Not out of panic. Out of restraint—holding everything in, forcing herself still, trying to think clearly.
The photo sits on her desk, edges soft and bent from overhandling. She had been turning it again and again, hoping it’ll change.
Her face. Her hair. Her laughter.
But the bench meant nothing to her. And the figure in the hoodie—blurred, faceless—meant even less.
The words on the back didn’t help.
Do you remember now?
She checks her journal. The one she used to log word counts and drafts when life still followed lines.
Two months ago, the entries stop cold. No notes. No timelines. Just a void.
Zion hadn’t texted since the confrontation. Tobi hadn’t either. She tells herself it’s silence, not distance.
But then there’s the note.
This morning.
Not in a book. Not in her bag.
On her pillow.
Folded once. Clean. Waiting.
Tobi.
Every story needs a villain.
Sometimes, that’s just the name we give the version of ourselves we don’t understand.
She read it once. Then again. A third time. Her stomach coiled tighter each time.
No one had been in her room. Her roommate moved out months ago. The door was always locked.
Always.
She folded the note slowly and slid it into her drawer.
Then she left.
The air outside felt charged—like something was watching.
At school, she sees Lanre walking past. Says nothing. He doesn’t either.
Zion was absent.
Again.
During break, she walked the long loop behind the Arts block. The path where the students rarely go.
The path where she used to think clearly.
Today, she heard voices.
Two of them.
Low. Tense.
She stepped behind a column and listened.
Lanre.
Zion.
She couldn’t make out the words—just the weight in them. Urgency. Caution. Fear.
Then a sound.
Zion. Crying.
Tobi gripped the pillar. Felt her heartbeat rise to her throat.
She shifted slightly. And then—
A name.
Lanre said it.
Not hers. Not Zion’s.
“Maro.”
The syllables stopped her breath.
Not just the name itself.
The familiarity.
Like a thread pulling tight from somewhere deep in her memory.
She closed her eyes.
She knew that name.
She knew that name.
She stumbled backwards, hit the pillar with her shoulder.
Silence.
Then footsteps. Fast.
She didn’t wait to see who was coming.
She ran.
Back through the alley behind the arts building, through the shadow of the library wing, past the abandoned faculty office.
Only when she reached the edge of campus did she stop.
Her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone.
She opened her email.
Searched her sent folder.
There.
A submission.
Subject line: For consideration
Two months ago.
Sent to: maro.editorial@obscura.press
Tobi stared at it. Her chest tightened.
She didn’t remember sending this.
But the file was hers. The title. The draft. The cover letter.
She scrolled down.
Read the final paragraph.
“The characters in this story are drawn from real emotion. From memory. From pain. I hope you find them as haunting as I do.”
She read it again.
She never wrote that.
At least…
She didn’t remember writing it.
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