Villkorslös kärlek

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

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Blurb
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TCän(k om gdCu (vkarI Okägr( binMtRez ,btaraN Wiy ce)nL,z inWteN bara. i ltvål, QutSaanO Nia At*rYe hÉeptwau OkiClFlapr?R
Och tänk om de ville ha dig tillbaka?
Det finns tre av dem. Tre pojkar.
Vi är vänner. Grannar. Våra liv är sammanlänkade genom katastrofer, rädsla och smärta.
Jaqg 'ä(lskqar dQeXmi Ba*llAa.A Ja.g ärX bintei snäOker WpåX atÉtK Cjdabg QkBain UlKe'vmab utaYnY dem.G jKhanK JvGib ba$r)au faöhrbVlpiz väPnnser?
Kan vi ignorera begäret som blossar upp när vi är i närheten av varandra?
Kan jag kyssa den ena och inte den andra?
Jag kan inte välja.
VIill, Pinyte mviäClijza.
Och jag är inte säker på att de kan göra det heller.
Den här berättelsen kommer antingen att sluta i hjärtesorg, eller som alla berättelser bör: med ett lyckligt slut.
Kärlek är ingen väg. Det är ett land. En utbredd galax.
KQärlBekenV hnaTré JiInsg.eGn ko.mcpaHssP.B Inga regler. Ingpa grGän.ser.d
Kärlek är ett universum. Förlora dig själv i det.

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Börjar
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Din tragedi.
Din smärta.
Din förvirring och din plåga.
DextÉ Xkotmmeér xaqtt sl.åv d$ig därn id(u^ Amairnpstz TanaVru dgect,y Zmued Qall k^raNft' soYmx e)n rivBninÉgskculhaj, precis Vdzäbr debtB qgö)rX ameFst loXnBt,x omcmh( sNebdÉa(n vbqlSisnkaP til(ls dSux !sUe'r TskvämCt'et.b yD.et stnoDra^, Éfteta kosNmJisPka WskOäcmt_ QstoZmB uhar spJela)tIs ^utf motR OdigP.M Fåtr^ 'dqe)tÉ Vd^igh i$ntye zaPtt kZäSn.naT d&iTg$ scpdeWcmiell?
Livet är förkroppsligandet av ironi. Glöm inte det. Det är kärleken också. Kärlek är ännu värre. Kärleken bränner ner dig till marken och dansar i askan.
Och den här historien som jag ska berätta för dig bevisar just det. Livet gör ont. Det brinner och gör ont, tills du lär dig att älska lågorna.
Men kärlek... kärlek är allt.

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Bok I
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Fpöre
"Vad som än händer här, lita på ditt hjärta. Det är lika sant som en kompass."

