Page 14

Veronica

Veronica: Hi again.

A quiet chime pierces through the faint wind as the text Veronica just sent delivers successfully on the other end.

Veronica: Are you okay, soldier?

Hours of worry weave anxiety like a cord around her nerves, her knees relentlessly jerking against the cold, metallic railing of the school’s terrace.

She hasn’t heard from him in a while. A little over 24 hrs shouldn’t be much, but for Veronica, it is. How can he go from texting her at least ten times a day to zero?

She left multiple texts last night hoping to wake up to meet tons of replies, but she found nothing.

Now it’s lunchtime. Others are down at the cafeteria having a meal. And it’s not like she isn’t hungry. She didn’t have breakfast today because her mood was sour. It was weird not waking up to a text from him. She just didn’t feel like eating anything. But now she does, and perhaps she should be down at the cafeteria stuffing her face with whatever junk is on the menu.

Yet here she is at the school’s terrace, trying to reach out to him…again. Because she’s anxious, worried about him. She hasn’t heard his voice in a moment too long and that reality is far too unbearable.

She’s obsessed with him.

Finally, her phone suddenly chimes with a message. And her heart races.

It’s him.

Snow white: Don’t you have a class right now?

Veronica wants to frown at his reply, which, she might add, is quite irrelevant to the topic she wants to address. But a reply is a reply. This means he isn’t dead or sick or kidnapped.

Veronica: In 10 minutes.

Veronica: Why haven’t you been replying to my texts?

Snow white: I was busy.

Veronica: Busy for 24 hrs?

Snow white : Yeah

Veronica: Is that even normal?

Snow white: I’m quite used to it.

Veronica: You could have, at the very least, left a text or something.

Snow white: I should’ve. I’m sorry.

Veronica’s cheeks warm, imagining him saying those last two words in his deep, husky voice. He’s so polite, so self-aware and mature. Well, Ian was mature too. But quite in a different way. Ian was…stable, sentimental and understood basic human emotions. But Raidon isn’t. He’s volatile, unpredictable, and with a very low emotional quotient. Yet he always tries his best. Apologizing, admitting he’s wrong—those aren’t habits of his. Yet he does them even though he doesn’t understand why he has to do them. That alone is charming.

Veronica: How are you though? Tired, I assume. Gonna rest for a while, right?

Snow white : Hopefully

Veronica: You should. You can just turn off your phone, lock your door and sleep. I’ll understand if I can’t reach you.

Snow white: I’ll think about it.

Veronica’s fingers hover over the message bar, her teeth biting into her lower lip nervously. The words she wants to type churn at the back of her mind. But she doesn’t know if she should type them.

Veronica: This is probably insensitive of me to ask, seeing as you are clearly caught up with work, but are you gonna maybe come over to the States anytime soon?

A shaky sigh breaks out of her lips as she types the words in one breath then sends. The reply comes almost immediately.

Snow white: No

Her heart sinks.

It has narrowly been four weeks since she last saw him. Their bond shouldn’t feel this strong—not when it’s built on texts, calls and hours of conversation. But whatever shifted the ground beneath them during their coffee date, whatever made her think of him, a stranger, for days afterward, has only deepened.

She’s more than just attached now. Maybe logically too quickly, but what can she do? She just can’t help it. He’s brilliant, always managing to turn even the silliest conversations into something meaningful. Every word holds a story—one he understands, one Veronica never knew even existed.

She always knew how easily her heart could be stolen—probably why she’s been heartbroken so often. But she never knew she could actually care this much through a fucking screen. But after not hearing from him for 24 hrs, she panicked. She thought it was over, something that has barely even started.

And now, she thinks the calls and texts no longer feel enough. She needs to see him. She needs to reassure herself that he’s still here for a while.

And the yearning keeps growing every second that passes.

Veronica: Oh, okay.

The text delivers, a weight settling in her chest.

Snow white: Do you want me to come?

A hopeful smile creeps up her lips.

Veronica: Will you?

Snow white: This technically doesn’t answer my question.

Veronica: You’re so annoying sometimes.

Snow white: Your class starts in five minutes.

Veronica: Gosh, I hate you.

It takes quite a while for him to send a reply. While she wonders if she should just tell him she misses him and wants to see him, she completely forgets that he doesn’t understand sarcasm and might have taken her last message seriously.

