2. Smoke and Shadows

After an Uber ride where I stared out the window at the bustling city nightlife while kept gasping and muttering over something on her phone, we finally reach my complex. The sky is surprisingly clear tonight, and the crisp air bites at my nostrils. The stars are shining brightly, and the crescent moon looks like it's smirking at me. If the curve is supposed to be lips, then all those other shining dots are the eyes—ever-lasting, ever-glaring.

Tonight isn't the first night I feel like the heavenly bodies are mocking me, and it probably won't be the last.

"Well, looks like I've learned everything I need to know," says, hooking her arm with mine and dragging me toward my block.

As much as I want to get back home, the thought of climbing to the top floor of this twelve-story building makes me feel sick. The elevator broke a week ago, and the repair people haven't even come to check it out. Walking up all those stairs is the last thing an exhausted person wants to do.

But it's the only way to get there, so... up we go.

We reach the door, and I punch in the code. It unlocks with a faint beep, and we start climbing. Halfway up, I feel like I'm going to puke. One story from my apartment, I start coughing, my stomach rebelling.

"Hang in there, girl," says, patting my back. "Just a bit more, and we're there."

I have no clue how she stays so bright and happy about all this. If I were her, forced to climb stairs just to perform some weird magical ritual to help my friend fall asleep like a normal person, I wouldn't be so cheery. At best, I'd be tolerant.

But that's me. I'm not the type to wear flowery dresses or put on makeup every day. I don't style my hair, paint my nails, or refresh my wardrobe every season to fit the theme. And I certainly don't think I'm a witch like does.

"This is torture," I manage to say, finally catching my breath and grabbing onto the railing to steady myself. Cold sweat sticks to my back.

"Torture is the temperature of this freaking building. I swear, the higher we go, the colder it gets," says, trying to lighten the mood. She's not wrong, though.

"It's the wind," I parrot what everyone says. "It cools the windows and seeps in through the tiny cracks or something."

I take another step upward. My thighs burn, and my heart pounds in my chest like it wants to break free. Dizziness spins my world, and I just hope my sense of direction is good enough to keep me from falling.

If I were to fall down the stairs, would I die? At this point, death seems like a distant, lovely dream. People often brush off their lack of sleep, saying there'll be plenty of time to rest when they're dead. They lead fast-paced lives, juggling relationships, careers, family, goals, and self-care routines. They dread death and wait for it simultaneously.

I, on the other hand, don't dread it at all. I'm so tired that I might willingly take its hand if it promised me the rest I need. Maybe I should hope my dizziness knocks me right into the abyss behind me?

I'd just... tumble down the stairs, knock my head, and hope for the best. Nothing too complicated about it.

"Nope, I'm too much of a coward for that," I mutter. turns her head, raising an eyebrow.

"What?" she asks, pulling me up another step.

"Nothing." I won't tell her I'm contemplating death because of these stairs. I won't tell her I'm just a scared girl craving a way out—a light in the tunnel. Literally. She'd be devastated.

"If you say so," she replies with a shrug.

We finally reach the top floor. My breathing is heavy, my legs aching. Camila, still surprisingly cheerful, helps me to my apartment door. I fumble with the keys, my hands shaking slightly from the exertion.

"As much as I love all your efforts…" I begin, wiping my forehead with my sleeve. No surprise, it's damp with sweat.

"Yeah, yeah," interjects. "We'll get it over with fast. I promise."

We enter the apartment—me first, right behind. She kicks off her shoes and heads straight to the kitchen. I stand motionless at the entrance. The pure white greets me in all its pristine emptiness, and the air gets sucked from my lungs. How can I love and hate this place so much at the same time?

The floor used to be covered with a bright purple rug, and sun catchers adorned the windows, bathing the room in pure sunlight every morning. My walls were olive green, and the furniture ranged from white to deep brown. It was a mess—a lovely, colorful mess.

