“Weird,” I stared at my hands, then back at the newly formed path. “Did I just… make that?”

No one answered. Nothing existed except me and the path and the void, if it could be called a void. It reminded me more of a blank page in a book. I started walking along the path, closing my eyes the further out I went. The white space started to hurt my brain. It was too empty, too full of nothing.

Too lonely.

A twig snapped under my feet on the path. My eyes flew open to find a beautiful forest and leaves falling around me. Sunlight trickled down through the autumn-colored canopy, the swirl of oranges, reds, and yellows almost glowing as they landed on the roof of a stone cottage. Despite not being made of wood, it seemed to grow out of the herculean redwood behind it. Smoke drifted from the chimney, disappearing as quickly as it came. Smooth tiles slanted down in a perfect roof, and the windows glinted in the available light. The most vibrant part of the cottage, however, was the dark burgundy door and the fox sitting in front of it.

I took a slight step back only to find the path gone. My bare feet hit leaf litter, and where it should’ve felt irritating or lifeless, like the grainy sand of the beach, it felt… comforting. For whatever reason, my mind created this place. The fox cocked its head at me as if asking why I was just standing there. If I could do anything, why was I afraid? Still, I couldn’t convince myself to move.

The fox, sensing my nervousness, approached me. It moved like a ghost, its footsteps whispering as it walked. It gently nudged my hand with its nose, another touch of warmth in an already warm world. Carefully, cautiously, I brushed my fingers through its soft, orange fur. It should’ve been rough, spiky, wild just like the fox was, yet like the leaves, it felt like home. I followed it this time, going up the steps and opening the door to the cottage.

If the outside was a fantasy, inside was a dream. Tree branches spiraled high above on the ceiling, rooting the cottage to the land. A small iron stove and oven found their places on the wall next to shelves of grain, spices, herbs, tea. A wooden table and two chairs were right in the middle, inviting anyone to sit down and relax. At the other end, thick tree branches that had curled around the ceiling now hugged the walls, holding an array of books, thick and thin, old and new. Just below the natural bookshelves lay a bed, soft and cozy and just as inviting as the table.

I quietly closed the door behind me and approached the bed, suddenly feeling light-headed and exhausted. The autumn-colored quilt was even softer than it looked, and I climbed in, savoring the warmth, the safety. The fox stood to the side, watching me for a moment before leaving out of a smaller door near the chimney area, back outside. Alone once again, I decided to sleep. I did not dream.

I woke up the next day to the smell of freshly baked bread and coffee. Stretching, I walked over to the table to find the fox standing there again, watching me as I sat down. A mug of warm coffee cooled on the side, and next to it, fresh coffee beans. The plate in front of me had two slices of whole wheat sourdough, baked and buttered to perfection. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate anything. Picking up a slice, I bit into it, closing my eyes as the flavors took over. It was such a simple combination, and yet simple things are often the most comforting.

Who taught me that?

I stopped chewing. A million questions ran through my head, blocking everything else. How long had I been wandering in the void before I created this? Had there been anything before the beach, before the blank canvas that was now my reality? How did I know this would be the perfect meal for me? Why couldn’t I remember anyone’s face from my past? Did I even have a past?

The fox was staring again when I glanced up at it.

“Why did I make you?” I asked, hoping that I could get some sort of sign, an answer in a sea of questions. It tilted its head to the side, unable to say anything.

“If this is my reality, why won’t you talk?” I put my slice down. “Everything has been exactly as I imagined except for you. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Still, it did not answer. I took a step toward it, and as I did, the fox finally broke its stance. Suddenly nervous, it hopped onto the table, tipping over the coffee beans -in the process. Something in my expression must have scared it even more because, after a final glance up at me, the fox ran out its door again, leaving me alone with a mess to clean up.

Sighing, I got to my knees and started to pick up the grounds, the smell of coffee wafting around me. Stains spread on my hands and got under my nails. A few of the beans got stuck between the floorboards. I dug my fingers in, trying to get one out when the floorboard moved. The bean dropped down and I heard a hollow sound as if there was a compartment below. Curious, I tugged at the floorboard until it gave way, the nails ripping out and the wood splintering. There was a compartment, and the bean had landed right on top of a book. I reached down and took it in my hands. After blowing the dust off the cover, I read the title:

The Girl and the Vixen.

The picture below was of me and… a red-haired girl. Not just any girl; one I knew. One whose curls I’d brushed, one whose freckles I’d counted like stars, one whose eyes – green eyes – I’d stare into for hours. I knew her name, had it on the tip of my tongue, had it in the deep crevices of my mind full of memories that I hadn’t been able to conjure since I got here. Why couldn’t I remember her name? I knew everything else, even Vesper’s love of coffee –

Vesper.