“Shit,” she curses on realization. But before she can send a quick text to clear the evident misunderstanding, his reply drops.

Snow white: Why?

Veronica: I’m just kidding. I don’t hate you. I wouldn’t text you a hundred times a day if I hated you.

Veronica: It’s actually ten to twenty times a day at most.

Veronica rolls her eyes.

Veronica: That was satire, by the way

Snow white: Noted

Veronica: So are you gonna come over?

Snow white: Do you want me to?

Veronica: Yes

Snow white: Noted

Veronica: Yes!

Snow white: I haven’t promised yet.

Veronica: You don’t need to promise. I know you’ll come.

Snow white: You sound so sure.

Veronica: Yes, cause I know you. You’ll definitely come soon.

She hears a heavy sigh nearby after sending the text. Her gaze drifts across to Shiro, who is lying on his back on the artificial grass, one arm draped over his face to shield the sun’s reflection, the other thrown across his midsection.

He looks way too comfortable.

“You okay, dude?” she asks him. At the same time, a chime announces a new message on her phone.

“Don’t mind me,” Shiro murmurs, eyes still closed. “Just do your thing.”

Her eyes linger on him for a few seconds until she hears the second chime from her phone.

Snow white: Do you, though?

Her brows furrow at the first reply, and then her gaze drops to the one that follows right after it.

Snow white: Do you know me?

His odd question sends a weird chill down her spine, plastering miniature bumps on her skin.

It’s a fair question. Does she know him?

But she’s sure she knows him. His name is Raidon Ardalion Volkov. He’s Russian and Japanese. He graduated high school at the age of twelve—she still can’t wrap her head around that aspect. He can multiply large numbers in seconds by using abacus imagery in his head.

In his four years undergraduate degree, he did pre-med, focusing on Anatomy and Physiology as his main field. After his undergraduate degree at age eighteen, he proceeded to continue his four years in medical school. But he pulled out after two years and enrolled in the Russian army. He dedicated four years to the force, and with the political connections of his late adopted father, he managed to become a marshal when originally, that title could’ve only been earned after 20-25 years of service. He’s now the youngest soldier to hold the five-star rank of a marshal.

She believes that if she knows this much about him, doesn’t that classify as knowing him?

Veronica: I’m sure I do…well to an extent, but I know you.

Snow white: Very well, then…

“And he leaves ellipses,” Veronica sighs exasperatedly, throwing her hands in the air.

Veronica: You are being weird right now.

Her mind latches onto his question instantly. Why did he suddenly ask such a question? Is he hinting at something? Is she missing something? Should she prod or just brush it off?

She feels a sudden shadow hovering behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she catches Shiro peering at her phone’s screen from behind.

“What are you doing?” She throws him an accusing glare, turning off the screen and slipping the phone into her blazer’s pocket.

“Nothing.” He moves to lean on the railing beside her. “I just think you’re going too fast with this thing.”

“Fast as in?” she quirks a brow, ready to defend her heart’s reckless actions.

“You are latching onto him too fast. It’s like you already see yourself settling down with him or something,” Shiro adds.

“You’re acting like this is the first time you have met me,” she scoffs, tucking a loose strand behind her ear before leaning against the railing, her arms folded on the horizontal bar, chin resting on it. “I’m quite unfortunate. Opportunity to be happy hardly dangle themselves in front of unfortunate people. So when I see something that looks a lot like an opportunity to be happy, I latch onto it like it’s my lifeline.”

She takes in a shaky breath, a warmth spreading in her chest as the image of fiery amber eyes dance behind her lids, and as if the wind brought him to her, she can almost perceive it, his scent lingering in the air.

“I love talking to him. Gosh, you should see how I forget Marlene is in the next room and dad is in prison whenever his name appears on my screen.” She turns her head, her cheek resting on her arm now as she peers at Shiro. “He makes me happy even without knowing it. And I just want to be happy, you know.”

“I know.” Shiro’s voice is low yet steady. “And that’s why I’m scared. What if it doesn’t work out? What if he turns out to be something else?”

The questions make her stomach lurch. “Then I’ll take it and move on as usual.”

“You’ll be sad.”

She shrugs, a wry smile lifting the curve of her lips. “Well, I know sadness more than I know happiness.”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine, Shiro Tanaka,” she beams, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m a big girl.”

