Miyu awoke with a jolt, heart pounding, eyes snapping open. The ceiling above her spun in slow motion, and she could still feel the weight of the dream clinging to her like smoke—so real, so vivid. Her hands trembled slightly as she wiped the sweat off her forehead.
It had been two days since the eclipse. The night her best friend, Aki, disappeared without a trace. The night everything had changed.
Miyu sat up, her eyes scanning the darkened room. The alarm clock blinked back at her in a red haze, 7:15 AM. She had missed the first bell. Typical. She rubbed her temples, willing the strange, lingering feeling of unease to fade.
Aki's face haunted her thoughts. The memory of the night she vanished was like a flickering image in a foggy mirror. The moon—two moons, not one—hovered in the sky above them, pulsing, as if alive. Miyu remembered feeling the air hum with power, her heartbeat syncing to the rhythm of the stars.
But after that? Nothing. No screams. No answers.
Just silence.
Miyu stood, the weight of her school uniform making her feel heavier than usual. She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder before heading out. The cool morning air hit her face as soon as she stepped outside. The city around her looked normal—too normal. People rushed by, heads down, wrapped up in their own worlds. No one seemed to notice the sky above, the faint shimmer that lingered like the echo of something long forgotten.
She pushed through the crowd, thoughts heavy. How could everyone just pretend nothing happened? How could everyone ignore the strange red moon that still lingered in her memory, casting its glow across the city like a silent warning?
"Miyu!" A voice called out.
She turned, and there he was—Eiji. The transfer student. He stood by the gate, hands shoved into his pockets, his usual unreadable expression on his face. His black hair was messy, as if he'd just woken up, and his uniform didn't seem to fit him properly, like it was just a little too big.
Eiji's eyes—those eyes—were the first thing Miyu noticed. The right one was an unnaturally bright red, like the moon she'd seen that night. The left one was dark, ordinary. He looked at her like he knew something she didn't, and it unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
"Morning, Miyu," he said, voice smooth, low. He always spoke in that soft tone that made it hard to tell if he was being serious or just playing with her.
"Morning," she replied, trying to keep the unease from creeping into her voice. "You're… up early."
"Couldn't sleep," he said, glancing up at the sky, his red eye flickering with something. "That's happening a lot lately."
Miyu hesitated. "You feel it too, don't you?" she asked, before she could stop herself. She immediately regretted the words, but Eiji didn't seem surprised.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he studied her for a long moment, like he was measuring something in her, some hidden part of her he could see but she couldn't. "I thought I might," he said quietly. "But you're the one who's awake."
Her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to ask him more—what did he mean by that? What did he know? But before she could open her mouth, the bell rang, cutting off her thoughts.
"Better get going," Eiji said, turning his back toward the school. "See you in class."
Miyu watched him go, the weight of his words lingering like a shadow over her thoughts. Her pulse quickened, her instincts screaming that there was something more to him than he let on. But what? And why did it feel like he was the only person who truly understood what had happened?
She forced herself to push the thoughts away and entered the building, joining the sea of students filling the hallways. As she walked, she noticed the whispers. The looks. People glanced at her, eyes darting away the moment she caught them.
The strange thing was, they didn't seem to be looking at her as if she was weird—no, they were looking at her like they were waiting for her to do something. Like they were expecting her to change somehow. And that unsettled her more than anything else.
By the time she reached her classroom, the bell rang again, and students began filing in. Miyu slid into her seat, trying to shake the feeling that the world around her had shifted, but she couldn't. It was like she was surrounded by something invisible, something wrong.
As the teacher started the lesson, Miyu tried to focus, but her mind kept wandering back to Aki. And then, without warning, her heart skipped a beat.
The feeling of someone watching her, really watching her, crept up her spine. She glanced around, her eyes locking on the window, but there was nothing there—nothing except the street outside.
Suddenly, a wave of anger hit her like a crash. Pure, unfiltered rage. It wasn't hers—she could feel it, a burst of raw emotion that wasn't her own. It pushed through her chest, burning, suffocating. Her hands trembled as she gripped the desk, trying to stay grounded.
The classroom seemed to shift. The air around her thickened. What the hell was happening?
"Miyu?" A voice called, pulling her from her thoughts. It was her classmate, Yuki, looking at her with concern. "Are you okay? You look…"
Miyu blinked, and the world returned to normal. The rage was gone, replaced by a dull, unfamiliar emptiness.
"Yeah," she muttered, her voice hoarse. "I'm fine."
But inside, she knew she wasn't.
Not anymore.