I flipped through the pages, desperate for more, craving my story, the memories I lost. Every word brought up another piece, and as I kept reading, the whole picture built itself in my mind.

I found her in a gallery, surrounded by portraits and sculptures and paintings, staring at a larger-than-life ocean. Every brushstroke and every color culminated in the illustration of a turbulent and angry sea, witnessed only by the moon and two stars by its side. She wore a sweater the same blue as the ocean, and a lighter blue scarf hung on her neck. Her hair was like fire on water – untamed and beautiful – a cascade that only just covered a face full of freckles. I’d gone up to her to ask for her name, her number, and the type of coffee she held in her right hand. Smiling, she gave me all three, and that taste of coffee would linger until we met again.

Dinner, candlelit and classy. This time she wore a black dress and I wore a green one. Both of us had chosen gold hoop earrings and a necklace to match. I learned she was an artist herself as we sipped red wine and ate pasta smothered in pesto and parmesan and topped with grilled chicken. I told her I was an aspiring writer, working a day job while I worked on my manuscript. She asked if I could show her some time. Only if you show me your work, I’d said.

I went to her home; she came to mine. Back and forth, a pattern emerged, a new rhythm. Lunch meant going to my run-down place after. Dinner meant going over to her studio apartment and falling asleep. Slowly, my toothbrush, my clothes, my journal moved with me. Her kitchen became our kitchen. Her room became our room. Her place became our place.

Vesper breathed life into me. I went out with her to art shows and picnics and coffee dates. I spoke my mind and listened to her voice as she listened to mine. My writing blossomed, words flowing in my mind and out onto the page. Countless poems detailing that hair, those freckles, those green eyes filled the journal. Short, everyday stories reflected the kindness, the intelligence, the confidence she embodied so effortlessly. As I wrote about her, she made art about me. She hid it from me, locking her creative space away, telling me it wasn’t ready. All I got were clues: orange and red paint and canvases stacked against the walls.

One day, she made me wear a blindfold and took my hands to guide me. I kept asking when I could look, only hearing soft laughs and whispered no’s until she shut the door behind us. Vesper untied the blindfold.

A forest, orange and red and yellow, was laid out on the canvas. A single redwood sat in the center, and just in front of it, a stone cottage. If I looked closely, I saw the two figures in the window, sharing a kiss, hidden away in a beautiful fantasy, a wonderland.

“Vesper, it’s breathtaking,” I could hardly speak, overwhelmed. “What did you name it?”

“‘Our Future,’” She smiled at me. “It’s our future, Farah.”

The memories after that could not be pieced together. Something had gone wrong. Something had taken Vesper away and trapped me here. All I remembered was a twisted shadow rising, swallowing her in darkness, and leaving me stranded on a beach. With no memory and no purpose, I had walked aimlessly for who knows how long.

I only woke up when that man tried to hand me that cup of coffee.

The fox had returned and was staring again. Instead of a wild spirit, I only found sadness. There were no pages left in the book, nothing to tell me what happened next, only what happened before. But I didn’t need that to know why the fox was here now, the vixen.

When I blinked, she was there, beautiful as the day I’d met her. She wore that same blue sweater, the same scarf, but a new smile, a grateful one. I reached out to her, this ethereal figment of my imagination that I could bring to life if I wanted. I could kiss her, hold her, be with her in the future we always wanted.

But it wouldn’t be real.

At that thought, Vesper, the coffee, the cottage, and the forest all fell away, revealing the white void underneath. I was alone in a prison with no idea who put me there and no idea how to get out and no idea how to get to Vesper. All that remained was me, the book, and a pen. The book was still opened to the blank page, the unfinished story.

Unfinished…

This wasn’t over, was it? I had power here – a power I only realized when coffee woke me up again. If I could create worlds in here, where was the limit?

After hesitating, I took the pen and wrote my name, Farah, in the book. The ink stuck for a second just before sinking into the pages. I kept writing, words flowing as I once again remembered Vesper, knowing that nothing would take her from my mind again. All the words sunk. They had to have power, I knew they did. I knew I had power, more than I ever could've imagined if I succeeded now.

After a few moments, words appeared on the page, ones I’d heard before when I came back to myself.

"Show us, then."

Taking a deep breath, I stood up and stared at the empty space in front of me. I reached out and touched the edge of the void, feeling it between my fingers. Rather than air, it was now paper, soft and delicate as a newly made book. My book. My story. Our story.