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Kapitel ett
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Shyd(neby
Jag brinner. Jag brinner genom livet. Det heta elementet manifesterar sig i mitt röda hår, mina gyllene fräknar, min förkärlek för röda Converse-skor och gula tröjor.
Det manifesterar sig också i min tendens att förstöra allt bra, att bränna ner allt i min väg, som Shiva, förstöraren. Jag döljer det så gott jag kan. Det är min enda stora hemlighet.
Men jag lurar egentligen ingen. Inte ens mina två grannar som jag har försökt bli vän med sedan jag flyttade in i den här lägenheten. Jag måste anstränga mig mer. Gör en bättre uppvisning i att vara normal. Bara en vanlig tonårstjej, en anspråkslös student och laglydig medborgare, med en förkärlek för ångestfylld anime och klubbdans.
OcXh cfVöTr$ sfnJygégi*ng*arQ sotm hluigFgXer siq nAärhRert,eSn.S
Men det är utanför ämnet.
Bli bättre på att låtsas. Det är vad jag måste tänka på. Jag menar, det är inte konstigt att jag sitter alldeles ensam på trappan denna varma sommarkväll, kramar mina knän, suger på en slickepott och ser på när en främling knackar på Nates dörr.
Det är tidig kväll och det är svagt i trapphuset där jag sitter, men den enda glödlampan som hänger över trappavsatsen förgyller håret på den unge man som står där, med böjt huvud och en väska slängd över en stor axel.
Jag lUu$taSr migó VfqraMmåXt,K ,vikverm ar^m!arnIaD övsepró dknwänKaI ocGhV swugnerU le.ftLeSritä$n(ks^amtn jpå! XminJ söPta, Yg)odwisbitl orch* ,f_örsPökUe(rN AurskMilja mhaénYsO ansikKte, mlen. nljusweatS över VN^ahtesD adö'rr är! lfÉör )snvMakgGt fö^rX dretK.y
Nate är min granne. Han bor med sina föräldrar, är ungefär i min ålder och går i min skola. Jag håller andan och väntar på att han ska öppna dörren.
Nate är het.
Och en våning under honom bor min andra knäppgök - jag menar, granne. Han heter West och är god vän med Nate.
TvåJ gatt.rbaTktAijva,O cmuöKr.kfhPårNiga Lp_ojkaJr. Dext Där dLessMaI ct.vFåa kXi'lalYatrp sohm Gjag lfYörr.sökber& bléi vTätn lme,dI.C Och& mFiKsbsCförhsnt'å QmYigu intei,O dde TvderkSar_ gtilHl!a mig.ó cDe ^u^mg$ås ymced_ cmi!g FiHbllandD, tdnev &hjVä$llpedr Hmig Aió óskcolasn.
Men är det på riktigt? Är vi verkligen vänner?
De verkar inte bränna sig när de rör vid mig, så det är väl bra? Jag har inte sabbat det ännu, den här spirande vänskapen - men hur länge dröjer det innan jag gör det?
Nates dörr öppnas och sprider ett starkt gult ljus på trappavsatsen, vilket får mig att rycka upp mig ur mina mörka tankar. Jag sätter mig rakare upp för att få bättre sikt när han kliver ut, och synen av hans långa figur gör att jag får en känsla av att det är något i bröstet som snurrar. Det känns som sorg. Eller glädje.
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Nates mörkbruna hår glänser i det gula ljuset när han närmar sig den blonda killen. Han har några centimeter på sig, och jag stirrar på hur hans ögonbryn skapar skuggor över hans ögon. Han säger något till främlingen och klappar sedan hans arm.
Den blonda killen lyfter på huvudet och ljuset glittrar på metall. Piercingar, tänker jag, och hans profil är otydlig från den här vinkeln men verkar på något sätt vacker. Symmetrisk. Stark. En fyrkantig käke och intensiva ögonbryn.
Vem är han?
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Han har aldrig sagt något om att en besökare skulle komma för att stanna över. Var detta en oväntad händelseutveckling som jag råkade bevittna?
Han såg dock inte förvånad ut. Nate, menar jag. Han kom ut för att prata med den här killen som om han hade väntat på honom. Varför sa han inte att han hade en gäst som stannade över?
Men som sagt, jag vet inte ens om vi är riktiga vänner. Det är inte så att jag berättar allt för honom, så varför skulle han göra det?
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Och kanske är jag inte den enda. Vilken överraskning.
* * *
"Vad är det?" West stöttar en stark hand på skåpet bredvid mitt medan han kollar sin telefon. Han tittar inte ens på mig, men jag vet att han väntar på mitt svar.
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West är... intensiv. Det finns inget bättre ord för att beskriva hur han fokuserar på varje uppgift, från läxor till matlagning - ja, han lagar mat - till att prata om framtiden.
Eller tittar på mig.
Han tittar på mig som om han memorerar mitt ansikte varje gång, så jag är glad att han inte tittar nu, utan låter mig få min del.
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"Åh, inte mycket." Jag tar fram mina böcker för de kommande lektionerna och stoppar ner dem i min ryggsäck. "Du vet. Det vanliga."
Han kör tungan över läpparna och tittar återigen ner på sin telefon. "Städar du lägenheten?"
"Vad är det för något?" Jag rycker på axlarna. Jag städar om mamma skulle komma hem och hitta den så där. "Det är väl inget brott?"
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Jag stänger mitt skåp och ger honom ett leende. "Ja?" Han erbjuder sällan, verkar sällan intresserad av att träffa mig utanför skolan.
"Ja. Dina föräldrar verkar aldrig vara hemma ändå."
Det är min tur att spänna mig. Och han märker det inte ens. Han är uppslukad av det han ser på sin telefon.
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"Någon viktig?"
"Vad?"
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Mitt hjärta bultar vid tanken att det kan vara en flicka. Skulle han berätta för mig om det? Vi är bara vänner, på sätt och vis, och killen får folk att vända på huvudet var han än går. Jag har förberett mig för det här ögonblicket sedan jag träffade honom.
Men han lägger bara undan telefonen i bakfickan och ger mig ett snett flin. "Nä, kom igen, vi kommer för sent till lektionen."
Han vänder sig om och förväntar sig att jag ska följa efter honom, och jag måste springa för att hålla jämna steg med hans långa steg. Sådana är problemen för korta tjejer som umgås med långa killar.
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"Vad?" Han blinkar till mig med mörka ögonbryn som dras ihop. Jag svär, den här killen kommer att ha en permanent skrynklig panna när han fyller tjugo. "Bor han hos Nate?"

