Chapter 2

Sleep finally took her, not with a sudden push but a gentle lowering, like sinking into a warm bath. Her bedroom dissolved, and she was somewhere else. A small room with beige walls and a single window. A girl her age sat on a bed, knees pulled to her chest, crying. Tjay watched as the girl reached for a phone, typed a message, then deleted it. The air smelled of tears and loneliness. There was no catastrophe, no crash. Just a heartache that felt as heavy as any broken bone.

When Tjay woke, the clock said 3:12 AM. She blinked at the ceiling, her heartbeat slow and steady. The vision had been simple, but it stuck with her. She didn’t know the girl’s name, but she knew that ache. That was the part of her gift she didn’t talk about—the knowledge that anyone could be sad, even in the quiet hours.

The next morning at school, Tjay walked the hallways as she always did, head down, counting her steps. The other students flowed around her like a river around a small stone. She saw the girl from the vision in the hallway—a seventh grader with brown hair and a red backpack. The girl was laughing with a friend, but Tjay saw the shadows under her eyes. She knew. But she said nothing.

At lunch, Tjay sat at a table near the window, eating alone. She had tried to join groups before, but it never lasted. The kids were nice at first—friendly smiles, invitations to sit together. But soon, they would ask questions. “Why do you always look like you’re daydreaming?” “You’re weird, you know that?” Or worse, they would mimic her blank stares and laugh. So she learned that solitude was safer.

But there was one group that seemed different. Three girls and a boy, all popular, always laughing. Their leader was a girl named Lila with dark hair and a quick smile. Lila noticed Tjay one day when Tjay dropped her books in the hallway. Lila helped her pick them up and said, “You’re the dreamer, right? I see you drawing in class. You’ve got talent.”

Tjay had blushed, mumbled a thank-you, and hurried away. But the next day, Lila waved her over to their table. “Sit with us,” she said, and Tjay’s heart swelled with a hope she knew she shouldn’t trust. But she sat. And for a while, it was good. They didn’t ask prying questions. They talked about movies and music and who was dating whom. Tjay felt almost normal.

Then, after a week, Lila pulled her aside. “I heard you have a knack for knowing things,” she said, her voice low and playful. “Like that time with the car accident. You knew before anyone else.”

Tjay’s stomach turned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on,” Lila pressed, her smile sharpening. “Just help me with something small. My mom’s boyfriend is hiding a gift from my birthday. I need to know where he put it. You can, like, sense it, right?”

Tjay hesitated. She had never used her gift on purpose. The visions came and went like weather. But Lila was looking at her with such trust, and Tjay wanted to be seen as useful, not crazy. So she nodded.

That night, Tjay tried to focus. She lay in bed and thought about Lila’s house, about the birthday gift. Her mind wandered, but nothing came. She fell asleep frustrated. But in the morning, she woke with a clear image: a shoebox in the back of a closet, wrapped in purple paper. She told Lila at school, and Lila hugged her. “You’re amazing!” she squealed. That afternoon, Lila texted her a photo of the gift—a silver bracelet.

Tjay felt a flutter of pride. She was helping. She was not crazy. She had a gift that mattered.

But soon, the requests multiplied. Lila wanted to know if a boy liked her. Another girl, Megan, wanted to know if her parents were fighting. The boy, Derek, asked if his dog was going to be okay after surgery. Tjay tried her best. Some visions came, fuzzy but true. Others didn’t come at all, and she had to lie, saying she “didn’t get a clear picture.” They accepted her excuses at first, but their smiles grew thinner.

One afternoon, Lila cornered her in the bathroom. “You said you could help,” she hissed. “Why won’t you tell me about my parents? I know you know something.”

Tjay stepped back. “I don’t control it. It just happens.”

“You’re lying,” Lila said. “You just want to keep your secrets. You’re selfish.”

The word hit Tjay like a slap. She shook her head, but Lila was already walking away. That day at lunch, no one saved her a seat. She sat alone again, and the whispers started. “She acted like she knew everything.” “What a freak.” “I heard she sleeps with her eyes open.”

Tjay’s chest tightened. She had tried so hard to be normal, to fit in. But the price of acceptance was using her gift on demand, and even then, it wasn’t enough. They wanted more than she could give. They wanted her to be a machine, not a girl.

At home that evening, Tjay sat on her bed and stared at her hands. Her mother knocked softly and came in. “You seem down, sweetie. Everything okay?”

Tjay almost told her. But the memory of her mother’s phone call, the whispered word “doctor,” stopped her. She didn’t want to burden her. “Just tired,” she said.

Her mother sat on the edge of the bed. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Tjay nodded, but she didn’t speak. After a long pause, her mother kissed her forehead and left. Tjay lay back and closed her eyes. She felt the familiar pull of sleep, but she resisted. She didn’t want to see anything tonight. She didn’t want to know other people’s pain when her own was so heavy.

But sleep won, as it always did. And in the darkness of her mind, a scene formed: a classroom. Lila and Megan and Derek were gathered around another girl, her face pale. They were whispering. “Tjay is weird,” one said. “She sees things that aren’t there.” “My mom says she needs help.” “We should stay away from her.”

The vision flickered and changed. Tjay saw herself standing alone in a hallway, lockers on either side, stretching to infinity. She called out, but no one answered. The lockers opened one by one, empty inside, and closed again with a dull thud.

She woke with a gasp. The room was silent. The lamp had burned out, and only moonlight silvered the floor. Tjay pressed her palms to her eyes and breathed. The vision had been cruel—a reflection of her fears. But it also felt like a warning. The group she tried to join was already turning on her. They would use her until she was empty, then discard her.

But she wasn’t empty yet. She still had her own truth. Tomorrow, she would stop pretending. She would let them see the real her—not as a tool, but as a girl who saw the world differently. If they hated her, so be it. At least she would be honest.

She lay back down, and this time, sleep came without visions. Just deep, quiet rest. And in the morning, she dressed for school with a new steadiness in her hands.

At lunch, she didn’t go to Lila’s table. She sat at her usual spot by the window. Lila passed by, shooting her a cold look, but Tjay didn’t flinch. She pulled out her notebook and began to draw—a rough sketch of the river near her house, with a bridge and trees. The lines were shaky but true. She didn’t need to explain herself. She didn’t need to fit in with a crowd that saw her only as a strange gift. She was real. And she would keep being real, no matter how lonely it got.

That afternoon, a girl from her science class, the one with the red backpack, sat down beside her on the steps after school. “I like your drawing,” she said quietly. “I saw you at lunch.”

Tjay looked up. The girl had brown hair and a kind smile. “Thanks,” Tjay said.

“I’m Emma,” the girl said. “I know you can see things. I saw you talk to Lila last week, and then your face went pale. I know what she’s like.”

Tjay’s throat tightened. “You do?”

Emma nodded. “She did the same to me last year. I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Emma said, “You don’t have to be alone, you know. I don’t mind weird. I like it, actually.”

For the first time in weeks, Tjay felt a warmth that wasn’t forced. She smiled, small but real. And when she walked home that evening, the world felt a little less empty.