Now it's clean, bright, and soulless. But that's what I need right now—a blank slate to shake off this eerie feeling that chills my blood and keeps me from sleeping. The feeling that something is watching me.

"You coming?" shouts from the kitchen, snapping me out of my thoughts. Huh? That's weird. I didn't even realize I had closed my eyes.

I shake my head, cup my cheeks with my icy palms, and pinch myself before taking a deep breath.

"Yeah, just a minute," I say, my voice raspy. I kick off my shoes and take off my coat, passing a large rectangular mirror on my way to the kitchen.

As I walk by, the person in the reflection catches my eye. My heartbeat quickens. It's not strange to look at yourself in the mirror. Everyone does it. There's this primal urge to see yourself as others do, to evaluate yourself and base at least a bit of your self-confidence on that reflection. But what's not normal is seeing that person smiling back when you're not even moving your facial muscles.

That's exactly what I just witnessed: someone who looks just like me, with black hair messily tied into a bun and blue eyes widening. She was smiling. It wasn't a friendly smile either. It was the kind that nightmares are made of.

"Come on," I hear from ahead of me. Before I know it, comes over and grabs my wrist, pulling me into the living room instead of the kitchen. I turn on my heel and follow her without a complaint.

At her touch, the thing I just saw almost escapes my mind. Almost, but not quite.

"I think I started hallucinating," I tell her, drawing my eyebrows together. My stomach churns at the thought. How is hallucination different from being heavily medicated? In both cases, you lose touch with what's real and what's not. You lose control. "Heavily."

This whole thing is quickly spiraling out of control. Nope, it already derailed a long time ago. Now I'm just walking blind in the dark.

stops in her tracks and turns to me, concern etching her features. "Hallucinating? What did you see?" she asks, her voice laced with worry and a hint of excitement.

I can't say I blame her. It's not every day your best friend starts seeing things. Still, I hesitate, unsure how to explain it without sounding completely unhinged.

"In the mirror, my reflection... it smiled at me, but I wasn't smiling," I confess, a shiver running down my spine at the memory.

"I wonder what the owner of Esoteric Cat would say about this," she muses, her eyes darting to the side as she thinks deeply about it. Personally, I see nothing interesting in my hallucination, just a reflection of exhaustion and a whole lot of pain.

"Is having crazy friends one of those things you talk about with other witches?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. I don't mean to sound sarcastic. I swear I don't. But clearly, I fail. glares at me, her eyes narrowing and lips pressed into a thin line.

"You know what, Claire? Go ahead, hide behind your sarcasm and sass," she replies, nodding slowly. "I'm sure that's really going to help you. It'll help you sleep better at night and all." She pauses. "Get it? Sleep better?"

I can't help it. I smile.

"Yeah, I fucking get it. Very funny." I roll my eyes, feeling a slight lift in the heaviness in my chest. I'm grateful for her presence. Honestly, what would I do without her? "So," I say, trying to lighten the mood further, "what's the plan? Do we have to draw pentagrams and chant spells now?"

She chuckles. "Well, aren't you a prophet? That's exactly what we'll do."

"You're kidding, right?" I ask, though a part of me wonders if Camila, with her witchy inclinations, might actually be serious.

"Nope," she replies, popping the ‘p'. Then, she flashes me a mischievous grin. "You've got some chalk lying around?"

Letting go of me, she starts walking around, opening cabinets and drawers. I don't mind; she's my best friend and has probably seen everything about me at this point. We even exchanged certain rabbit opinions, if you know what I mean.

There's nothing she could find that would faze me, so I walk over to the new white leather sofa and sit down. It creaks under my weight.

"Chalk? Seriously?" I can't help but raise my eyebrows in disbelief. "What am I? Your friendly neighborhood preschool teacher?" Fuck, I think I've just reached that level of tiredness where it's all past droopy eyelids and cold sweats and fainting. I've entered the no-brakes zone. Whatever comes to my tongue, rolls off. No exceptions.

"You know, being on the brink of comatose actually suits you," Cam mutters, rummaging through another drawer. "It gives you banter."