"Ja."
"Och hur vet du att någon bor där?"
För att jag såg killen gå in och inte komma ut igen? Inte för att jag stannade uppe hela natten och kollade. Men jag sover inte så mycket, och jag stannade länge på trappan efteråt och spelade spel på min telefon, så... Låt oss bara säga att jag är ganska säker på att han inte gick därifrån under natten.
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Vid det laget har West satt sig ner och tagit fram sina böcker och ordnat sina pennor bredvid dem i en prydlig rad. Han tänker. Jag kan se det på den spända linjen i hans mun. Den prydlighet som finns på hans skrivbord är bara normal West.
Jag tar plats bredvid honom och slänger min bok och min anteckningsbok på skrivbordet, och letar sedan i min väska efter en penna.
Till slut får jag tag i en från Wests skrivbord precis när läraren kommer in. "Har du läst det kapitel som vi skulle läsa?"
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"Nate berättade att hans pappa har letat efter en rumskamrat", säger han i stället.
Jag stirrar på honom. "Du skojar med mig." Men West ser fortfarande eftertänksam ut. "Du menar allvar. Var ska de placera honom?"
"De har ett extra rum. Och de behöver pengarna."
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Han kastar en smal blick på mig. "Pengaproblem?"
"Nej, jag tänkte bara..." Jag skakar på huvudet. "Ah, glöm det. Dum idé."
"Vad tänkte du? Berätta."
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Jag tänker.
Vad jag egentligen tänkte var dock att om jag hade en rumskamrat så skulle jag kanske inte vara så ensam.
* * *
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"Whoa." Handen dramatiskt tryckt mot mitt bröst snurrar jag runt för att möta honom. "Jag fick nästan en hjärtattack."
Han flinar, de honungsfärgade ögonen rynkar i hörnen och en grop blinkar i kinden. Hans hår faller över pannan, och han sträcker sig upp för att skjuta tillbaka det, med munvattensprutande biceps som spänns. "Och?"
"Och?" Jag mumlar, inser sedan att jag fortfarande stirrar på hans biceps och tittar hastigt bort. "Åh, ja, just det. Jag tror att jag går."
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Jag rycker på axlarna och låtsas att jag inte bryr mig, trots att jag är så oerhört tacksam för hans närvaro. Det finns en grupp pojkar som gillar att reta mig, att sätta mig i ett hörn - Theo och hans gäng - och de har inte stört mig sedan Nate och West tog mig under sina vingar.
Sanningen är att jag inte vet varför de gjorde det - de tog mig under sina vingar. Jag stjäl blickar på Nate när vi går ut genom skolans port och svänger till höger på vägen, i den allmänna riktningen mot vårt kvarter.
Han är lika lång som West, men han håller lätt jämna steg med mig och rör sina långa ben för att bromsa sina steg.
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Medan West är intensiv och ofta förlorad i sina tankar, är Nate uppmärksam och kontrollerar att vi är på samma sida vid varje steg vi tar. Han är så snäll mot mig, och det är farligt eftersom jag längtar efter det. Tanken på att någon bryr sig om mig.
Ingen aning om vad jag skulle ha gjort om det inte vore för dem båda. De vet inte om det, skulle förmodligen inte bry sig om de gjorde det, men de räddade mig. På så många sätt.
Men de är inte skyldiga mig något, det måste jag komma ihåg. Det är jag som står i skuld till dem.
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Jag pressar ihop min mun till en stram linje och ångrar att jag lät honom hjälpa mig med min ryggsäck, att jag är skyldig honom ännu en skuld, och jag hatar att han påminde mig om det.
Inte för att jag skulle kunna hata Nate. Gud, inte en chans. Om något, så...
Vet du vad? Nej. Jag tänker inte gå dit. Jag tittar ner när jag sätter en fot framför den andra, stirrar på mina dammiga converse och försöker hålla mina tankar på rätt köl. Jag har tillräckligt mycket att göra utan att komplicera saker och ting med konstiga känslor och förhoppningar.
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Nate snubblar till ett stopp, min ryggsäck faller från hans axel och slår i marken. "Vad?"
"Ljug inte för mig", mumlar jag mörkt.
Nog med lögner.
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Jag rycker på axlarna.
"Jag kände inte till annonsen förrän i går." Han har inte tagit ett steg till, och jag dröjer kvar bredvid honom, osäker på mörkret i hans blick. Ja, det här är verkligen inte som den Nate jag känner. "Jane sa att vi behöver pengarna."
Jane. Det är vad han kallar sin mamma. Jag har alltid tyckt att det är lite konstigt. Kanske sött?
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"Okej." Jag rycker på axlarna igen. Och sedan, eftersom han inte rör sig eller säger något, "Är det så illa? Att ha en rumskamrat, menar jag."
Han skakar på huvudet som om han bryter igenom spindelväv. "Han kommer att klara sig."
Jag stirrar på honom och försöker komma på vad det är i hans svar som slår mig som konstigt. Inte att det är dåligt eller bra att ha en rumskamrat, inte vad Nate tycker om det eller hur det kan påverka hans liv. Rumskamraten kommer att bli bra.
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Nates lägenhet är välskött, ren och snygg, och hans föräldrar verkar vara trevliga människor.
Innan jag hinner fråga vad han menade, om han alls menade något, börjar han gå igen, mycket snabbare den här gången, och jag har inget annat val än att följa efter.
När vi når hemmet och går in i vår byggnad verkar hans blick ha klarnat, och vi skiljs åt innan jag kommer ihåg att han inte sa ett ord till om den mystiska rumskamraten och att han har tagit med sig min ryggsäck.
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Kanske kan jag prata lite mer med Nate.
Kanske kan jag ta reda på vad det är som sätter det där mörkret i hans vanligtvis glittrande ögon.
Och kanske kan jag själv träffa den mystiska rumskamraten, allt innan jag måste göra mig klar för att gå till jobbet.
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