I took a deep breath and ripped my world open.

Gemma startles awake at the sound of her 8:00 am alarm blaring in her ears. Her body moves with purpose, making her jump out of bed and rush to the closet. The Honors college student has never been late to a lecture before, nor will she ever be. She grabs from the pile of clothes on her desk and rushes to the shower. In record time, she's out in five minutes: twenty seconds for the water to heat, sixty to violently scrub herself with odorless soap, forty to rinse, sixty to dig the shampoo down to her scalp, another sixty to rinse, thirty to get conditioner into the ends, and thirty to rinse for the final time. Gemma dries off and puts her clothes on, a worn pair of jeans and a club T-shirt, in under two minutes. She brushes her teeth in about the same amount of time, not bothering to dry her hair. There is no time. Not wasting a second, she runs back into the room to grab her backpack, keys, and phone. It's only when she's out the door that she bothers to check any messages and-

It's Saturday.

Gemma stops in her tracks, gasping for air. After hesitating for a moment, she turns back to her apartment and closes the door behind her. Now that she slows down, Gemma can take in the state of everything: absolute chaos. Clothes had been thrown on the floor and the desk, a blend of dull colors and fabrics that could be clean or dirty. Plates were stacked sky-high in the kitchen sink, and she couldn't remember the last time she tried to pick them up. She doesn't even spare a glance at the bathroom, knowing she would only find wet towels on the floor.

"What am I doing?" Gemma wonders aloud. What's the point of all of this? Things should've changed. She's supposed to be better. And yet...

Gemma blinks. She wastes time every second she spends here, so instead of thinking, she leaves. Exhaustion washes over her as she walks out of her building, but she can't bear to see the state of the grueling mess that is her room. So, Gemma wonders what she would have for breakfast instead.

The bus arrives at 8:45 am, filled to the brim with people. Gemma manages to find a spot, and she holds onto the handle as it continues on schedule. With how early it is on a weekend, everyone stands or sits quietly, keeping to themselves. Gemma rests her eyes. At 9:00 am, the bus reaches Gemma's favorite bakery, dropping her off right on time. She rushes inside, hoping that a line won't delay her too much. After ordering her regular - an everything bagel with cream cheese and salmon with a medium cappuccino - she waits. Five minutes go by.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Gemma picks at her nails, focusing on anything other than her hunger and the time going by. It doesn't usually take this long, but she should be grateful. As long as she's here she doesn't have to worry about-

Thankfully, the barista calls her order before she can finish the thought. Careful not to drop anything, Gemma grabs her bagel bag and coffee, hoping nothing else would cause delays.

She turns and crashes right into the man behind her. For about five seconds Gemma is left in shock. Her coffee had spilled right onto the man's shirt, a white shirt, no less. Terrified, Gemma blanks on what she can even say. She feels herself turn red under the weight of what she did and everyone's eyes on her.

"Oh, my goodness!" She backs away. "I'm so sorry! I should've been more careful-

"No, that's alright." Gemma looks up at his face, trying to find any hint of insincerity and failing. "I shouldn't have been standing that close behind you. Here, I'll help you out."

Gemma barely processes this before letting the man hold her stuff and lead her to an open table. She sits, wondering how she got here, how she got this lucky. He sits across from her, napkins pressed against the new coffee stain.

"Should I help you with that or-

"Seriously, it's fine." He says. "You can eat, if you want. It's getting kind of late for breakfast."

"Oh god, I am late!" Gemma tries to get up. "I'm so sorry for the trouble, but I have to go."

"Where exactly do you need to go?"

"I-" Gemma can't answer. Does she even need to go anywhere? Why is she in such a hurry? She feels her heartbeat grow faster. Air can't seem to stay in her lungs, and every time she tries again, it leaves. Panic sets in again, and Gemma is terrified.

"Listen," The man interjects. She can't even see him, but she holds onto his words. "I know it's not my place, but forget about where you need to go. Just breathe."

Just... breathe?

Gemma slows down, sitting and holding her head in her hands. She inhales and exhales, no longer counting the seconds for each breath. She lets herself feel when she should start and stop. Once she gets a hold of herself, she opens her eyes and starts eating her breakfast, realizing again how hungry she is.

She only notices the man still sitting there when she's done.

"I've never seen anyone eat a bagel that fast. You must've beaten the record or something." He smiles. "Do you feel better now?"

"Yeah," Gemma responds honestly. "Yeah, I really do. Thank you."

"No problem. I used to struggle with stress a lot as a freshman, too. It's not easy."