"It also gives me hives, but you know… priorities," I scoff, letting my head fall back against the sofa.

A few months ago, I had to sell my old couch. That worn-out thing was the first item I ever bought with my own money. And now? Now it's just another piece of junk in some landfill because it was black and swallowed all the light. My messed-up psyche is really cruel sometimes.

"Found it!" exclaims suddenly. My eyebrows shoot up. It's literally impossible for chalk to be in my apartment. I'd bet a leg and a half on it. "Look!" She turns to me, holding something triumphantly.

"Um, I'm pretty sure that is not a piece of calcium in a stick," I say, blinking. It looks way too much like a marker.

"Well, it's a decent substitute." She shrugs.

I watch, half-amused and half-exhausted, as she starts drawing something on the floor. It looks like she's making a circle with symbols inside it. The thought that it's probably a permanent marker crosses my mind, but I know I won't have the energy to clean it up anytime soon. I stay quiet, mesmerized by the symbols Cam meticulously draws, one by one. Then, she boldly sketches a pentagram right in the center.

"That doesn't look like the herbal burning you convinced me this would be," I say, my stomach knotting up as I stare at her work.

Sometimes, life spirals out of control, and it's not because of anything you've done—it's just life. I feel like this is one of those moments. I'm sitting here, mouth agape, a bad feeling gnawing at me, yet I don't utter a word of protest.

I mean, I don't even believe in the supernatural. There's no point in making a fuss. This should be nothing more than child's play. Camila's got a marker and is riding her wave of joy and excitement. That should be the end of it.

But then why do I feel this chilling sensation, like my bones are turning cold and my heart is trapped in my chest? Why am I suddenly so scared?

"Nah, it's something better," she replies, glancing at me. "On our ride back, I've been reading…"

"Yeah?" I ask, licking my dry lips. It hurts when my tongue grazes the broken skin, and I immediately regret it.

"Turns out you can, like, summon guardian spirits for protection," she says. "We will summon yours so it can watch over you while you sleep. It will put your spirit at ease and chase away your insomnia."

I can't even muster the energy to roll my eyes. "If I spent nearly fifty bucks for nothing, then..." I start, thinking back to our trip to Esoteric Cat. Was it really necessary, or did Cam just drag me out for the fun of it? I start silently cursing her when she cuts me off.

"Nope, we're using all that stuff too," she replies. "I wouldn't do that to you, especially now with your latest obsession with buying hospital wing furniture. Seriously, where do you find these things? Did you stumble upon a catalog for the mentally disturbed, or do you spend hours perfecting the look?"

I laugh despite myself. It hurts to use those muscles, but I can't help it.

"Guess now you know what I do when I can't sleep, huh?" I reply.

"That's disturbing. Really mentally fucking disturbing," she says, glaring at me. Then, she shakes her head and goes back to drawing on the floor, determined to get this ritual done.

"It is what it is," I mumble. I don't argue, because I know how disturbing it actually is to not be able to fall asleep. It's messed up. People complain if they can't fall asleep a few times, or if they're up multiple times a night with a baby. But insomnia? That's a whole different nightmare.

What do you do when sleep eludes you for a week, or two? When your consciousness flickers in and out randomly during the day? When your body shuts down because it's desperate for rest, but sleep feels impossible? It's like your body has forgotten how to sleep.

You medicate.

But see, I can't do that. I will never do that. As long as I'm alive, that's my unbreakable rule.

"Okay," Cam claps her hands, standing up from the floor. "I think I've got it. Let me just check quickly." She runs to the kitchen, leaving me alone for a moment.

I hear her humming in the background as I gaze at the symbols she's drawn. The lines and shapes blur together, straining my eyes and brain until I decide not to look at them at all.

I take a deep breath, feeling the cold leather against my skin. The room is silent except for the sound of rummaging through the kitchen. I hear her murmuring something, but I'm too drained to make out the words. Then, the sound of plates being moved—porcelain-against-porcelain—rings in my head.

