I'M HERE TO TELL YOU A STORY ABOUT A PLACE THAT YOU'VE BEEN TO BEFORE. 

It is the place you reach for at 3 a.m. when you can't sleep. The place where you go in your head while waiting in the cold for the morning bus to arrive.

It's where you and I first met even though we've never been within six feet of each other.

That place is Serias, and although you and I are thousands of miles away from each other physically, we're together now in the darkness of our minds and in perhaps in our most secret of hearts.

First of all — this is not just a guide to becoming famous on Serias. This is a story about a girl who is already famous on Serias and what she does with that fame.

~*~

I'm a girl whose name you've probably heard of. I'm that girl whose story is permanently stuck on the top ten of every hot list on the internet. No, not just the internet, on THE place for teenage readers to hang on the internet — on Serias.

You've heard of my pseudonym, the one I made up as a joke one night as I pressed publish on my first chapter back when I was fifteen. It's been two years that we've known each other. You're probably tired of me. You've probably wondered when the hell is my book about werewolves in heat or the foul-mouthed teenagers will ever go away.

I want to tell you this before you hurry along onto the next big thing on TikTok or Instagram. When it comes to the internet, everyone moves on, everyone forgets. Nothing lasts. And my name, even as I tell it to you today, will eventually fade from your memory.

You know me online as WilderLuna15. I write werewolf stories, lots of them. Sometimes, I also write about teenagers. I write a lot because I didn't have many friends at my old high school.

Yeah, my old high school — the one my mom pulled me out of last June because I was caught shoplifting cigarettes at 7-11 with my best friend. For the record — my former friend was the one shoplifting to impress her stupid boyfriend. I had nothing to do with it. But, you get one call to your mom by the police about that, and you might as well have been caught snorting coke or getting a gangster's name tattooed on your butt.

I am on my way to a new school today. It's located on Chamber Street on the Lower West Side by One World Trade Center. I am starting my junior year there, and I don't know a single person there. So as of now, you — my Serias reader — are my only friend. Yes, you, my beloved follower, and all one hundred thousand of you.

You're my dearest friend even though you've never seen my face. I'm looking at my face right now as I sit on the One Train downtown. Penn Station 34 Street comes and goes. The train is filling up. I gulp and wrap my arms around my Jansport backpack. I see some other high school-aged students standing by the subway doors. They are wearing Manhattan Portage bags. I never felt so out of place.

I try to focus on my reflection in the subway window to keep from making eye contact with anyone. My hair is thick and chestnut colored. I curled it that morning, but it is already frizzy. My eyes are brown, large, and painfully ordinary. My family tells me, sometimes I stare at things a little too intensely. I don't mean to do that. I just sometimes space out as I'm thinking up a juicy hot-werewolf make-out scene. After writing 299 chapters of that stuff, I must admit — I do it an awful lot. My body is curvy around the hips. I guess some classify me as pear-shaped. I just know, I'm boyish on top and a Kardashian from the waist down. 

A burly, sweaty middle-aged man's arm lands on my lap at 28th street as the subway seats fill up to a brim. This is rush hour traffic, so I didn't say anything about the hairy arm that is now pressed against my right breast.

I am a petite girl and I weigh about 148 lbs. I don't take up too much room but with every stopped that passed, the man's heavy arm impinged in my space more and more. Finally, as 14 Street came around, I cleared my throat. The man doesn't remove his arm. In fact, he presses it up against my breast harder. Now, I am only 17 years old. I don't have much in the way of a bosom, but now it is hard to breathe. I feel the warmth of his porky arm pressing my nipple into my small breast. I didn't like the way it feels — like I'm being forced into a sensation my body isn't ready for. When I finally find the courage to look at the fat old guy, he is smiling through his ashen, jagged teeth.

Author's Note: As stated in the description, there is some moderately disturbing material in this book. If you feel like you need detailed trigger warnings to enjoy this book, see the Author's Note in the last chapter (although there will be spoilers) If you would like to simply skip it, then skip Chapter 1B.