Chapter 7: The Girl in the Glass
Clara didn't come back for three days.
Leah waited, the hours stretching long, each one soaked in tension, each tick of the clock like a reminder of her own isolation. Her seat at lunch stayed empty, untouched. Her name wasn't called in homeroom. The classroom felt colder without Clara's presence. The silence in the hallways seemed louder without the soft murmur of their whispered conversations.
Each minute without Clara felt like a new layer of skin being peeled away. Every second, every breath, Leah was left feeling less like herself, less like a person and more like an echo, fading in the corners of her own existence.
On the fourth day, Clara returned.
There was no explanation. No apology. No words. She simply walked into the cafeteria, walked past the empty seat beside Leah, and sat down like nothing had happened. Like the absence of days hadn't made Leah feel raw, exposed, like something important had been taken.
But when Leah glanced at her, she saw it. Clara's eyes, once bright, were dull now. Like someone had turned down the light behind them, dimmed the spark that Leah had come to rely on. There was something in her gaze that was both familiar and foreign, something Leah didn't have the words for, but it made the space between them feel like a chasm.
Leah didn't say anything. Not at first. The words, the questions, they all felt too fragile, too unimportant against the weight of Clara's absence.
The silence between them grew louder with every step as they walked to the greenhouse after school, a silence that swelled like an invisible thing, filling the air between them. Inside the greenhouse, the scent of damp earth and decay clung to the walls, but it wasn't the same as before. This time, the air felt heavy with regret, with something unspoken that neither of them could touch.
The wildflowers had started to sprout, their green tips poking through the cracked pots like fragile promises, the kind Leah wasn't sure she could keep anymore.
Clara dropped her bag and sat cross-legged on the floor, her fingers trembling when she picked up a trowel. Leah watched her, a tight knot forming in her chest, but still, she said nothing.
Then Clara spoke, her voice a jagged thing, raw and broken.
"You killed him."
Leah blinked, the words striking her like a slap. "No. I didn't."
Clara's gaze was steady, unflinching, the weight of what she was saying pulling the air from the room. "You wanted to."
Leah didn't deny it. Not this time. She couldn't. The Beast inside her purred at the admission, satisfied with the truth, with the acknowledgment of what Leah was capable of.
Outside, the wind howled, a cold thing that seemed to cut through the air like a blade. Somewhere, in the corner of the greenhouse, a pane of glass cracked under pressure, its sound sharp and brittle.
"I'm not afraid of you," Clara said, and her voice was softer now, but there was a strength in it that Leah couldn't quite place.
"I think you should be," Leah whispered, the words like a promise, but Clara didn't flinch. She just stared at Leah, her expression unchanged.
"I'm not," Clara repeated, her voice steady, as if she knew something Leah didn't.
They fell silent again. The Beast inside Leah growled low, unsettled. It didn't like this version of Clara—the one that was broken, tired, soft in ways that were dangerous. Clara was too close now, too much of a reminder of everything Leah was starting to feel, everything she was trying to bury.
"You disappeared," Leah said, her voice flat but tinged with something darker. "Where did you go?"
"I had to," Clara whispered. "He wasn't the first."
Leah turned her head slowly, her stomach twisting, a sharp, bitter edge creeping into her chest. "Do I remind you of him?"
Clara met her gaze, the truth hanging between them like smoke. "No. You scare me for different reasons."
Leah's breath caught, the words sinking into her skin like poison. "Why?"
Clara's eyes didn't waver. "Because I see myself in you."
Leah's heart thudded in her chest. It wasn't the Beast that stirred this time. It was something else, something older, darker, buried deep. She felt something twist in her gut, a sensation of knowing that made her stomach churn.
Leah looked away, unable to meet Clara's gaze anymore. "Then maybe you're worse off than I thought."
They worked in silence after that. Pulling weeds. Replanting flowers. The knife in Leah's pocket felt heavier than usual, the cold steel pressing against her ribs like a reminder of how much power she had—and how much she feared using it.
When the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a pale light through the cracked glass, Clara stood up. She didn't say anything, just moved toward the door, the movement slow but certain.
"I want to show you something," she said quietly, almost like a request, though Leah didn't know why she felt compelled to follow.
They walked through the rain-slick streets to Clara's house, a quiet place on the edge of town, wrapped in ivy and secrets. The house had a strange, faded feel to it, like it was something out of a forgotten dream. Clara led her down into the basement, the smell of mildew and mothballs thick in the air. Leah's senses sharpened, the darkness of the basement pressing in on her. She didn't like this place, didn't like the way the walls seemed to close in around her.
And then she saw them.
The walls of the basement were covered in paintings. All of them were of Leah. Some showed her screaming. Some showed her laughing, but in ways that weren't right. Some were broken open, like blooming flowers of flesh and shadow. But no matter how different they looked, they were all unmistakably Leah. Her eyes, her face, her expression.
Clara didn't speak as Leah stepped closer, her breath caught in her throat, the air thick with something she couldn't name. She reached out, her fingers trembling as they hovered over one of the paintings. The image was distorted, fragmented, but Leah could see herself there—really see herself, twisted in ways she couldn't fully comprehend.
"They come from dreams," Clara whispered, her voice distant, lost in the space between them. "Or nightmares. I don't know anymore."
Leah turned to her, her body stiff with shock, her mind racing. "You've been watching me," she whispered, the accusation hanging in the air between them.
"No," Clara said softly, shaking her head. "I've been remembering you."
The room seemed to tilt, the floor suddenly far too close. Leah's heart hammered in her chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps as something deep inside her stirred. It was older than memory, older than logic, and yet it felt like it was reaching for something she had never known.
She stepped forward, her hand trembling as she reached out, touching the closest painting. The cold, rough texture of the canvas made her skin tingle, like static electricity crawling up her arm.
Clara stepped closer, and in her eyes, Leah saw it—not fear. Not pity. No, there was something deeper. Something that hit her like a physical blow.
Recognition.
And something far, far worse.
Hope.
Leah recoiled, her chest tightening as if she had been caught in a trap. She didn't know what to make of the feeling that swelled inside her, something that twisted between dread and something worse.
Hope.
And for the first time in a long time, Leah wasn't sure if she wanted to destroy it or hold on to it.