"That obvious, huh?" Gemma smiles, too. "Are all freshmen this... "

"Anxious?" He shrugs. "I wouldn't know. Nobody really talks about it. We're supposed to be adults, right? Keep a job, get to class, don't slack - that's pretty much all the information we're given."

"But, it is our responsibility." Gemma picks up a napkin. "There's no way to just run away and do whatever."

"Is that what you want to do?"

"In some ways, yeah, but I also want to be good at what I do."

"Can I ask what that is?"

"Graphic design."

"Damn, that was almost my major." He laughs at himself. "I figured out it wasn't my thing and went undecided."

"What have you been thinking about doing, then?"

"Culinary school, as drastic of a change that is."

"Actually?! I heard it wasn't easy, especially not here. Are you worried?"

"Not really." He runs a hand through his hair. "It's not easy, but I get to do what I love. I don't get anxious like I used to. I guess you could say I figured out how to grow up, in a way."

"Well, I'm glad you found that balance."

"You know what the funniest part is?"

"What?"

"I didn't figure this out until I cleaned my room. It was painful, honestly, but once I did, I realized how much time I'd spent worrying."

"How do you feel now?" Gemma asks.

"Like I finally started living."

After that, the two part ways. Gemma doesn't know if she'll ever see him again - she doesn't even know his name - but as she contemplates this on the bus, something tells her she will. When she makes it back to her apartment, Gemma hesitates in front of the door. She knows what's waiting on the other side for her, so she remembers what the man told her:

Just breathe.

Taking a deep breath, Gemma opened the door.

“What did you end up doing?”

“It started as a few features on unsolved true crimes stories to start drawing attention. My disguises helped me get off the ground and into the forefront of the public eye. People didn’t just want to see me in action; they wanted to see who I really was. Eventually, I was looking at my own reality show, a career.”

“But then this happened.”

“If I’m honest, I don’t regret it.”

Out of everything Lucy had said, that caught the nurse off guard.

“You had everything.”

“That’s true, but it came at a cost.”

“What did he do to you?”

“What he promised. He made me a star, and I thought that’s what I wanted.” Lucy looked at the nurse with steely dark eyes. “I just didn’t know how fast they could burn out.”

“You’re joking.” Lucy forced her voice down to avoid drawing attention. The coffee shop was livelier than usual, people bustling around them. She subconsciously fiddled with one of her larger rings, the one black as onyx. “You can’t seriously think I can do this, Officer Martin.”

“Jesus, so formal. We’ll work on that. Call me Jude.” The man lit his cigarette despite the no-smoking sign two feet away.

“I’m not a celebrity… Jude.” The name didn’t sit well with her. She tightened her grip on her mug.

“But you could be. You’ve got the looks for it.” His eyes roved over her. “And, more importantly, the talent.”

“For robbing banks? You caught me.”

“You’re giving the police force too much credit. They aren’t nearly as competent as you think.” He let out a puff of smoke.

“And you are?”

“You said it yourself: I found you. It was a pain in the ass, too. You’re practically a nobody.”

“Then why me? I’m definitely not the best out there.”

“True, but I don’t want the best.” He met her gaze. “I want you, Lucy.”

For a second, she swore she felt her heart stop at those words.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s why you’ll have me.”

Lucy set her mug down, careful not to spill anything on her hands or rings. She didn’t know what to think.

“It’s your choice.” He set his cigarette on the ashtray. “But I can’t protect you if you say no. You’ll be on your own, and as incompetent as the other officers are, they’ll find you.”

“Are you threatening me, Officer Martin?” Lucy flexed her hand, knowing now he could see the small camera on the onyx ring. “You could be convicted for what you’re saying, and you’re threatening me?”

“Oh please, every cop who does this knows what they’re getting into. I just think it’s a risk worth taking.” He gestured toward the ring. “If you want to hand it over to them, go ahead. I won’t stop you. But I don’t think you would do it.”

“What makes you think I want to work with the likes of you?”

“You’re still talking to me.” He took out a few bills and set them on the table. “If you were honest with yourself, you’d know you’ve already made up your mind. I just hope you’re making the right decision.”

Lucy looked at her hands again and the ring.

“The camera was a nice touch,” He commented. “Subtle but beautiful.”

“How could a camera be beautiful?”

“The ring matches your eyes.” He shrugged. “And I didn’t know what I should’ve stared at more.”

She looked up again, hoping to find some level of insincerity, of a lie. He just smiled at her, and for the first time, it felt real.

“Keep surprising me, Lucy.” Jude walked away, leaving her there with her coffee and her thoughts.

