A Script For Seven Years: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Alex

Run, Alex! And no matter what you do, don't look back!

I bolt upright, panting. The bedsheets are twisted around my legs like vines, trapping me in the leftover panic of the dream. I stare out at the dark bedroom, willing my heart to slow.

It's always the same dream, the sound of feet against dirt as I run, the shadows the trees cast on the forest floor, the sharp scream that's cut off just as I hear her words. I untangle my feet from the sheets, my skin covered in a layer of sweat. The clock on the nightstand glows, a dull red, 5:00 AM. It's the fifth time this month that this dream has broken my sleep, but the terror never weakens, never fades. Each time feels like the first—the same phantom burning in my lungs, the same pounding in my heart.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and press my palms against my forehead. The silence of the house is too loud after the noise of that forest. I can still hear the rhythmic thud of my sneakers hitting the dirt and the leaves rustling in the wind. But it's her voice that lingers the longest, echoing in the quiet room long after the dream has faded.

Don't look back!

I stand up, the cold hardwood floor shocking some sense back into my soles. I need to wash this nightmare off my skin.

In the bathroom, I turn the shower faucet all the way to the left. I stand there in the water, staring blankly at the walls, still in shock. The burning water hits my face like a slap, banishing the final memories of the forest. I scrub away my sweat, get out, and throw on a pair of blue jeans and a faded gray hoodie.

Downstairs, the kitchen is completely dark, the clock reads 5:45 AM. I skip breakfast—my stomach too tightly knotted from the adrenaline— and just grab a granola bar for later. I shove my history book into my backpack, zip it shut, and pull out my phone.

I unlock my phone, the bright screen making me wince in the dark kitchen. I tap on Lucy's contact. No, wait— not Lucy. I need Cal. He's the only one who won't ask a million questions at this hour.

Alex: You awake?

The three dots appear almost instantly.

Cal: Obviously. Coffee run?

Alex: Please. The usual. Meet you at your locker.

Cal:👍

I slide my phone into my back pocket, slinging my backpack onto one shoulder, and head out into the crisp November morning. I turn on some music and pop in my headphones, In Bloom drowning out the last echoes of the forest, grounding me. The walk to school is long, all gray skies and biting wind, but by the time I reach the front doors, the adrenaline has already ebbed into a dull, familiar, ache.

The hall is a chaotic sea of slamming lockers, and groggy teenagers, despite it being so early. I weave through the crowd, my eyes scanning the lockers along both walls until I spot Cal. He's leaning against his locker, wearing his signature oversized flannel—this one a faded red and black plaid—thrown over a Nirvana t-shirt, and a pair of distressed black jeans that look like they've seen better days.

He holds two steaming paper cups from the shop down the street, a black smudge on his thumb from whatever he was drawing before he got here. As I approach, he looks up from his phone, his messy dark hair falling into his chestnut-colored eyes, and extends one cup toward me with a quiet, knowing nod.

Cal hands me the coffee, and the warmth of the paper cup immediately seeps into my cold fingers.

"You look like death, Al," he says softly, his voice cutting through the loud conversations of the hallway. He doesn't say it to be mean. It's just Cal—observant, honest, and completely safe.

"Thanks. I missed you too," I mutter taking a long sip. Standard black coffee. Bitter, hot, and exactly what I needed to burn away the cold fog of this morning. I lean my head against the locker next to Cal, letting the heat from the coffee cup sink into my palms.

"Same dream?" He asks, his chestnut eyes scanning my face with that quiet intensity that makes me want to look away.

"Same dream," I admit, looking down at my scuffed converse. "It's getting louder, Cal. It feels like she's right next to me, instead of somewhere back in the forest."

Cal shifts, the sleeve of his flannel brushing against my hoodie as he closes the distance between us. For a second, I think he's going to reach out and place a hand on my shoulder, like he used to do when we were kids. My heart does a strange, sudden flutter—not from the nightmare, but from how close he is. Cal has always been my anchor, but lately, the lines have been blurring. Every look, every midnight text, every touch, feels charged with an electric current we both refuse to acknowledge.