Truly, she’ll be fine, like she always has been. What’s the worst that can happen? He decides to settle for friendship, or they get into a relationship and he breaks her heart by leaving. It’ll be a pain she can bear. Her heart and body have been nurtured to handle the savagery of love and life.

She’ll be fine.

Oh, she’ll be just fine. Because it is her against fate. And in this battle, Veronica has decided she will win.

The bell for the next class chimes, cutting through the wispy air.

They both push off the terrace as Shiro glances at his watch.

“What do we have next?” Shiro asks, giving her his arm.

Veronica hooks her arm through his, their sides pressing against each other. “Introductory Psychology.”

They exit the terrace through a winding staircase and emerge in a hallway a few seconds later. The said hallway buzzes with students—feet shuffling, papers and bags rustling, chatters drifting through the still air as everyone tries to figure out where they belong for the next hour.

When they step into their classroom, it is already filled in with their classmates. Some perched on their desk, some leaning over the window, writing Greek on the board, while some are zeroed on their screens.

“I heard Mr. Walsh left,” a student says as soon as Shiro and Veronica plop on their seats. They glance behind at the person that made the comment, then turn to each other to share a clueless look.

Mr. Nicolai Walsh is their Introductory Psychology teacher. If they are right that he has left, then Veronica wonders why he suddenly left. She hopes he’s okay, because she truly loves his class.

After her father’s case, she became obsessed with the study of Human Psychology. She was the happiest when the subject suddenly was introduced last summer.

She felt like part of her needed to understand what had driven her dad to do the things he did—if he did it. And what could’ve broken inside him? The other part was just desperate to know if the same flaw runs inside her veins too. Because after the trial, Marlene Mendes had dragged her to some doctor she barely remembers. A man with a cold hand and an even colder gaze. They had strapped her to some weird machine, made her sit still as some strange scan mapped out the inside of her head.

Veronica never saw the result. Never learned about what they had found.

But Marlene did. And something changed after that. Though it wasn’t immediate, Veronica noticed; the way Marlene’s grip on her arm began to tighten a little too hard. The way her eyes would linger on her, watchful, weary. And then, of course, the accusations started.

Every few days. Then every few hours. Until it became every few minutes and seconds.

“You’re just like him!”

“You think I don’t see it?”

“Don’t even think about it, Veronica. I swear, I’ll kill you first!”

And then one day, Marlene took it a step further.

She brought in exorcists—or whatever the hell they were. They were all men, stark white robes, their faces shadowed by candlelight. Their hands clutching whips like some holy relics.

They bundled Veronica and tossed her into the basement.

For three days, maybe more. Time blurred between the flickering flames and the suffocating dark. She remembers the cold bite of the concrete floor, the dampness seeping into her skin, the sickly sweet smell of melted wax thick in the air.

She remembers the candles, ten of them, one for each finger. Their flames wavered, casting twisted shadows on the walls, on their faces—faces that called her tainted, cursed, unclean. She remembers trying to hold the candles still, trying to be good, but the wax kept dripping, sizzling against her flesh, burning deeper, deeper. And when her hands shook, when the burn became too much, she let the candles drop.

Bad idea—because the whips came as a wage.

The first lash stole her breath, the second forced a scream from her throat. The third, fourth, fifth—she lost count. Pain blurred into agony, and agony into something she can’t quite explain even till today.

“Let the demon reveal itself!”

“Confess your sins!”

“Do you hear that? She’s laughing. The devil inside her is laughing.”

Except that Veronica wasn’t laughing. She was choking on sobs, biting her lips until they began to bleed as her body curled in on itself.

She begged. No, not for mercy—there were none of those—but for them to stop seeing something that wasn’t there.

But they didn’t want to stop. Because they needed her to be a monster. Because if she wasn’t a monster, then what had they come to do?

“Vee!” A strong hand shakes her, snapping her from the cave of torture she has foolishly wandered into. She always keeps that memory, amongst other ones, locked. How reckless that she opened the door again.

“Are you okay?” Shiro’s worried gaze comes to view, his warm hand touching her face gently.

“I’m fine.” She forces out a smile, her voice trembling a little. The excruciating pain is back, a deep, bloody wound that took almost an entire school year to heal. The scars that forced her to wear a sweater even if it was so hot, it felt like the sun had come a mile too close to the earth.

“Vee, you are sweating and you look pale—”

The classroom door bursting open interrupts Shiro. Glancing at her again, Shiro then sits down. But Veronica can still feel his worried gaze burning into her face.

