’m getting my laptop.”

I sighed as she ran out like she was on a mission.

Moments later, she returned with her MacBook covered in chaotic stickers: Hot Girls Heal, a sparkly frog in a crown, and a quote that said: Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's unresolved trauma.

She plopped down beside me, already typing.

“Alright,” she said, eyes on the screen. “We’re narrowing this down. Do you want something artsy, something normal, or something that pays like your life depends on it?”

I rubbed my eyes. “I don’t know. Normal, I guess?”

She scoffed. “You? Normal? That’s adorable. Okay, how about artsy but disguised as normal? Like graphic design, boutique assistant, gallery receptionist, or—wait for it—art therapy intern.”

I gave her a skeptical look. “I’m not qualified for any of that.”

“You have a portfolio that nearly gave me an orgasm once.”

I gagged. “Can you please never say that again?”

She grinned. “Okay, okay, what about something simple to start? Like… bookstore clerk. Coffee shop barista. Receptionist at one of those creepy corporate towers with marble floors and men in suits who smell like inheritance.”

I laughed. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I have a fantasy,” she said proudly. “Anyway, here—this one’s interesting.” She tilted the screen toward me.

> Aragon Enterprises – Junior Admin Assistant Position Looking for a highly organized, discreet, and creative individual with excellent communication skills to assist in office coordination and internal documentation. Interest in design, branding, or executive support is a plus. No formal experience Required.

“Aragon Enterprises?” I asked, raising a brow. “Sounds… intense.”

“It’s giving sleek billionaire vampire cult,” she said with stars in her eyes. “You have to apply.”

“Why does that appeal to you?”

“Because I believe in aesthetic suffering and morally ambiguous men in tailored suits. Duh.”

I rolled my eyes, but something about the listing held me there. The mention of creativity. The fact that no experience was required. The name—it sounded like something out of a dream.

Rhea watched me carefully.

“You clicked with that one.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Your pupils dilated.”

“Stop watching my pupils, you freak.”

She grinned. “Come on. Let’s update your CV. I’ll help. We’ll keep it vague but mysterious. Like: Artist with a background in visual communication and organizational work seeking new opportunities in a creative or structured environment.”

I squinted. “That sounds like a dating profile.”

“Exactly.”

“I hate you.”

“You said that already.”

I exhaled slowly, letting the moment sink in.

It was a small thing—filling out a form, hitting apply. But after the last few months, it felt like standing at the edge of something. A cliff, maybe. Or a door I wasn’t ready to open. Still... maybe I didn’t have to be ready. Maybe I just had to move.

I reached for the laptop.

Rhea beamed.

“That’s my girl!”