“Could I ask you a question, ma’am?”

“Of course.”

“I never understood that media phase.” The nurse commented. “Why make criminals into entertainment?”

“It was nothing new. People loved true crime, loved to see cases solved. The only thing that changed was perspective: they saw the world through our eyes.”

“But using real criminals…”

“It worked. The police hated it, but it worked.” Lucy stared at the lights above her. “You should’ve seen it in its prime.”

“Why do you think people enjoyed it?” The nurse questioned. “The change in perspective, I mean.”

“I suppose it was like anything else: they got to see people do impossible things, act in ways they never could.” She shrugged. “In a way, we were free.”

“Were you?”

Lucy played with her nails again, giving the nurse a sad smile.

“Nothing is ever that simple.”

A few years earlier...

“That’s the last one, you hear?”

Lucy just slid her last two dollars across the table to the bartender and cradled the tequila shot in her hands. Maybe she would finally forget everything after this one, get a couple hours of ignorant, drunken bliss. She tossed her head back, ignoring the bitterness burning down her throat as she swallowed. The glass came down with a thud on the bar.

“If you want another, you should keep the glass intact.” A voice came from her right, and though Lucy had no intention to look at him, she heard the smile.

“I’m done for tonight, actually.” Lucy retorted. “I don’t want a drink from you.”

“Who said I was ordering a drink?” He chuckled. “Water, please.”

It appeared before her a few moments later.

“What do you want?”

“A guy can’t get a beautiful girl some water?”

“The ‘beautiful girl’ isn’t interested and would like to be left alone.”

“See, you say that but you love drawing attention to yourself.” He slid a manila folder to her. “This is you, isn’t it?”

Lucy hesitated before opening it. The pictures inside were grainy, courtesy of poor security cameras. Each one showed a different person: a hooded figure scaling the side of a building, a woman with short hair and a briefcase leaving a bank, and a young student studying in a coffee shop.

“I hate to break it to you, but none of these are the same person.” She closed the folder.

“And yet every lead goes back to you, Lucy Crowe.” A police badge glinted in the corner of her eye as the stranger sat next to her. “How would you explain that?”

Lucy felt her stomach drop, panic spreading through her body like wildfire when he put an arm around her shoulders. Her eyes flicked towards the exit.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” He whispered. “If you walk through that door, you’ll find a police squad waiting outside. They have orders to take you in, and so do I.”

Lucy forced her breathing to slow, feeling herself shrink under his stubborn gaze.

“Why not just handcuff me now?” She forced the words out. “Save yourself the trouble.”

“Don’t give up so easily, Lucy.” He said. “I’m not here to arrest you.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes when she looked at his face for the first time, studying him. Despite his earlier mood, he was serious now, the smile gone.

“Then, what do you want?” She asked again.

“A deal.” He returned her stare. “And if you agree, I’ll let you go.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as you want.”

“What… do I have to do?”

“Meet me at the coffee shop you like.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” He took a napkin and wrote his name and number. “Call me when you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To be a star.”

"So you're saying that if I go through with this, I won't remember anything?"

"That is the basic principle of the procedure, ma'am."

Lucy stared down at her hands and picked at her nails. The white and gold polish chipped as she scratched it. Flecks of paint scattered over her hospital gown like man-made snow. Her eyes struggled to focus against the fluorescent lights above her. Even trying to look at the nurse's kind eyes was like trying to face God and His Judgement.

She shivered at the thought.

"Would you like a blanket, ma'am?"

Lucy shook her head. It was unnerving, having your every move watched by someone else. She knew there were cameras in this room, knew that the people here, as nice as they seemed, didn't trust her. The leather straps around her waist and ankles were proof enough. This was all an act to keep Lucy happy. She was a panther, fed to keep her attention off of everything else.

Those distractions didn't work on her, not anymore.

"I can feel you staring." Lucy steeled herself and looked up at the nurse. "Am I scaring you?"

"No, ma'am." She said gently. "I apologize for making you uncomfortable."

"Don’t apologize." Lucy chuckled. "You're just doing your job. The straps might be a bit much, but other than that, I can't complain. I understand that it's for your safety."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Maybe not. But shouldn’t you be afraid?"

"No. Like you said, ma’am, I’m just doing my job. I see your type every day."

"Then why are you staring?"

The nurse pondered that for a moment. "I want to know why you did it."

Lucy met her gaze. There was no fear in the nurse’s green eyes, only hunger.

"Interesting," Lucy smirked. “How much do you want to hear?”

“Everything.”