I grab my laptop and type in “pink pills.” Way too many different things pop up, so I try another route. I type in the number on top of one of the pills, still nothing.

“Dammit.” I scroll through images and read a few websites, but nothing is useful. I do stumble across a discussion page where people are asking similar questions about pills.

It takes me a while to work up the courage to create an account and post such a huge secret on the internet for anyone to read. I go with the name Unbeautiful because it’s about as far away from the description of me as I can get.

After I post my question, I leave the computer open while I get dressed in my workout clothes to go for my morning jog. On my way out of the apartment, I rush by the wooden circle in the hallway because, like at home, the damn symbolic object gives me the creeps. One of these days, I’ll take the creepy thing down and burn it.

I’ve never been a jogger before, but I’m finding the soundlessness therapeutic, as if I’ve somehow outrun my life. But even with the peacefulness of my feet hitting the pavement, I always feel a pang of nervousness, like someone is constantly following me. The feeling has gotten stronger with each passing day. I find myself frequently pausing to glance behind me. Sometimes, I see a car on the road or a person doing their morning walk. Today, the streets and sidewalk are vacant, though.

Everything remains soundless and makes the jog a wonderful break from reality. That is, until I reach the parking lot of my apartment complex.

“Emery,” Ellis’s voice rolls over my shoulder. “You have to come home. You have to help me.”

My muscles tighten as I spin around, half expecting him to be there, standing under the carport. No one is there, though, not even any of my neighbors.

I scan the yard for a few more minutes before I give up, chalking it up to my guilt over leaving Ellis behind in Ralingford.

But as I step back into my apartment, the uneasy feeling returns to me. Something feels off, out of place. I look around the living room and kitchen. Candy wrappers, chip bags, and soda cans cover the counters and table, exactly where I left them.

Shrugging the feeling off, I take a shower to rinse off the sweat. I ball up my lacy black shirt and jean shorts just to add wrinkles before putting them on. It’s not the easiest thing to break such deeply engrained habits, and by the time I’m dressed, a heavy dose of adrenaline is soaring through my veins.

In the past, the next step of my day would be makeup. Instead, I fix my hair into long, brown waves with silky curls at the ends, making myself so pretty on the outside. My eyes, though, they’re a different story. No matter how much I try, they never sparkle; never show any signs of life, even now. Still, I try to put sparkle in them, dress them up before I check the discussion board.

Nothing.

But that’s okay. It just might take some time.

I shut my computer down and go into the kitchen to dump one pink pill down the sink. Then I sit down by the window to eat my breakfast. Like every morning for the past week, the guy who has my papers is sitting under a tree near the bushes, scribbling in a notebook. His shoulders are slouched, as if the weight of the world is bearing down on him. He’s always frowning, too, and his eyes… He seems sad, almost broken, as though he’s been beaten down. From afar, he reminds me of the people back at home that live on the Shadow side of town. But up close, he’s a more exquisite sight than the most gorgeous person I’ve ever crossed paths with.

The longer I stare at him, the more I become lost in his movements, in the way his hand moves gracefully across the paper. I wonder what he’s writing. Is he writing about his life? Himself? Someone he loves?

I contemplate going down and asking him. Better yet, I should go ask him for the papers. After my spastic episode yesterday, I can’t work up the courage to go out there, though. He hasn’t even spoken to me yet, probably because I weird him out too much with my nervousness.

As if sensing he’s being watched, the guy’s gaze elevates to the door of my back porch. He does this every day, either staring at the door or at me. Because I’m not quite sure if he can see in from that far, I never budge from watching him.

Eventually he looks away and gets up to leave. Today, instead of going straight up the stairs, he pauses at the bottom and glances back at a black Cadillac parked near the curb.

I lean forward, pressing my face to the glass to get a better look, wondering why he’s looking at the car. I know why I did the other night, but a normal person shouldn’t think twice about some random parked car.

He continues to stare until the car finally drives away. Then he disappears up the stairs.

It might be my paranoia or anxiety, but the situation makes me feel uneasy. I check to make sure the doors are locked then pad back to my bedroom. Lying down flat on the floor, I reach under my mattress and pull out the small metal box I hid under there on day one. The box was a gift from my father. “For if anyone finds out what you really are, Emery,” he said. I opened it once then locked the box right back up when I saw the contents.

Giving it a soft shake, I hear metal clank. The uneasiness inside me settles as I put the box away.

For the rest of the day, I try to forget about cars and strange neighbors. I watch television and binge on Cheetos. I’m not sure why I got dressed up today, since I have nowhere to go. Cheerleading tryouts were the other day, and I went only because I was bored. Classes don’t start until tomorrow. I have no friends except for the ones back home, and none of them will speak to me since I left Ralingford, including Evan.