Veronica’s eye settles on the intruder. And she can’t help but find his attire—green pants and a gray shirt with an ill-matching tie—quite unsettling.

There’s a black laptop pouch strapped to his shoulder. Compared to the perpetually smiling Mr. Walsh, Veronica finds this man’s face rather severe.

“This loser can’t possibly be the new teacher.” The comment is short, insulting, and unsurprising for Veronica given its source. Mia Cox, the cheerleading captain whose wealthy father has a significant stake in the school, acts entitled as if the school is her birthright.

“Good morning, class.” His voice is annoying. That’s another thing Veronica notices. In short, everything about him, his weird gaze, his square face, basically everything, makes her uncomfortable. But she doesn’t know why.

“I’m Jack. Jack Griffin. And uh, I’ll be your substitute teacher in the meantime.” His announcement throws the class into a cocktail of arguments and protests.

“Nope, I don’t like him,” Shiro concludes, slouching into his chair.

“I think many share your sentiment, though,” Veronica chuckles softly. “I might not really like him too. But let’s not be quick to judge.”

Shiro scoffs. “Whatever.”

“Before we start, let’s get to know each other, shall we?” the new teacher proposes, his lips pulling into a smile for the first time. But even that feels wrong—too stiff, too forced. It’s almost like his face isn’t used to movements

“Why do you have to know us?” The question is from Banks Awolowo. “In a few hours, you are gonna hate our ass and make us a joke in the teacher’s lounge. So why don’t you just, I don’t know, teach and be on your merry way?”

Veronica must confess, as true as Banks’ words are, he comes off a bit rude right now. But that’s okay. He’s quite dreamy. Well, used to be dreamy.

Wait, used to?

She turns to look at him again, her brows furrowed? Why isn’t her heart fluttering like before? Despite her relationship with Ian, Banks always evoked a powerful emotional response in her, making her blush uncontrollably.

His smooth onyx skin, shiny buzz cut, dimples, pearly white teeth, and lean muscles remain unchanged. Yet he looks like just another irrelevant boy in the crowd now.

Maybe it’s her that has changed. Raidon has raised the bar, making other boys or men seem less appealing to her.

“Trust me, it’s necessary that I know my students,” the teacher replies, his gaze settling on Banks with a sharpness that feels almost affronted. But he doesn’t dwell as his attention floats to the first kid in the front row.

“Your name?”

“Victoria Hastings,” the blonde girl answers.

“You.” Mr. Griffin points again.

“Nina Watkins.”

He moves on, one by one, collecting names like puzzle pieces only he can see. Veronica finds this ridiculous. But she keeps her thoughts to herself—better not to draw his cold attention.

“You over there!” His finger is pointing toward Veronica’s table. She stiffens. He makes her so jumpy, and she doesn’t know why. And she hates things she can’t understand.

“Shiro Tanaka,” Shiro answers smoothly, drumming his fingers on his table.

“Japanese?” Mr. Griffin tilts his head.

Shiro doesn’t bother responding to the obvious, so Banks snickers, “No, Indian.”

A hum settles in the air as people snicker and murmur. But it is immediately silenced by Mr. Griffin’s voice as he calls the next student.

Her.

“And you?”

Veronica’s gaze finally lifts to him. She can’t help noticing the shift in his own gaze. Something a little dark. She feels it before she can try to see if she can understand it. It creeps slowly up her spine, like something foul curling its fingers around the back of her neck.

“Um, Veronica?” she clears her throat, suddenly unsure of her identity under his cold scrutiny. “Veronica Beaumont.”

“Sure?”

Her stomach tightens.

“Sorry, do you think I don’t know my own name?” she snaps, sharper than she intends to.

“Sorry,” Mr. Griffin smiles, a slow crooked thing. Not amused. Not kind. But thinly veiled and mean. “You just share a resemblance with a girl I used to know.”

They were just words. People look like other people all the time. Yet it slithers through the air and lingers there.

Jack Griffin doesn’t break his gaze away from her on time. His eyes are locked on as though he’s searching, studying, waiting for something.

And just when it becomes unbearable for Veronica, he looks away.

But the foreboding refuses to leave. It stays on her skin, and after a few minutes, as Mr. Griffin’s gaze keeps occasionally drifting to her, the unease sinks deeper into her blood, into her bones. And remains there.