She returns, arms full of items from our shopping spree at Esoteric Cat. She carefully places candles, herbs, and bowls of water around the pentagram.

"Okay, I think we're set," she announces, lighting the candles one by one. The flickering flames cast strange shadows across the room. I swear they are forming some creepy figures here and there. But then again, I might be hallucinating.

I watch her arranging everything just so. She's always been like this—when she sets her mind on something, she goes all in, no matter how outlandish it seems.

"All right, Claire," she says, turning to me. "Just sit here in the center and relax. I'll do the rest."

I nod and move to sit inside the circle, the cold floor pressing against my palms as I lower myself. Every muscle in my body aches for rest, but I fight to stay awake.

begins chanting softly, her voice weaving through the room like a spell. As she moves around the circle, her shadow dances on the walls, elongating and contorting in the candlelight.

I close my eyes, trying to focus on her words, but they're foreign, slipping away as soon as I try to grasp them. Her chanting grows louder, and a sense of unease creeps over me. I tell myself it's just my imagination, but the feeling persists, growing stronger with every word she utters.

Suddenly, the temperature in the room drops, sending a chill down my spine. I open my eyes and see my breath in the air, forming little puffs of mist.

"Do you see that?" I whisper, bringing my fingers to my mouth and blowing. She doesn't seem to hear me, though, completely lost in her chanting as her voice rises.

The shadows around her start to coalesce, stretching and growing like dark, sinewy fingers. I want to shout, to warn her, but my voice catches in my throat. I'm paralyzed, unable to move or look away. I bite my cheek so hard I taste blood and close my eyes, telling myself I'm seeing things.

Feeling a drop in the temperature and seeing moving shadows? Come on, you can't believe that…

Then, without warning, the chanting stops. The room falls into a deafening silence, broken only by our breathing. I open my eyes to see looking at me, sage burning in her hand. The smell is awful, but it oddly helps me calm down a bit.

Huh, I thought I liked the smell of things burning.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, her eyebrows lifted and a faint tremble in her lip. I can't tell if she's just that into her role, or if she desperately wants this to work. Either way, I'm not going to let her down now.

I swallow my fear and lift my chin. "It's, um, better?" I try to sound convincing, but it falls flat. hesitates, studying me with a mix of concern and skepticism.

"You sure?" she asks. There's a hint of doubt in her voice. Or maybe it's hope? It's hard to tell. She keeps waving the sage, walking around the circle. Suddenly, she steps inside and brings the burning sage so close that my nose starts itching.

Come on, Claire. Don't cough. Don't cough. You are…

I cough. The smoke fills my nostrils and lungs, making me gag.

frowns, setting the sage down and patting my back in an attempt to soothe the coughing fit. "Sorry, sorry," she mutters. When my attack subsides and I wipe the tears from my eyes, she resumes wafting the sage.

I watch her, my mind racing. The shadows, the drop in temperature, and now this choking smoke—it all feels wrong. I glance around, half-expecting those sinister shadows to reappear. But there's nothing, just flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows. Still, the feeling of being watched lingers.

I always feel watched.

"Cam, maybe we should stop," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The words feel heavy, loaded. "You know, for what it's worth, I'm okay as long as you're here," I add quietly, feeling my energy drain away. This time, no amount of willpower will change it.

stops, her movements stalling mid-sway, and she turns to look at me. She places the sage down, the smoke curling up lazily into the heavy air.

"Yeah, well," she says. "Let's hope from now on you'll be okay all the time."

"Mm," I muse. "Is it because of the protector spirit?" I'm amazed I can still talk. My eyes are starting to close. "You managed to get it here?"

"Yeah." Her voice sounds distant like it's coming through a fog. "I think I did."

But after that… After that, I remember nothing. All I know is that the world around me builds anew and I find myself in a completely different place.

With a completely different person by my side.

Someone I don't recognize at all.