I Hope This Doesn't Awaken Anything In Me Novels & Stories

“We will not lose you.” And somewhere deep in my chest, under the fear, under the exhaustion, something answered. Something powerful. Something awakening.

Me. My breath stuttered. Hope is a dangerous medication; it gets into the bloodstream and starts rearranging how you see the world. I folded the note and slipped it beneath my dress where no camera would find it. It was a foolish, childish thing to do—hide a scrap of paper like some talisman—but it felt rebelliously private, the kind of small theft Dante could never account for.

Because something inside me— is waking up. And if they don’t stop it— If I don’t stop it— Then the next time I see him— I won’t just hesitate. I’ll remember. And that— will destroy everything.

The pit in my stomach doesn’t vanish, but there’s a tiny flicker of something else underneath it. Hope. Maybe tonight I can be someone other than the Jessa who hates mirrors. Maybe tonight I can be seen.

Bruised in ways no one could see. Then my phone pinged. “I’m coming back. Don’t let go of us. – X” And even though everything was breaking, that message lit something inside me. Not hope. Not yet. But maybe… Fire.

I’m going to live the life you thought you were giving me, while you rot in hell. Black spots danced across my vision. The fire in my chest was turning into an icy vacuum, pulling my soul toward the floor. I could hear Marcus laughing in the distance, oblivious to the fact that his world was ending twenty feet away. I forced my eyes to stay open, forced my shattered nervous system to give me one last surge of defiance. I reached out, my fingers catching the hem of her dress, staining the bright yellow fabric with the dark smudge of my desperation. "Lurii," I rasped, the words tasting like copper and bile. My voice was a ghostly shadow of itself, but the promise behind it was absolute.

I hold the glass tighter, as if the pressure will keep everything from spilling over. The invitation sits in silence, more provocative than any words it could contain. I feel it promising things I barely let myself want—acceptance, connection, the allure of standing in that crowded room as something other than an outsider. Hope, reckless and fragile, begins to wind its way through my defenses, whispering of possibilities too dangerous to ignore.

A memory of something that hadn’t happened yet. A secret part of me, a part I will never, ever show him, wonders. Was it more than a potential? Was it a glimpse? A message? A promise from a universe that owes us nothing? I bury the thought deep. It is a hope too dangerous to ever let see the light. But it’s there. A tiny, frozen seed in the permafrost of my heart. And it aches more than all the rest.

I look so young in the morning light, in this room, as though I’ve regressed to being a little girl again. The thought feels like warm marshmallows in my brain. I hold my breath as I press down the door handle. Here we go. Now or never. Maybe he isn’t even up yet. Maybe he’s already up and gone, leaving my clothes in a pile with nothing but a get out of my house, you dirty little bitch message waiting for me. I hope not.